Friday, December 01, 2006

My Favorite Shirt And That Fucking CalTrans Midget

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I missed telling my stories. I've got so many that they line up in my mind like 747's at O'Hare in winter and just fly in circles.

I even have airplane stories up there in the clouds of my memory, making turbulent passes day in and day out. I figured tonight I would let one land, if ya'll don't mind...

I was reading another blog written by Hammer, who passes by this way sometimes, and he was talking about fighting, and being big, and not fighting, and bullies and throwing people around and it reminded me of a midget.

A fucking no good, miserable rodent of a human being that I would to this day love to drop kick across a football field, down the street and out into the freeway.

A midget so foul and vile and worthy of massive kicks to the nuts that if I run into that son of a bitch again, I might just unleash on him and fulfill my lifelong adult fantasies with that poor short little knuckledragging dwarf creature getting the brunt of twenty years of pent up "man oh man oh man's"...

The rest of this post will be full of expletives. So if they bother you, fuck off.

See that red shirt? That was my favorite shirt when I got out of high school and it was too small for me by just the right amount and it stretched just enough and was clingy just enough and the summer out of high school I had been doing what many young guys did in those years, liftng weights and looking in the miror to see what grew and what didn't. I was playing all kinds of sports and riding motorcycles and falling victim to the allure of the vagina and had no inkling that soon I would be ordering a passport and a ticket and leaving town.

But that summer I was still in my hometown and a hometown boy and on a Friday night I went to a movie with my good friend Rolf, and we saw a movie and thought we would swing by downtown on our way home and look for vaginas in the streets. Downtown in my hometown was like American Graffiti, the movie. In fact, American Graffiti was filmed the next town over and the tradition of driving up and down the street and yelling stupid things from car windows was going strong that summer. We made one pass on "4th" street, and saw a couple of buddies we knew and pulled over onto a sidestreet and then walked back onto 4th street to chat and watch cars.

All normal teenage cool crap with no expectations of anything unusal occuring, right?

Yeah, right.

There are moments, I know, in everybody's life that can be replayed like mini videos within their heads. Going to the hospital with that first baby on the way... Proposing... Your first time... Your criminal act that you now regret... the death of a dear one... all kinds of snippets that would make a good You-Tube if you could but record what was in there and play it back on a machine...

I have a bunch myself, and someday I'll probably share all of them, but for now I wanted to tell you why, seven years after I left my home town and had just returned home for a temporary work stay, I rolled the window down on my sister's passenger side of her car and yelled, at the loudest I was possibly able-- "FUCK YOU YOU MOTHER FUCKING CAL-TRANS MIDGET! MOTHER FUCKING, COCKSUCKING ASS-LICKING DWARF HUMPER!"

Those were my exact words. And I meant every goddamn one of them, too. That midget son of a bitch... I hated that bow-legged misproportioned monkey with a passion reserved for pure evil. I did and I still do. The mother fucking, cocksucking, ass-licking dwarf humper. Grrrr! Let him rue the day I run into him...

And he didn't really do squat to me, either. But...

WHAT HE SAID!

Grrrr! I could drop kick that little shit sixty feet the way he works me up. Grrrrr! Fucking Midget! Mother fucking MIDGET!

I happened to discover this picture not long ago in my Mum's stash of memories that she wanted to keep. I remember when it was taken and I had never seen the photos that came off of that camera until recently. Mum said she liked this picture because I was smiling and I looked "sweet". I guess I never looked sweet much to her, and she wanted to think of her sons as having sweetness in them, and kept some evidence. She has got a really sweet picture of my brother Steve, as well, and I had never seen that side of him the whole time we were growing up and competing and kicking each other's asses. When your face is constantly being crammed into your brother's armpit, there is no sweetness apparent, I kid you not...

This was how I looked the night I met the mother fucking, cocksucking, ass-licking dwarf humping midget on the streets of my home town on a Friday night. I mean exactly. I had my hair combed (I did, those days) and I was wearing this shirt. It was summer and warm, and we were standing on the side of 4th street watching cars go by, some full of vaginas, and talking about nothing and trying to find a way to stand and place a thumb in a belt loop or in a back pocket or arms folded so we looked cool. Vaginas always liked guys to look cool, I knew that, and I was trying to accomodate, believe me...

So there were myself and Rolf and two guys Rolf knew well but I barely knew, mindlessly chatting and concentrating on our posing standing on the side of a downtown street full of cars cruising up and down, just like in the movies. And four guys walk up and ask if we want to fight. They did. I swear!

"Do you guys want to fight?"

That's what they asked.

