4/17/2010 5:46am, #231
All I'm going to say is \o/Curiosity killed the cat. But damn it had a blast.
8/31/2010 2:54pm, #232
- Join Date
- Jun 2009
8/31/2010 3:19pm, #233
- Join Date
- Jan 2006
- Sherwood, OR
8/31/2010 4:04pm, #234
- Join Date
- Aug 2008
He replied to a pm a few months ago when I found online a good picture of the U from kuk sool won. If he's done law school or medical school, or enrolled in either, its pretty plausible that he doesn't have time for message boards. Especially if he's working now.
8/31/2010 6:59pm, #235
- Join Date
- Dec 2007
- Richmond, VA
8/31/2010 7:56pm, #236
I'm still waiting for MrBadGuy to relate his sexual misadventures involving an expired jar of Baconnaise, a 70-year-old female Taijiquan instructor with a profound foot fetish, and a thoroughly confused Yves Edwards.
That was... well, let's just say that Yves and MBG will never look at a Whataburger the same way again.
9/17/2010 12:21pm, #237
MrBadGuy doesn't post here anymore? MRBADGUY DOESN'T POST HERE ANYMORE!? Jesus, you leave for a few months and the whole place goes to hell.
The following post is, while technically the latest temporal post, not the correct chronological follow up from my last misadventure. If my stories should have taught you anything, I make mistakes. Many mistakes. Some of these mistakes are as innocent as thinking I can turn drunken boxing into a real fighting style, and some are more sinister, like that one night I spent with your mom. At any rate, there are some parts of my life I just forgot to write in. For this reason, I'm taking a break from the current storyline to fill in some side story gaps (hence the term "Gaiden").
Without further delay, MrBadGuy is proud to present...
Forever Fat Gaiden: Wrestling
Leave now from this year of our Lord 2010, and travel back to that of 1998. Supposedly the year of the apocalypse (I assume because it is the product of 666 and 3, I don't really know, ask some Mormons or something), it was a year of relatively little significance. With the exception, of course, of my indoctrination into wrestling and the resulting woes.
My wrestling career lasted merely 4 meets; there were two meets a week, meaning I was a butt poking, tights wearing, butt-cheek taping together wrestler for half of a month. These two weeks of wrestling compose two out of the three most regretted moments of my life, but more on that later.
I had just ended my sordid love affair with Kuk Sool Won, and I was on the rebound. Taking note of this, my dad tried to set me up with wrestling, his friend from days long past. I agreed to it on the condition that my dad bought me Tekken 3 (one of the best negotiations I've ever done, as Tekken 3 ushered in the greatest video game character of all time, Bryan Fury).
We bought all of the required equipment for wrestling: shoes, tights, a mouthguard, and a cup. The lattermost perplexed me; why the hell didn't it have a butt? Why would anyone make some form of body wear that tethered itself around the leg-crease of your bottom with thin straps, yet omit the entire back end of the device? To this day my question goes unanswered. I begrudgingly wore this cup, which was uncomfortable and kept sliding off of my tiny 9 year old genetalia (as compared to my current tiny 21 year old genetalia, which by and large [see what I did there] are why I go cupless). Seeking to test the durability of my cup, I wore it over my shorts and asked a friend to kick me in the beanbag. He willingly complied and after I got done staring in horror at the bruises surrounding my groin, I seriously began to question the versatility of cups in general. I digress.
Uniformed in my wrestling attire, we went to the first ever class. Sporting my post Kuk Sool Won physique (read as: chubby), I was on par with the large majority of the class. Kids in wrestling, back in my day at least, were little fatty fatskins. The objective of wrestling (lying on the other guy until they give up) appealed to our inner laziness and made noble use of our twinkie encrusted bellies. I am unsure where in the timeline these chubby boys turn into the hulking golems of never-ending strength that highschool wrestlers are, but that is outside the scope of this story.
The first day was just practicing pinning. The instruction was little more than "Okay, just make him lay on his back and you win". What this translated to was one guy would start on his hands and knees, and from what I surmised, the objective was to grind your cup on their body or skull base until they fell on their back, after which you should lay on them without delay.
I was a much better pinner than pinee. I could thrust my hips into the ugliest of faces without hesitation, and more often than not this meant they ended up on their back. I would awkwardly climb atop them for a second or two, and now finished, a feeling of contentment and victory would wash over me. The other party, perturbed that they haven't gotten to have their turn, would sulk off.
This was the way of things, seeing as no one knew how to prevent the pin other than try your damndest to endure the crushing penetration. After your orbital bones had taken all the pointy cup abuse they could, you just fell on your back and gave up.
