Anyways, my Mom used to leave me in the car from time to time if she had to just make a quick stop in and out of the store, a habit which turned into my own personal choice. I enjoy music and talk radio much more than I enjoy Giant Eagle, so sometimes I choose to hang out in the car while she shops.
After a certain point in the car, my brain ceases to function like that of a normal person. Perhaps it is the sun beating down on the windshield. Maybe it is because of the long stretches of isolation. Whatever the cause, after about 15 seconds in the car, a change comes over me.
I become a ninja.
Yes, the primal urge to become a crime fighting vigilante, whose powerful attacks are always one step ahead of wrongdoers is too much for me. Nearly every person walking by the car becomes a potential figure in my crime fighting fantasies.
Not only do I save little old ladies in my head, but I create elaborate storylines in which an attempted mugging is simply a way of hiding the fact that Russian terrorists have taken over the Giant Eagle, and are attempting to blow it up. And yes, I have a lifetime undefeated streak.
But if something actually happened...
So that's the difference in how I want to see myself, and how I actually am. In my head, I'm John McClane from Die Hard, with a bit of Sherlock Holmes thrown in for good measure. In real life, I'm McLovin from Superbad.
In keeping with the theme of this post, I figure I should offer up a story of a time in which my badassedness was on display for all to see.
Sophomore or Junior year of high school, one of us saw the movie Fight Club, and decided "hey, let's have a fight club in George's basement!". I know that the first rule of fight club is to not talk about fight club, but that movie kind of sucked, so I'm talking about it.
On a side note, what is the big deal about that movie? It's shitty.
Anyways, I decided to join my friends in this foolproof endeavor, and was told that I'd be fighting Ryan Stockton, a worthy adversary. I put on the sparring gloves and headgear, because when you have untrained teenage kids fighting in a basement and telling people to "keep it down so that George's Mom doesn't hear us," safety is obviously the first priority.
We tapped gloves, as gentlemen should, and got ready to do battle. Now, I had never worn boxing-style headgear before, and as I learned, it eliminates your peripheral vision. I didn't see it happen, but almost immediately, something heavy slammed into the side of my jaw, which I ascertained was Ryan's hand. I shook it off, because I'm a badass, and waited for him to do it again. He did, and I ducked it and took his legs out. I then prepared to beat the shit out of him (because we're friends, and that's what fight club is for), but was told to stop because his headgear came off (safety first!).
We got up, were told to fight on, and I decided that my next point of attack would be to kick him. He also decided that I looked infinitely kickable. Only, he decided this a split second before I did, so when he connected on his kick, my leg was in mid-air, attempting to kick him back.
What should have caught me in the side ended up slamming into my testicles.
The fight, my hopes of being a baritone, and the chances of me being a father ended in one swift motion of foot on balls.
The world turned black, and all that existed was pain. And laughter. My friends are assholes.
To wrap this all up, it's on film, because George was kind enough to tape it. At the moment immediately following testicular impact, there is a shot of me on my knees, mouth open in shock. In the background of the shot is Jared Englert, who for some reason was only wearing compression shorts, with his hands on his hips and a very satisfied look on his face. Due to the proximity of the two of us and pained look on my face, it appears as if I'm doing a sexual act, provided you pause the tape at that exact moment.
So if you're in high school and reading this, I implore you not to start a fight club. Do it for the children. Your future children.
And more specifically, your balls.