I said, "No thank you, not tonight, if you don't mind," and was as polite and sweet as this picture, I swear. Out of the four of them, three were almost my size and one was smaller, but not small. He was "medium" if you know what I mean. Maybe 5-10 and 175 pounds, something like that. He looked like a wrestler, though, and dumb, which was a bad combination when he was the one who had approached your close-up space and was slapping you in the face.

Rolf was never a big guy. He just never made it to that stature in his life. He was a skinny guy back then, waiting to fill out, and about 5-9 or so. The two other guys were anemic skinny butts, into smoking cigarettes and tearing apart engines. They weren't even substantial enough to consider tackling a vagina, and they seemed to know it. In those days, available vaginas were reserved for a thicker class of male than these two.

And as I was the focus of attention at the moment and handling the four thugs who were looking to fight before us, these two simply backed up and ran like hell. Rolf was a close friend of mine, and backed up but did not run, to his credit and future ice-pack.

SO THERE I WAS (I just love saying that) standing before four ugly dudes who were just out looking to kick some ass, trying to talk some sense into them by being sweet, my hands actually in my front pockets to appear less threatening-- because I didn't really want to fight and wanted to express that in as many ways as I possibly could, hoping to get through to these mules, and the smallest guy was standing as tall and proud as he could, and was slapping me and trying to provoke me, knowing he had three big ugly dudes at his back to bail him out if I actually did cut loose on him.

AND SURE ENOUGH... I finally lost my cool. Yes. I am sorry but it did happen. I don't remember much of the moment it did, but I remember being amazed that I did right after I did, and I remember the next ten full minutes like it was aYou Tube special on DVD...

My friend Rolf used to always tell me he was glad I was such a mellow guy, because the few times I cut loose and actually wrestled him with any seriousness, I scared the crap out of him. I was born uncannily strong. I still am. I am big and I am stronger than I look. I don't know why or how, but I just have natural strength. Even then, at eighteen, 6-2 and 220 or so, I was stronger than I looked. All this to say that when I lost it and pulled my right hand out of my pocket and in one blind-rage swing hit the dumb-looking wrestler dude in the face, I ruined his evening. He stepped toward me about half a step and then fell face forward into the street between the curb and a black Mercedes (older model), and I stood there stunned that I had actually snapped and done that and realized that I was about to face three big guys with little guy back-up and the world turned into one of those swirling, heightened awareness shaky camera video clips that I can still visualize like I had a replay button and wide screen TV. Two of the three guys came right after me and I backpeddled into the busy street. They were taking silly, hail mary swings at me which I kept avoiding by stepping backwards. They were trying to get me to hold still and fight both of them and I had other plans. I cussed and swore at them and called them sailors and other things and they kept trying to get me to hold honorably still so they could team up on me and beat the crap out of me. I wasn't buying it. My plan was to draw the thing out until a cop broke it up. They looked like thugs. I looked sweet. The cop would believe me and they would leave and that would be that. But no cop came. They were all (and there were many on the strip on Friday nights) all writing tickets for Jaywalking and brown eyeing, and for ten minutes were nowhere to be found. Every now and then, I would take a swing at the two guys swinging at me and I would get pretty lucky and actually clip a chin or an ear or a lip and the two guys were getting really pissed and frustrated and actually hurt. I wouldn't hold still, and I kept retreating and dancing around, even jumping over hoods of cars and other stuff and then the third guy showed up and now I had nowhere to dance away to and I started really having to move around to avoid getting whalloped. These guys, I think, were afraid to "look bad" because they could have gang charged me and tackled me but they wanted to be big free swingers and I didn't want them too so I ducked and twisted and turned and managed to avoid actually getting hit while they kept telling me to hold still so they could talk to me but I think they had other plans.

"No thank you."

Remember, the whole street was full of kids in cars and everybody had their head out the windows watching this and some were yelling at me to stop and fight and I was thinking "No thank you." and this whole thing went on for about six or seven full minutes. I fought three guys without reciving a single blow and struck at least six times causing hurt and pain and I was stalling and dancing and jumping over more hoods and running around other cars and I got to the other side of the street and was corraled up onto the sidewalk and the three big ugly dudes were trying to get me cornered because I was too squirrely for them in open spaces with barriers to duck behind and as I was thinking it was time for me to just turn and run like hell, the fourth guy came out of nowhere and tackled me and I remember turning him over and just pounding on his face some more while his head hit the pavement everytime I hit him and then I was standing and my head was ringing. One of the other three had put a vibram-soled boot up against the side of my face very unceremoniously and the impact had knocked me from my knees to my feet. I was spinning around groggy and disoriented and my red shirt --my favorite red shirt-- was all bloody from that other guys blood and it was torn so that it hung by one thread off of one shoulder and now I didn't have the clear head or wherewithal to keep the three guys at bay and I was walking away trying not to get surrounded and this midget, this mother-fucking, cock-sucking, ass-licking dwarf humping midget in a cowboy hat, maybe three feet six inches tall-- maybe-- walks right up to me and says--

"Why don't you turn around and fight them you big pussy!"

