Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.



Dear Sir,
Will those skinheads really beat my ass?
Dick Hertz

Well, Dick, if it’s 1988 and the skinheads in question happen to be those 30 or so Nazi behemoths from Tampa and Orlando, then I can assure you the answer is yes. In fact, if your ass-beating experience is anything like mine, they’ll probably do a thorough, professional-grade job of it too.

Sometimes people ask me, “Why did they beat your ass?” Well, Dick, they’re Nazi skinheads. They didn’t really need a reason. First of all, they were skinheads. And second of all, they were Nazis. The skinhead chapter of the Hello Kitty fan club doesn’t need a reason to whoop someone’s ass, you know? Ass beating just falls under general duties in the job description.

But in a roundabout way I brought it on myself. Back then, pathetically enough, I had aspirations toward thuggishness, and (while eschewing any racist or fascist sympathies, please note) attracted the gang’s attention by trying to be like them: bald, menacing and angry. I did this in a wholly goofy and pussy-fied way, of course. It was pretty easy to bum out local hippies and knock down the occasional drunken fratboy while scowling around town in my boots ‘n’ braces, but you’re dealing with a whole ‘nother standard of whoop-ass when it comes to a cross-eyed mob of crank-fueled big-city muscle-heads with tattoos of swastikas.

My beating started out pretty mild. I was waiting to go inside a hardcore show at the local VFW hall when my head started jerking forward uncontrollably. I spent a few confused minutes trying to figure out why this was happening before someone pointed out to me that three or four skinheads were taking turns running at me and hitting me in the back of my head. (Little did they know that they couldn’t get my attention that way, as my head doesn’t house any vital spots.)

Disturbed by this development, I retired to the parking lot, where the beating began in earnest. My first combat strategy involved talking – frankly, I was terrified that if I fought back I’d incur a higher level of butt-kick than might originally be in store for me. It wasn’t until I was curled up on the ground with them in a circle around me, kicking me, that it occurred to me that my designated stomping was going to be turned up to 11 no matter what I did.

So I hauled myself up and started swinging wildly. The mob backed off a step or two, and I heard a few voices call out for the attack to resume under “one on one” rules. Although I certainly appreciated this chivalry, I thought to myself that it would have been much nicer if the one-on-one thing had been instigated a little earlier, alas.

Regardless, a gigantic representative was selected from their ranks to carry on with my thrashing. I adopted the Marquis of Queensbury pose, and he hit me four or five times in the face. I then landed one feather-light blow to his kneecap, which of course was the signal for the other 29 gentlemen to resume punching me from all sides.

Somehow I fought to my best friend’s car, and sat on the trunk wiping blood out of my eyes while kicking at the mob, who really seemed to be having a good time. Strangely enough, considering his dark-brown skin and long, curly hair, my friend was allowed to pass through the crowd unmolested. In fact, one of the Nazis politely handed him his hat, which had fallen off while he vainly tried to pull me from the fray. He started the car, I fought my way into the passenger seat and after a short discussion we agreed that it was probably a good time to leave.

I was so glad that I didn’t die that as we pulled away I started laughing. My friend was looking at me in horror, and I figured out why when I glanced down and had the unique experience of seeing blood pour out of several holes in my face and splash across my lap. My nose was broken in two places, my clothes were torn and the entire left side of my body was turning into one solid bruise. My ghastly appearance didn’t prevent us from stopping by the video store on the way home, which gave us the chance to warn a punk-rock buddy working there that he might want to avoid the show. “There are a lot of mean skinheads there,” I said, perhaps unnecessarily.

You’ll be happy to know, Dick, that I learned some important lessons from this experience. One is that no matter how tough you are, there is always someone tougher. In fact, there are 30 of those tougher someones, and they like Hitler and will punch you in the face while wearing spiky metal knuckle-rings.

Another thing I learned is that everyone will treat you like you’re some sort of bad-ass fighting machine if you have two black eyes, a broken nose and cuts all over your face, despite the fact that these accoutrements would seem to suggest your skill at fisticuffs is somewhat lacking. Weird.

Oh, I mustn’t forget this one: pushing pieces of your nose back into place makes disturbing crackly noises, and kind of sucks.

Thanks for your question, Dick!

Can Jim Marburger really pee and ride a bicycle at the same time?
Hugh Jass

He sure can, Hugh. And despite being drunk and bleeding because he jumped off of that really high porch into those bushes to make amends for busting your hand open when he hit you with that chair, he’s as graceful as a greased-up Nadia Comeneci frolicking naked in an inflatable moonwalk with Mary Lou Retton while he’s doing it.

Powdered cocoa won’t put out the fire?
Amusingo Genitalio

No, paisan, it won’t. And that shit doesn’t exactly give the kitchen a nice chocolatey aroma when it explodes all over the place either.

Excuse me,
For someone who makes fun of that shit a lot, you sure seem to be awfully familiar with stuff like Dungeons and Dragons and the Renaissance Faire.
Grey Ravenhawk the Black, chaotic neutral dwarf paladin, esq.

Look, don’t get all +9 vorpal sword on me, demilich. I’ve owned my share of 12-sided dice, sure, but in my early teens I looked out from behind the DM screen and discovered a little real-world module called “beer and poontang.” Plus, after you’ve defeated Asmodeus – yeah, you heard me right, DEFEATED ASMODEUS – there just aren’t many challenges left. So go stick it in your enchanted bag of holding.

Confidential to Jon Resh of Chicago, Illinois: Relax, dude! I hear a lot of guys have dreams about sleeping with their mom.

Got a question? Mail it to rawpower (at) bellsouth (dot) net.


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