(continued from last blog in an effort to keep my blogs short enough to read while on the toilet at work)
I told my pal the Wop we needed to get the last 20 partygoers out to keep them from being arrested. When my efforts of reason couldn’t help out, he grabbed one the stubborn ones and slammed his head into the oven light cover, threatening to break his legs. He left, which was good. He was part of a team of 30 college athletes, which was bad. They called the house about 20 minutes later and said it was on.
A normal, rational person would’ve locked the door, perhaps skipped out or called the cops back, but my buddy’s brother took off in a fit of rage to dispatch the entire bunch. Nobly, yet stupidly, we ran after him to prevent a terrible beating. As the rowdy mob of well trained 18-22 year old young men surrounded us, I hoped every Steven Seagal movie was possible.
I got suckerpunched and went down, but amazingly, about half the bros awarded me a pardon and let me get up…almost. The douche threw another punch at me and some animal reaction took over. I swung, knocking him flat. Take that! Then I felt hands dragging me to the earth. I broke loose and ran faster than should’ve have been possible for an intoxicated has-been, but unbeknownst to me, someone had sawed off a tree, leaving the stump for me to trip over at a full sprint some months later. What happened next was I realized unlike a Seagal movie, the attackers don’t come one at a time, they bumrush you and call you homosexual slurs while stomping on your face. Thanks for nothing, Steven!
In a rather basic conversation the next morning with the Wop, we both determined we only fight chess teams or foreign exchange students going forward. When I got to a mirror and realized I had a shoe print in my face, I recalculated and surmised I wouldn’t fight anyone. If getting beat up by seven guys is fighting, that is. The only bright side is that my face was so smashed, I got nearly a week off work! Maybe I should kick my own ass…