The second meet taught us the elements of the shoot. We shot back and forth, we shot on each other, hell, we shot everywhere. Afterwards I was shooting at home multiple times throughout the day. I loved shooting. At the end of class we yet again did the pinning drill.
The third meet begins on a far more sinister note. That day we learned the great nullifier, the beginning of the end, the sprawl. I liked wrestling much better without the sprawl. The sprawl signaled the beginning of stand up training. Everyone would stand around in a circle, and two young boys would meet in the middle (according to Coach, "men" would exit). In theory, they would then begin to shoot and sprawl on each other until someone was pinned. In practice the sprawl rendered our simple rudimentary offenses useless, and turned it into about 4 minutes of circling. The exceptions were when there was a gross mismatching of strength or age. Older boys could continue to shoot through the sprawl, and their usually larger weight meant an inescapable pin.
When it was my turn to be in the middle, I got paired up with a hefty 12 year old. Very unfair, I thought; he was much stronger, and I knew if he shot I would be boned beyond all measure. My sprawl could stop some, but not him. On the other hand, I knew the consequence of shooting; the unforgiving pelvic thrust of the sprawl. Faced with these options, I began to circle him.
He seemed equally spooked; neither of us wanted to shoot. I didn't want to be another 4 minute circler, or look afraid, so I shot as hard as I could. With a blinding speed I flew in below him, and secured hold of his legs. Victory was a mere moment away.
That was before he crashed down on me like a trashbag full of lard on a baby kitten. I collapsed on my face, and felt the sting of youth as everyone erupted into laughter. To add injury to the insult to my injury, my opponent followed my fall from glory, and collapsed on my head.
Feeling shamed, and like my brains were squished out of my ears, I resolved to myself not to get pinned. I may have failed and looked like an idiot, but if I could withstand his hip thrusting barrage, I would surely regain some shred of dignity. I held in the turtle position as hard as I could; I got as low and compact as possible, and would not let him move me. I expected some form of congratulations from my cohorts, acknowledging my might for withstanding the skullfucking of a lifetime. I was met with silence as the next hapless bastards took the middle.
After class I did something almost unspeakable. I had told you, faithful reader, that this period of wrestling housed 2 out of 3 of the most shameful, regretted moments of my life. This is really saying something if you think about it. I've done countless stupid things in addition to my martial art stupid things, like wearing a diaper in public, or jumping into a sewer run off thinking it to be a harmless river of frolic and delight. Yet I feel no regret; each event was a very important formative piece of my life, without which I would lack the perspective to appreciate and navigate my current trials and tribulations. But there are a few moments that are so guilt ridden that I would do anything to turn back the clock and undo. One was the mistakened night with your mom mentioned at the beginning of this article. The second is this.
In 1998 Pokemon was reaching the height of popularity. By virtue of existing one was indoctrinated into the cult of catch'emall, and as a 9 year old boy I was no exception. Preying on this unrequited love of Pokemans, burger king released a line of pokemon toys in their kiddie meals. Despite my need for such a thing, my parents insisted on going to Whataburger. For those of you unfamiliar with whataburger, they have the shittiest toys in the history of time. I think one time I got a plastic dude holding a flag that had the whataburger symbol. What the **** is someone supposed to do with that? In what fever fueled imagination can one find a heroic use for such a toy? I imagine such toys were issued by parents who wished nothing more than for their children to suffer, suffer and toil while advertising Whataburger. Their toys were an insult to children and a crime against adolescence, especially so with the release of pokemon toys at burger king.
One such toy was Golem, one of my favorite pokemon. Essentially a rock with arms and legs and a head, Golem exudes the element of bad-ass-atanium (perhaps this is his actual elemental composition?). He has a look on his face that says "**** you I'm Golem", and his arms are always raised menacingly above his head. I've included a picture for reference.
Golem, as seen above, probably spouting obscenities at women
The fabled Golem toy from Burger King was sitting out in plain sight amongst everyone's gear bags. I saw it as I was getting a drink of water and broke out in a cold sweat. No one was looking. I mean, I know stealing is wrong, but this kid's parents go to burger king. He probably has a whole closet full of bad ass toys, while I have a god damn stickerbook from whataburger sitting in the trashcan. Golem is my favorite, too. This kid probably doesn't even like Golem. He can't appreciate Golem like I can. I need this. It rightfully belongs to me. My precious Golem.
