Thursday, July 31, 2008

Street Fightin' Married Man

When you're a man and you get married, whether you're the biggest musclehead or the skinniest gaywad, it becomes your responsibility to defend your woman. You may be outmatched or you may be in for some serious pain or you may be risking your life, but if you don't stand up for your woman, you may never get laid again.

Last summer, my wife and I were in Hong Kong. We we sang karaoke, we ate bowls of MSG, we tried to make Buddhist monks break their vows of silence, and we experienced, for the first time, what it was like to be the tallest people around. One night, we went to Lan Kwai Fong, the area where tourists and expats go to get drunk and stupid.

It was about 900 degrees outside. So, when we came upon a Russian-themed bar with a walk-in Vodka freezer, we jumped at the chance to cool off and get our Perestroika on. In the freezer, two very large and very drunk Australian dudes took a liking to my wife.

The biggest one glanced over at me and said, "Oi! Where'd you get the whore?"

To be sure I heard him right, I smugly said, "What'd you say, Steve Irwin??"

Louder and more aggressively, he said, "That bird you're with, she's a prostitute, right?"

I was pretty sure this wouldn't end up well.

What would I do? If I cowered, I would be seen as the world's biggest pussy by the woman I love. If I fought, I would either get put in jail (in a fucking communist country) or I would be sent to the hospital (in a fucking communist country). Despite all rational thought, I went with the latter option. I had to.

Out of nowhere, something strange came over me. All my fear disappeared. I poured my vodka on to the floor and I clutched the empty glass as a weapon. I stood tall and said, "If you don't apologize, I'm gonna crack both your fucking heads open!"

It was even more dramatic than it sounds.

They weren't fazed in the least bit.

The smaller Aussie grabbed my glass with ease. He then said, "You're not gonna use a weapon. You're gonna fight like a man."

They proceeded to descend upon me and I was ready. With all the strength I could muster, I cocked my arm back and prepared to throw the hardest punch I'd ever thrown.

Miraculously, my fist was grabbed from behind. Three sumo-esque bouncers appeared. They broke up the fight, escorted the Aussies out, and stood over my wife and me until we were out of harm's way. I'd just dodged a major bullet. For some reason though, I wasn't happy. Something inside me actually wanted to throw that punch.

Growing up, I got my ass kicked more times than I'd like to remember. On the Hebrew school bus, a non-nebby Yid punched me in the gut so hard that I spit blood. At a Burger King on Biscayne, a mischievous young African wrapped me in duct tape and kicked me until I nearly died. In college at Wisconsin, four football players broke my nose so severely that I looked like Eric Stoltz in Mask. Each time, I'd deserved it, but that's not the point. I was finally ready to do some ass kicking myself.

I decided that the next person to fuck with my wife was gonna get a major faceful of Iron Mike. The rest of our Hong Kong trip, I was on the hunt. I almost wailed on a tiny Korean boy at a monastery. I almost destroyed a plump Norwegian girl at a museum. I almost rearranged the face of a 75 year-old Chinese dude selling egg rolls in the street. Unfortunately, they didn't deserve it and they ran when I snarled. Yeah, I was tough.

It wasn't until we were back in Denver when I would have my opportunity to punch somebody in defense of my bride. On July 4th, the wife and I were at a party. This heavy set redneck was talking about his cock on the porch where we were standing. A few minutes later, he pushed me aside and started to hit on my wife.

Like any good woman, she told the redneck that I was her husband and that she would appreciate it if he left her alone. In response, he said I was an asshole and made some obscene comments that even I don't want to repeat. Instantly, I was brought back to the Russian Bar in Hong Kong. It was time!

Without hesitation, I set down my drink, clenched my fist, and socked that motherfucker with all the might in my little Jewish body.

It was glorious...for a moment.

I turned to the onlookers and put my hand to my ear like Hulk Hogan. I let out a roar and savored the taste of my first blood. I then grabbed my drink and took a victory sip. Suddenly, a redneck fist hit the back of my head like a freight train.

And, I was down. Out like a light.

When I awoke, I was dazed and very bloody. The redneck was gone. He was on parole and left when someone called the cops. My face was cut, my brain hurt, my back was jacked up, and I could barely breathe. But, y'know what? I had a smile on my face.

Why? I got that punch out (on an ex-con, no less). I defended my wife's honor. Chivalry's not dead! At 36, I don't recommend getting into a fight (it really, really hurts), but at one point or another, stand up for your lady. It feels good.


Anonymous said...

fucking iron. it's good to have you back, my friend.

Anonymous said...

Don't copy me asshole.

denverslim said...

"Stand up for your lady. It really really hurts." Sounds like a country song. Don't hit me, Mike!