Posts Tagged ‘shit talking’

glassjoeThe son of a bitch was now in my sights. Twenty minutes ago, he thought he was funny, doggin’ me out like he did, but now it was my turn. With my fist clenched like a cast-iron cannonball at my side, I whispered his name and he looked up at me. An entire year of the most vicious insults were about to be answered not with words but with action. My arm snapped like a chain, sending the wrecking ball that was my fist speeding forward toward the mouth that had abused my honor for the last time…

While my junior year at Powers Catholic High School was marred by bullying, I flipped the script my senior year… starting with shutting up the “Mouth of the South.”

Although it happened 26 years ago, I still remember it like it was yesterday. After losing a fight to the Anabolic Israeli Commando the year before, I seriously considered going back to my old high school. I’d had of the shit-talking that came with losing that fight and wasn’t anxious for another year of it. Unfortunately, the A.I.C. had cousins – three brothers, to be exact – at Hamady, so going back there would’ve brought about more of the same.

So without any better options, I returned to Powers Catholic for my senior year. It was then that I met the “Mouth of the South.” He was an insignificant little piss ant of a preppy, but what he lacked in physical prowess he more then made up for in sarcasm. This malicious little bastard was in three of my classes. Three. And it didn’t take him long before he started in on me about losing the fight to the A.I.C. and damn near anything else about me in which he could find fault.

There was just no end in sight and there was no blow too low for the Mouth of the South. He had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the slightest weakness or flaw in me, then he’d maliciously tear me to shreds over it. Looking back on it now, I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t come from an abusive home, as it would go a long way to explain his ruthlessness.

Considering all the nasty things he said about me, it was a relatively small thing that finally made me snap.

It went down in English class, where the Mouth of the South decided to crack wise by imitating my voice. He did his best to make me sound more like Kermit the Frog than I already do, and it made my ears and face feel as if they were on fire. This was the unmistakeable physical symptoms of shame, a feeling I knew all too well, and was determined to rid myself of after a year of living with the humiliation of having lost a fight in front of nearly the entire school.

I could’ve jumped up from my desk and charged him right then and there, but such a blatant act of aggression would be quickly squelched before I could do any significant damage. Instead, I waited for the perfect opportunity: when the Mouth of the South would grab his homework papers, which were conveniently placed upon the empty desk at the front of my row. It wasn’t long before he came traipsing across the front of the classroom, headed straight for the Desk of Doom.

Acting like I had to sharpen my pencil, I got up and began walking toward him. As I got closer, I quietly dropped the pencil to the floor before whispering his name. As he raised his gaze to meet mine, I unleashed a right cross, putting all my weight behind it. My goal was to smash the offensive sewer hole he called a mouth but my punch ended up smashing him in square in the nose.

My punch knocked his head straight back, puffing his blond bangs out with the force of the blow. I swear, he looked like Glass Joe from Punchout fame getting slammed by the power-up punch! I managed to knock him back a few steps but he quickly recovered just in time to emit a rather high-pitched, effeminate squeal as he began wildly flailing his arms at me in what looked more like a broken windmill than an effective counterattack.

Remembering the old boxing videos I used to watch with my dad, I hunkered down into a Jake LaMotta crouched and pulled my guard up, allowing his impotent strikes to merely glance off me. Shuffle-stepping inside his attacks, I shot a palm-heel strike with my left hand, catching him on the forehead, smashing his head off the TV, which was at the front of the room on one of those rolling TV/VCR stands wheeled there by the geeks from the AV club.

Knowing I didn’t have much time, I lashed out with a kick aimed squarely at the Mouth of the South’s likely-shrunken groin. The attack ended up striking him somewhere near his inner thigh, and it was enough to knock him off balance, thus ceasing his useless, squealing attacks. I then grabbed him hard by his Adam’s apple and squeezed with everything I had. Gurgling and choking, he raised his head and I cocked my right arm back to deliver another power punch; but by then, I was grabbed from behind by another student, who managed to pull me away from my victim.

Later on in the office, the Mouth of the South was crying – literally crying – about how I “sucker punched” him. I’ll never forget what I told him that day. “They have a saying in boxing: ‘Protect yourself at all times.’ You antagonized me all year, so it was only a matter of time before something like this went down.” Needless to say, my logic was lost upon him.

I later found out that I caused a hairline fracture to his nose – the exact same thing that happened to me in my fight with the Anabolic Israeli Commando. Something else happened: the Mouth of the South’s insults no longer bothered me. I would barely hear him bitching about me under his breath but it soon became white noise to me. I shattered his power and he became nothing more than what he was, and that was a name and a student ID badge.

Looking back on it, I only have a couple regrets: not whipping his ass sooner, and not getting more shots in on him. If anyone deserved it, it was definitely the Mouth of the South.

Are you from the toughest hood in America? It’s doesn’t mean shit in a street fight.

Simply hailing from a certain zip code is NO guarantee that you’ll be some unstoppable fighting machine. In other words, a nerdy-looking hipster from Cape Cod could beat the shit out of a guy with a beard, chain wallet and the word Flint tattooed across his throat in Old English lettering. The key is the East Coaster has to want or need to win more than the guy from Flint has to protect his pride.

Consider the fate of the young man in the above video. Is New York a tough city? Absolutely! But simply being from the Big Apple isn’t enough to guarantee the win in every encounter. I don’t know what started the confrontation, but I can take a guess. We have two white guys at a gas station who suddenly find themselves being taped by someone with an Android phone, and a young wannabe thug telling them to suck his dick.

Before the fight kicks off, the thug takes the time to look at the camera and shout, “I’m from New York and I’m out here by myself. Fuck these n*****, man!” This was Thugster’s “shout out” most likely done to drum up support from whoever would end up watching the video of him whooping some cracka’s ass … or so he thought.

After uttering his now-iconic shout out, Thugster gave them another “Suck my dick!” (An atypical reference to genitals that is often spoken before a fight.) And then came Thugster’s weak left hook, right cross combination that he was likely certain would be a guaranteed knockout. (He’s from New York, after all.) Unfortunately for him, he’s quickly slammed to the concrete, reverse mounted, and pounded into unconsciousness. (I guess the Statue of Liberty didn’t have his back!)

But wait! you’re thinking. That only happened ’cause he’s from New York. People in Philadelphia are WAY tougher than New Yorkers. Giving shout outs to a neighborhood in Philly prior to a fight is SURE to guarantees the win. Right?

Let’s see …

Well, there you have it. Where you’re from doesn’t mean shit.