Fictional story. This one doesen't even need any introduction. Pot is a retarded-ass muse.
Ever since I was very young, i've had a fascination with martial arts. And when I say martial arts, I don't mean that meditative breathing crap. Oh no. I'm talking full-on, karate chop to the neck, mortal kombat. My interests were sadly unrealized until one fateful day after class, in the fifth grade. While biking my chubby ass home, I decided to stop at the local rec center so as to own some people at air hockey. Unfortunately, there was a line, so I decided to loiter about.
Then, I saw it. A poster, on the wall. For karate class. Visions of flying through the air like Liu Kang and landing a brutal dropkick to some hapless shlub's jaw filled my adolescent mind. It was then that my dream of becoming a deadly caucasian ninja master became a prospective reality. I rushed home, told my father of my plans to sign up, and he quickly agreed.
From then on, my tuesday and friday nights were filled with kimonos, training, and an oddly effeminate sensei. After a week or two, I learned a truth that is universal. Everyone wants to spar the fat kid. In my mind, I was a high kicking, punch throwing killing machine. In retrospect, I was probably closer to what Hong Kong Phooey would be like if he had the metabolism of a tree sloth.
One unfortunate day, after putting on the sparring pads, we broke off in to groups of two, and commenced to ass kicking. Unfortunately, my partner was some sort of prodigy, and Asian to boot. He opened with a couple of weak punches, to feel my defenses out. I deftly blocked and dodged, and then I threw a big left hook. Unfortunately, he saw it coming a mile away. He stepped back, spun to the right, and bounced a devastating spinning punch off of my forehead.
This is where things went downhill, quickly. He grinned at me, and in a flash of inspiration, I realized that I was going to lose badly unless I changed my technique. Thinking quickly, I stared over his right shoulder with a gasp of surprise and what I hoped looked like utter shock on my face. As he began to turn, I cocked my leg back and kicked him in the fucking knee as hard as I could. As the hapless dude crumpled to the ground, I smirked, savoring the taste of sweet ninja victory.
Unfortunately, kneecapping your sparring partner is generally frowned upon, so the sensei forced me to drop the class. A dishonorable discharge, if you will. Many years later, my passion for karate forgotten, I happened upon something that would change my life, as well as the shape of my forehead. My grandmother had finally decided to move to Florida and retire. I happily agreed to move out of my crappy apartment, take up the rent, and relocate to the new house. While digging through stuff in the back room one night, looking for an extension cord, I came upon a dusty shoebox. I opened it, and discovered what must have been a sign of the fact that God wants me to cripple myself.. A pair of nunchaku, left over from my uncle's martial arts days. Real ones, too, none of that sissy foam bullshit. I practiced with them, very carefully, over the course of a few weeks, without ever mortally injuring myself.
Then, one day, I met her. She was a really cute chick, and she had two of my favorite qualities in a woman. She was breathing, and interested in me. We saw each other off and on. Eventually, one fateful friday, I invited her over to watch a movie or two. We cracked open a bottle of Jaeger, and I proceeded to learn the hard way that playing quarters with a former frat girl is a Very Bad Idea. After my fifth shot, I was well on my way to sloshed. At the height of what can only be described as utter goof-tardedness, I broke out the nunchucks and we moved to the backyard. She lit up a smoke as I did my best to impress her with my mad ninja skills. She seemed into it, even cheering me on. Feeling bold, I decided to pick up the pace and I began whipping them around my body in a blur of metal. I caught one end over my shoulder, and then flipped it out in front of me. As I went to transfer it back behind the other shoulder in what I thought would surely be a kickass display of martial arts prowess, I failed to catch the quickly moving hunk of metal and it slammed into my forehead with a sound like someone punching a side of beef.
Next thing I know, i'm laying flat on my back with a huge fucking lump on my head. As I groggily pulled myself off the grass, I notice that the chick is laughing her ass off.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Women dig scars, sure. Apparently, though, they think concussions are pretty damn funny.
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Edited by jcdangerously (04/14/06 12:15 AM)
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