The Punch Story. KaPow!

1 06 2012

After dealing with feng shui vagina guy amongst other weirdos I really needed a drink. My feet were killing me because I had, for some strange reason, gone for a run followed by cardio followed by standing on concrete for eight hours. My friend and I decided to go to the nearest bar–though not a favorite–it gets the job done.

We get into this pretty interesting conversation regarding men and their ownership of women due to financial domination.

Strippers for example use men to make bank because they know it’s going to pay much better than say a retail job. But men are in control of these women. The women must pretend they like these guys, which is pretty pathetic on the men’s part–but if the women don’t play the part right they don’t make the money. And men are in complete control of how they want the women to act, which is like a sex doll essentially.

That is a pretty obvious example.

But, my ultimate pet peeve, a common occurrence that I was 30 seconds away from writing my gender studies thesis on, was the smile. More specifically, when a man tells a woman to smile.

Don’t fucking tell me what to do with my body.

I do not have, and am not required, to look happy for your sake.

This is a subtle (but also glaringly obvious when one thinks about it) form of control.

Because our culture feeds off of this idea that we must “pursue happiness,” that we must exude happiness, women as a group take the brunt of this ridiculous theory because we’re stereotyped to not be taken as serious. To not be as serious, to always be cheerful, because why would we have any reason to NOT smile. We’re “beautiful,” but of course, we’d be so much prettier if we just smiled, wouldn’t we?

So yeah, we’re sitting at the bar talking about these ideas and this dude sits down beside me. Mid sentence he taps me on the arm. I think that perhaps he’s listening to our conversation and wants to chime in, which I would have been okay with had he had intelligent thoughts to add, but no. That is not what happened at all.

He taps me on the arm and asks if he can buy me and my friend a shot of whisky.

Thinking about it today, this is just another form of (perhaps unconscious but cultural) control because he cuts off our conversation and then if we accept the shot we feel an obligation of proper etiquette to include him in our group for at least a particular amount of time.

Of course we do, because it’s a free shot of jameson and we love to drink.

Plus, it never hurts to make a new friend. I enjoy meeting new people because they can almost always teach me something.

He was a rare exception to this concept.

He perhaps was the dumbest guy I have ever met. I don’t know if it was because he was really drunk or what. But I tried to have a conversation and all he did was repeat the same questions over and over.

When he stopped doing that, this is the dialogue that followed:

Him: “So you do smokes or pills?”

Me, being an asshole: “What? Do we smoke pills? How does one smoke pills?”

Him: “Oh, you know, you crush them up on foil and then light it.”

Me: “Like tylenol?”

Him: “Yeah, any pill!”

Me: “No. We don’t smoke pills.”

Him: *sad face*

Right at that moment my roommate and her friends walk in. Perfect timing really. So, we get up from the bar to move to a table and the guy leans over and says, “Let me know if it’s acceptable to join you.”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know.” And we walk away.

He sits at the bar alone.

We have a good time away from him.

Then some bald guy joins him.

My friend goes up to get another beer. She gets stuck talking to them for who knows how long. I don’t know how she put up with it. She is much nicer than I am. The bald guy gives her a necklace. I still don’t know what this means.

The bar closes. We’re all standing outside.

The bald guy and the pillsmoker guy come out. They are now best buds. Perhaps they shared a nice smoke of Excedrin in the bathroom. The bald guy comes up to us and says, “let me recite a poem!”

We all get excited. “Yes! Please recite a poem.” We all cheer.

Then he begins, “This poem is by E. G. Phillips” (I have no idea whose name he actually said…)

We all stop him. There’s like 5 of us shouting, NOOOOOO!!!! You can’t recite someone else’s poem! It must be your own!

And then I add, “And it if sucks one of us is going to punch you in the face!”

He agrees to this.

He begins:

“The leaves are turning yellow, the dirt is getting dirtier and I want to nuzzle my face in your breasts!”

Then he fucking attacks me and tries to stick his fucking head in between my boobs.

I am not making this up.

My roommate has to pull him off of me. 

I thought for a split second she was going to punch him. Which would have been AMAZING!!!

But instead, I did it myself.

Right in the stomach.

And it was then, when I realized I am not good at punching. Yes, I have done years and years of Taebo P90X, kickboxing, etc. But, I have never actually hit another person. I suck at it! Because I never really want to hurt anyone. Even when I was punching him I couldn’t really do it because deep down I felt his humanity and knew that even though he was a complete jackass loser hitting him wasn’t going to fix that problem. If hitting people made them become better people than I should have started punching them years ago.

In any case, we walked away from them and went and ate some hash browns. My roommate’s friend tried to give me tips for the perfect punch along the way, but in all honesty, I’d prefer not to get in that sort of predicament ever again. I think it’s time I stop wearing my pheromone oil, all that it attracts are fuck-ups and rejects. Is that who I’m destined to end up with? I sure hope not. I’d rather be alone than with an asshole.

But more on that another day.

Advertisements

Actions

Information

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s




%d bloggers like this: