Real Men Don’t Slap

Marcy and I got into an argument over her Parakeet crapping on the carpet. It’s technically my apartment and my deposit in jeopardy, so I’m not sure how I lost the argument or why she kicked me out for the evening. Ugh.

Whatever. I had a hankering for Taco Bell anyway. At the drive-thru I pick-up my usual: 4 bean and cheese burritos, cinnamon twists and a jumbo Mountain Dew. I used to get tacos or a couple Mexican pizzas, but those never survived for long. Soggy tacos are worse than warm lager, so I switched to burritos. Besides, those things reheat really well for breakfast.

Since I grabbed a laptop from a co-worker, I’ve been able to sit in front of a house in Waterbury, eating my fast food while snagging free wireless internet. (Funny, the guy whose computer I grabbed got fired later that week. It’s a good thing I swiped it before he took off.) I don't worry about being spotted while surfing; my Monte Carlo’s windows are tinted pretty dark. Plus, the house is on the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac.

So, with a warm burrito in hand, I was in Waterbury downloading a bunch of porn—mostly videos. I found some good ones with a couple of skinny transvestites using a plunger. I was getting into it when a commotion started outside a house across the street and the cops soon showed up. I guess the rich folks aren’t any happier than the rest of us. I had enough porn to last a bit, so I left.

After I download my fill, I usually park behind the old folks home on School Street. I can sit there for hours. The parking lot is nearly full, but the residents rarely drive so there’s not much activity. I get in a few leisurely workouts and then head over to Buddy’s for a few beers. Fridays are always fun times with the karaoke. I’m usually good for an Abba tune or two.

Some Latina cross dresser was belting out “Dancing Queen” when I walked in, so I decided to skip the Swedish serenade. I grabbed an MGD and sat down in the corner. I hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when two beefy guys started shouting at each other. Before I could figure out what they were arguing about, the bigger of the two guys slapped the other in the face. The place just went silent. The smaller guy snatched up his jacket and stormed out with the bigger guy on his heels, lisping “I’m tho thorry. Omigawd! I’m tho thorry!”

Now this was the third time in as many weeks that I’ve seen one guy slap another in the face. The first time was in the bathroom at Applebee’s, and last week it was at Hooters. I don’t remember what started either fight—if you can even call it “fighting.”

Real men don’t slap. Men punch, elbow, kick, shove, grab, throw, chop, knee and maybe even bite, but not slap. I don’t understand the thought process—or lack thereof—that precedes the bitch slapping.

If you want to give the other guy a taste of the whoop-ass he’s asking for, a good shove is perfect, especially if he goes to the ground. If you’d rather scare him good, just go ahead and let him have a solid hook to the nose. If you want to drop him, nail him hard in the temple. And though I don’t like dirty fighting, I’ve got nothing against carrying a set of knuckles just in case.

I suppose if you’re not a real man, and you want to momentarily confuse the other guy—and everyone else—then that slapping shit is just what the gay doctor ordered. If you slap a real man though, you’ll likely just make him madder than hell and then you’ve got that to deal with.

The whole slapping scene made me uncomfortable. I just don’t get it. If I see it again and can get over feeling grossed out, I’ll have to ask these guys what the deal is. At the rate things are going, I’m sure I’ll get the chance again real soon.

I don’t know what’s come over Des Moines. The city used to be a lot tougher. I hope America didn’t sissy-fy itself by voting in a black president. I mean, I’m all for giving other races a chance, but maybe we should have started with someone who was only, like, a quarter black, or just really good friends with some blacks.

I’m telling you: it is possible to change too fast. In American today there’s subtle fear, unrest and a subsequent lack of trust that’s compromising America’s traditional commitments. This slapping thing is a mere symptom. America’s men can no longer commit to our God-given right to physically defend our women, ourselves, our property and our country. The entire institution of noble brawling could be endangered.

Ugh. Just talking about this shit is making me sick, but I refuse be infected by this cowardly, “open-handed” epidemic. I’ve got to be perpetually deliberate. I must be true to my X&Y. I've got to man-up and commit 110% to everything that I do—starting right now!

Another burrito and a couple more free videos and I’m going straight home. That goddamned bird is going to stop shitting on the carpet—and not because I’m gonna slap it!