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


Anthem Tattoo Parlor, Saturday March 24

"Ohhh shit! Pat Hughes! What are you up to?"

"Ahhh, nuthin'. I just locked up the dojo across the street and figured I'd stick my head in and see how ya'll are doin'. What's up?"

"Nothing much. Hey, are you gonna fight soon?"

"Me? Fuck no. My life's a mess. And I'm way too fat. I haven't been training hard at all, or really doing much of anything but eat pizza and drink beer, for like six months. Well, I did spar with a girl today."

"Was it that six-foot girl?"


"The six-foot girl with the straight black hair? The really hot one?"

"Who? What?"

"She came in here for a tattoo and went across the street to the dojo to sign up for kickboxing."

"Shit... I, uh... Six foot, you say? Goddamn, I... Hm, that's tall, huh? I think maybe it's time to start training hard again, heh heh. But the girl today was two feet shorter than me and weighed about 120 pounds less. Plus it was, like, her first time."

"Did you win?"


"Hey, were you there when a guy named Billy Joe went in and challenged the whole dojo to a fight?"

"Huh? No. Wait, what?!"

"You weren't there?"


"He was pissed, dude."

"Who's Billy Joe? I didn't hear about this! What the hell happened?"

"You guys wouldn't let him empty his colostomy bag."

"His... What? Like, before the fight?"

"No, he came in here all pissed, and we let him empty his colostomy bag, and he was like, 'Those motherfuckers across the street think they're too good...'"

"Yeah, we're a fuckin', uh, high-class hoity-toity operation, man. You can't just be sprayin' your colostomy hose around..."

"He was all pissed, and we let him empty his bag, and I said, 'Hey, Billy Joe, you should go over there and give them a piece of your mind.' He's like this 300-pound homeless guy."

"Oh, Jesus Christ."

"I said, 'Hey there, Billy Joe. You gonna let those karate snobs boss you around like that? They think they're too good to let a man empty his colostomy bag...'"

"Does he want a fight? I ain't afraid of no colostomy hose. He can spray me and I'll kick him right in his fuckin' poop hole. I don't give a fuck."

"Nah, I guess Keith gave him the bum rush. He went back over all mad, but came back a few minutes later and said, 'Well guys, I reckon maybe they're just a little too tough for me over there.'"

"That's right! Damn fuckin' straight! Right in the poop hole, man! Pow! I ain't above it. I'll do it, and worry about washing my foot later."

"I guess."

"You tell him! You tell all them motherfuckers! Tell 'em don't be bringin' no colostomy up in the dojo!"

"Whatever you say."

"Man, I'm telling you... We don't fuck around."

Poor Becca
Poor, Poor Becca



She made it through Weird Science, Frankenhooker and Rock 'n Roll Nightmare OK, but Return of the Living Dead proved too taxing, despite being fortified with a healthy dose of energy-packed Absolut peach-flavored vodka (yuck).

Anyway, she learned a valuable lesson, probably. You gotta keep on your toes. Movie night is not for the weak.

(Underwear Shorts, by the way, is a game where I hike my shorts up as far as they'll go and dance around singing, "Underwear shorts, underwear shorts, underwear shorts, underwear shorts," as well as any other improvised lyrics pertinent to underwear, shorts, underwear shorts or the general erotic allure of my creamy inner thighs.)


Fuck You, Bob Marley
“Hey man, Tom was just telling me a great story about the time you tried to break into his girlfriend’s apartment while they were sleeping and he had to pull a gun on you.”

“Yeah, that was funny and — wait, what?”

“He said it was the middle of the night, and they heard someone peeping at the window, and he had to pull a gun.”

“Holy shit, I... I... I don’t remember that at all.”

“Yeah, he said you were just, like, ‘Oh, so I guess you guys are back together then.’”

“Um, I don't think this actually happened.”

“Man, it’s a great story. I’ve heard him tell it to a few people.”

“He what? What the fuck! It’s a lie, a total lie!”

“I don’t know, man...”

“Fuck! Fuck you! Where’s fuckin’ Tom! Goddamn it! Tom! Tom! Hey Tom!”

“Hey, what’s up, Bad News?”

“What the fuck is this story about me trying to break into your girlfriend’s apartment?”

“Ha ha, back when I got back together with Liz, remember that?”

“No, I do not fuckin’ remember that! You pulled a gun on me?”

“Well, a stun gun. But when I heard you scratchin’ at the window, before I knew it was you, I was thinkin’ about goin’ for one of my rifles...”

“Dude! That never happened!”

“Sure it did.”


“Me and Liz had broken up for a while, and I guess you were going out with her...”

“Well, we went on a few dates.”

“Whatever. Anyway, me and her got back together, and I was spending the night over there, and we heard this scratching at the window, and we looked outside, and you were peeking in...”


“Yeah! And I was like, ‘Get out of here,’ and you said, ‘I see you guys are back together,’ and wandered off into the night. It was like 3 in the morning, and you were drunk.”


“You don’t remember? You were sneaking around, peeping in the window...”

“Wait wait wait... Now I remember...”

“Yeah, uh huh...”

“No, no, no... This is how I remember it: I was all drunk and with Chuck or Brian Hoben or someone, and after we left the bar, we were looking to drink more, so I was running around the neighborhood pounding on people’s doors, like, ‘Hey, who wants to party!’ And you were going back out with Liz, and you guys came out and stood at the screen door, and you were all mad and in your underwear, and I was like, ‘What’s up, dude! Don’t you like to party!’ And you and Liz were pissed off and told me to get the hell out of there. And I think I did say something like, 'Hey, I guess you guys are back together, let's party!’”


“Is that ringing a bell?”

“Wait, wait...”

