Friday night at one of the local dives, there was a boxing machine that tested how tough and manly someone was based on his (or her) ability to punch a cheap vinyl bag. The machine then registered the punch somewhere between zero (hopeless) and a thousand (boxer)--below "boxer" was "killer", which doesn't really make sense, but whatever. Dave gave it the first smash and got somewhere between 500-700 (brutal) on both his punches. I stepped up directly thereafter and registered a pathetic 490 (anemic) but then followed up with a stronger second punch in the high five hundreds to earn my "brutal" status, which made me feel a lot better, even though I feel there should be something between "anemic" and "brutal," but I'll take it. The largest guy in our party was too self conscious to play, but I let it slide since I watched him manhandling people in a comedy club fight last year as his girlfriend pinned a guy to the ground with her knee, and I tried to pull her giant brother off of another guy who he had thrown over a table. (See "Daily Sentence of Dave" September 29, 2008 for story) And I might add, Dave did come from the exit before the action ended, and disappeared into the melee. I don't know what he got into, but his wife said a couple of times that evening that she wanted to take him home so she could...well, let's just say she was turned on.
Back to the boxing machine: later in the evening, a monster of a man walked into the bar who was about six-feet-six, 250 lbs, a real meatball, so when he stepped up to the bag and was about to give it a wallop, I took my time buying a beer so I could have a better understanding of my shameful kiddie punches. He gave it a blast into the six hundreds, and it was clear from across the bar that he had only lit up the third light: "Brutal". He must have missed, or maybe the girl behind him punched it, but no! He wound up and gave it a second smash--pretty solidly, I might add--and still only registered a brutal. No kidding.
This can only mean one thing--ok, two: first, the machine could be worn-out and inaccurate, or the second possibility, which I think is more likely, Dave and I are actually bruisers who could hold our own with large muscular men, and even though they may end up taking us with their slight, high-sixhundreds edge, we would do some damage with our nearly-equal, fivehundreds "brutal" strength.
If squaring off with a man of this stature proves to be a hasty and ill-considered decision; It is my belief, and this is strictly conjecture, that your fanatic and borderline obsession with barefoot running gives you a distinct advantage in retreat maneuvers. You should be able to leave the giant goomba far behind, sucking for air as he chokes on your dust...or is it really a cloud of stinky, dead skin cells from your feet? Running away is not manly, but, running away barefoot, on the streets of New York/ New Jersey not only saves you a shred of dignity, it make you one tough, crazy, S.O.B.
ReplyDeleteI don't care what anybody scores on one of those things. One time I saw an unmistakably "killer" dude pop out of a discarded concrete culvert along the banks of the muddy Ohio, arms flailing and fists clenched. His visage exuded a grifteresque rage that would have repelled the 101st Airborne.
ReplyDeleteSome say he stood seven feet tall and caught channel catfish the size of city buses with his bare hands. And they still say that on cloudless moonlit nights in early Autumn, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the sound of fists on vinyl - followed by a cackling voice repeating "500...500...500..."
Brandmanager: That was a brilliant post. Absolutely hilarious.
ReplyDeleteSo did this machine seem really popular overall? Is the picture you used, the actual machine or did it look different?
ReplyDeleteI'm thinking about buying some and placing them in bars so I want to get people's opinion.
Thanks