With that, I deposited my precious into my gym bag and finished up the meet. I gleefully left that day, Golem in tow. I dared not bring it out at home for fear of discovery. My parents had an encyclopedic knowledge of every toy I had (probably because everything I owned had the god damn whataburger logo on it), and if they knew I had stolen a toy, I would be beat. Or even worse, I'd have to give Golem back.
Golem accompanied me on my fourth and final trip to wrestling. The guilt, and the paranoia, was getting to me. If my parents found out, I was in serious ****. Why did I do this? The shame and guilt of being a dirty thief weighed heavily on my 9 year old conscience. Did I have no self discipline? My parents had always said it started with stealing, and then it ended up with murder and drug addiction. Would I become a crack addict as was foretold? I was truly an abominable human being. Why could I not exhibit self control? Disgusted with myself and my choices, I walked on to the mat.
That day we learned the crossface. The crossface was the final cog in the hell engine that destroyed any fun I had in wrestling. Shooting meant getting sprawled on, and now, getting sprawled on meant getting crossfaced.
To us, getting crossfaced meant having the other guy perform amateur dental work with his forearm. What this was meant to accomplish was beyond any of us, but combined with the genital grinding, it meant Operation Turtle wasn't viable any longer. When we circled up for sparring, I was filled with anxiety and dread. This is the third, and arguably the most regretted point in my life.
By the providence of our lord God (or possibly the Dark Lord) I was paired with the smallest person in the class: a skinny, sickly 8 year old kid. He was very extremely pale. I wondered if his skin had ever felt the radiant glow of the mighty sun. His arms and legs were gangly and incredibly skinny. It looked like he was half my weight. I said a word of thanks to whatever deity provided this opportunity for me, and also one of sorrow for my opponent, because I was really going to take it to him the way only merciless children can.
We circled, and he made the fatal mistake of shooting in. With confidence I sprawled, and began to crossface. This elicited no reaction, so I cross faced so much harder. He would not fall, so I cross face with all the power my body can muster. He lets out some kind of weird, possibly ghostly wail. While I'm pondering the correlational connection between his paleness and his wail, the coach yells at us to stop. It turns out my crossface was misplaced; rather than along the jaw my forearm was along his trachea. He coughs and sputters as precious air returns to him. This recovered wind only serves as fuel for sobbing. He starts crying and clutching his neck. I feel like a total asshole. To make things worse, the coach yells at him to get up and "act tough". Failing to do so, the coach tells him to go sit down on the sidelines.
I go to get some water, and sit down next to him. From the bottom of my heart I offer my apology. Surely he would rail on me now, but I deserved it. I know if someone accidentally choked me, I'd at least say something crappy to them. I waited for what was sure to follow, ready to take my punishment.
"It's ok. I'm alright."
The sorrow in his voice spoke otherwise. He had been humiliated and cried in front of the entire group, and the coach drove that stake further in. He had reached a level of hopeless bleak despair he could not escape. His parents were most likely going to force him to continue to wrestle there, were he would have to face those he was shamed in front of day in, day out, while being figuratively (and possibly literally) raped every single time. To make things worse, I was the grand architect of his suffering. My overzealous crossfacing and drive to win had caused this boy physical suffering, but even worse, mental anguish. The absolute worst part was his acceptance of these things. Not even a word of anger, he had resigned to this. I had sapped his entire well of self confidence, and now he had some kind of wrestling based Stockholm Syndrome. I was denied the absolvance I expected to receive, and felt guiltier than I had moments prior.
At that moment I knew I would never return to wrestling. The meet ended, and as I put my mouthpiece away I tossed Golem back onto the floor from which he came. One such as I deserved no items of pleasure.
It took a few weeks before I stopped thinking about this guy daily. The guilt I felt was extraordinary, and my chest still tightens thinking about him now. The only ray of sunshine in this dark cumulonimbus of despair is that, a few weeks later, karma kicked in.
I had done that kid a wrong, yes, but I apologized and felt super shitty about it. Futhermore I returned the stolen Golem. These two good acts, of penance and the returning of the Golem, are what I attribute to my good luck following the inner-cataclysm brought about by my bad choices.
On a trip to Mississippi, my parents stopped for food. The closest stop for edible food, as fate would have it, was at a Burger King. My parents ordered me a kids meal.
I received a Golem.
Next time, Forever Fat Gaiden: Fencing!
9/17/2010 12:37pm, #238
- Join Date
- Nov 2007
I approve of this suffering.
Compared to my own elementary-school experiences with wrestling, you were taught high art. I don't remember them teaching me a single thing. It was just "okay, go wrestle." But at least that means we were never taught how to grind each other with our cups.
9/17/2010 2:49pm, #239
- