RIP, You Magnificent Bastards

When I was a kid, my Mom told me that I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. She was quick to add, "As long as you work for it."


I never heard that second part. I had already skipped away at full speed, throwing shurikens at the neighbor's cats while making helicopter sounds. The training regimen of young ninja are quite demanding, it seems.





Throughout my youth and adulthood, I've aspired to be many things: a fighter pilot, a bear trap manufacturer, or even a ketchup packet sales executive. When I saw Arturo Gatti smash the shit out of someone, while in turn get the shit smashed out of him, I dreamt of being a fighter. Maybe it was the otherwise stale, sad state of boxing (even then), the cutting staccato of Jim Lampley's commentary as he called the fights, or Gatti himself: a wild pugilist with a God's heart. Watch Joey Gamache's destruction at the hands of the man they called Thunder and tell me why he had to die that way.


Lately, some of the strongest men have been brought down by crazy women when they are their most defenseless: while they were unconcious. On July 4th, three-time ProBowl NFL quarterback Steve McNair was shot four times and killed (presumably while he slept) by some crazy skank who then offed herself. On July 12, legendary fighter Arturo Gatti was found dead, apparently strangled with a purse strap. His wife, a Brazilian-national and stripper is held as the only suspect.


I found out yesterday that I will never play professional football (on any level). Try to contain your surprise; it turns out I have flat feet. Also, my vagina bleeds when it is concussed by contact over 1.3G's. Sad, really: I wanted to be Dan Marino, but Steve McNair was one of those guys who made me want to play football. Why is he dead and Doug Flutie still walking this Earth?


Shit is all backwards. Up is down, fast forward is rewind. Pause still works because I tried it out last night while watching Dance Your Ass Off. All week, I'll be doing some fetal spooning with my couch pillows. If you want to reach me, send a singing clown to my apartment. Maybe he'll tell me why Thunder and Air are fucking dead.