“Man, I ain’t no creepin’ around the window, peepin’ in on a motherfucker type of dude! I’m bangin’ on the door, trying to get you to party!”

“No, I remember, you were, like, tapping or scratching on the window, and we were all creeped out, and came outside...”

“Dude, are you sure you’re not thinking of Henry?”

“Henry? Wait...”

“Because right around that time Liz was getting out of the shower, and she heard a scratchy noise or leaves crunching or something, and she looked outside and thought she saw Henry peeping in...”

“Oh... Oh, wait...”

“Yeah, and Henry made up some story like, ‘Oh, I was just peeing out in the yard,’ and all the girls were mad at him, and it was like the big scandal for a week or two...”

“Oh shit…”

“Ah hah! Now you remember?”

“Yeah, I think I do...”

“Dude! You got me and Henry mixed up!”

“I think maybe I did...”

“What kind of dude do you think I am! I ain’t no sneaky peeper! I’m at the front door, yellin’, lookin’ for a party!”

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry.”

“How many people have you told I was peeping in on you and Liz? How many years have you been telling that story! God damn! Motherfucker! I’ve been besmirched!”

“Heh heh.”

“You see? You see what happens, Bob Marley? You smoke all that fucking pot, and you misremember shit! You got me peeping in the window instead of Henry! God damn, your synapses are all misfiring, man. Your shit is all mixed up and hopping the tracks.”

“Yeah. That has been known to happen.”



Q: So what do you get when you cross a skateboard, an acorn and a woefully out-of-shape fat old man?

A: 'Bout what you'd expect.

(It's not a mid-life crisis, unless you can have a mid-life crisis that starts when you're born. Also, just judging from my lifestyle and general appearance, I'm probably waaaay past the statistical midpoint.)


Bittersweet Reminiscing in the Autumn of My Life, Duh
Oh, you know, while we’re on the subject of professional wrestling, I should point out that I hate it.

That wasn’t always the situation, though. At one time I loved professional wrestling. Scientists measured my love as having an intensity of .4 Ringwalds.


Pretty strong. So strong, in fact, that I once was a professional wrestler.

And a champion.


That’s me in the middle, with the title belt. You might notice from recent photographs that in the decade since this was taken I’ve traded in a good bit of hair for a few dozen pounds of succulent ass-fat, as well as a significant dose of handsome.

Fans of well-crafted rock ‘n’ roll will also notice members of the top-notch musical group Less Than Jake in the photo. On the evening these photos were taken, Less Than Jake (a band whose music incorporates elements of punk, pop, ska, ‘80s hair metal and minimalist modern composition informed by serialism, a la Webern as filtered through Steve Reich) hosted a professional wrestling competition during their performance. Here’s the flyer:


No disqualification. My specialty.


My opponents and I sharing a quiet moment backstage, just minutes before the fight. That’s Darlin’ Dave on the left. I respect Dave a lot. He went on to produce a famous movie that exposed a dangerous plot to destroy America by some dumpy blonde communists. Dave is a good American. I respect The Great Sabikawa as well. After being bested in combat on this particular night, he took an honest look at the holes in his game and shortly reemerged as Kaiju Big Battel’s Super Akuma before retiring to spend all his time hanging around straightedge hardcore bands and actresses who specialize in adult films.


Me and Dave, totally not being gay. Not even a little.

When not competing, Dave and I used to spend hours and hours watching professional wrestling with each other, a pastime that is also totally not even a little gay, even when we’d get worked up and bust out moves on each other and roll around on the floor and Dave would tear his shirt off like a ferocious bear and we'd kiss.

We’d talk about professional wrestling too, boring the ever-living shit out of everyone around us while debating the merits of the various tan, oiled, chiseled and totally not gay performers who’d trot themselves out on our favorite television programs and grunt and sweat and grapple and pretend to fight while wearing panties.

“You know what I love about professional wrestling? Despite the kid-friendly Hulk Hogan boom of the '80s, it’ll never be absorbed by the mainstream,” I remember telling Dave. Around this time, you see, audience-friendly, defanged punk bands such as Green Day were starting to become popular. While not necessarily upset by this, I was confounded. As a more-or-less lifelong fan of punk rock, it was strange to see something I had always considered angry and strange and threatening widely accepted by well-adjusted children and teens from good homes. “It’ll never happen with professional wrestling,” I’d say. “As pop culture, wrestling is too weird, too carny, too sleazy and Southern for normal people. It’s too stupid, too violent, and therein lies its brilliance.” I’d stop there, lest some hoodlum come along and bestow upon me a master’s degree. Plus about that point Dave would hit me in the mouth with his elbow.

I was wrong, of course. As usual. Not long after, wrestling became wildly popular, mostly by ditching any pretense of sport and focusing entirely on the stupidity and violence. Without the context of competition for contrast, the stupidity and violence soon became tiresome (except for rare instances when they got the ratio right, roughly 99.9 parts violence to .01 parts stupidity). Anyway, after a few years of coasting along I started to hate it. Really, really hate it. (Well, mostly.) And it wasn’t but 10 or 11 years ago I was the Less Than Jake World Heavyweight Champion. Life is funny.

This video is funny, too, if by “funny” you mean “possibly the most idiotic and embarrassing thing on the entire Internet.” My apologies, in advance:

And afterwards?


Basking in the glory of a hard-won victory, of course.


The lovely Jana sends in a snapshot documenting her own encounter with magical artistic weiner underpants. "Why should you boys have all the fun," she asks. Well, Jana, I'll tell you. It's because while we were off having underpants hijinx we were kind of counting on you all to keep civilization from crumbling. But whatever. Good going, Jana. Now if anyone needs me, I'm going to be in the cellar, stockpiling ammo and canned goods.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?