...and I remember thinking about how easy it would be to pick him up and drop kick him fifty feet or so, and then I got rushed by the three guys and I vaguely remember swinging and punching and falling and landing on the sidewalk and popping to my feet with no one holding on to me and turning and seeing a door open in a small four-door Datsun B210, and hearing a girl's voice yell "Scott! GET IN" and me running and diving head first across the laps of FOUR VAGINAS all piled into the backseat with two more in the front and the driver shooting across traffic when she shouldn't and now I am half naked laying across all these young girls and I didn't think it then but I thought it later, that PDL had saved my dumb ass again and now look at me. I told the girls not to take me back to where this all started just yet, I needed time to recover from my horrific wounds and I squirmed around in the back of that Datsun for quite awhile trying to get comfortable and then we drove back to find my friend Rolf standing next to where I had left him, talking to a cop and the girls dropped me off with cheeky kisses from all and I walked up to Rolf with my shirt now torn off and hanging around my waist like a belt, and I looked at him and noticed that one side of his face was extremely swollen like he was blowing a trombone.

"What happened?" I asked.

Rolf had to work out a way to speak because he was so swollen and all he could muster, spitting terribly as he spoke, was -- "Those fuckers."

The cops took my statement and then drove me around a bit to find the guys but they were probably in a car, driving around, looking for me. He asked if I wanted to press charges and I thought about the one guy I had really dealt with, a broken nose and two or three teeth gone minimum, and I figured things had gone my way and I said "nah... No thank you."

I had a swollen boot print on my temple but it didn't really hurt and I knew enough to know that Rolf could benefit by some ice at the moment and I got him ice and tried to talk him into letting me drive him home. He insisted on driving, and got pulled over for weaving by a girl cop who wanted us to show our hands and step out of the vehicle and all of that, and then she told me to stay put while Rolf was supposed to go over and answer some question under the glare of her light, and pretty soon she came to me and asked me what the hell Rolf was trying to tell her, because she couldn't understand a word he said.

"He said he had been punched and he fell down thinking that the guy who punched him would stop punching him. It worked but he didn't figure on the kicking part and he took a boot to the face. Me, I took one too but not as bad. Yes ma'am. No ma'am we told the cops and no, we don't want to press charges. You should see one of the other guys."

I was told to drive and we got back to Rolf's house where we had set out to watch a movie four hours before and Rolf couldn't hide his swollen cheek to his father who got so mad he stormed out of the house with a pistol and drove off and then came back sheepishly a few minutes later when he realized he had no idea who he was looking for.

One of the four dudes, the one who kicked me in the head and Rolf too, ended up hitting his girlfriend with a tire iron that summer and then running over her with his truck and almost killing her on purpose. He went to jail for twenty years where he can fight all he wants. I don't care.

Me. all I care about is that damned mother-fucking, cock-sucking, ass-licking dwarf humping midget "WHY DON'T YOU TURN AROUND AND FIGHT THEM YOU BIG PUSSY!" and how if I ever see him not standing out on a traffic island pulling weeds in his CALTRANS orange uniform, I would drop kick him across a football field and down the street and out into traffic on the freeway.

Mother fucker.

7 comments:

Hammer said...

That was a vivid story. Very entertaining. Sorry about your red shirt :(

CapricornCringe said...

Now that's a story!!

Maggie said...

Great story - vehement and strained all the way through.

Flat Coke and Flies said...

Scott I enjoyed that so much!! And you were just DARLING back in the day with your red shirt on!! You hottie!!

Your anger concerns me. It's um..lets say...A LOT!! I hope you someday get to beat the crap out of that guy so maybe it'll make you feel better.

Kick him once for me cause you ain't no pussy. Show him that picture and prove it.

Stucco said...

Many many years ago I was working for a cable tv company and a fellow I worked with inexplicably and in all candor told me his views on how to fight a midget. He'd apparently been out at a club and felt that a midget had been staring at him (?) and was preparing to make trouble. At any rate, the advice was very simple- "you've got to grab them, because they are really strong and quick"

Nikky said...

Scott, your mom is right, you looked like such a nice sweet boy!
I, too, hope that someday you get to kick some midget ass, sounds like that would really help you work on your anger issues!
Thanks for the great story today!!
;-)

Nancy Dancehall said...

Wow.

And, um, I'm surprsed you didn't have four vaginas across _your_ lap at all times. *blush*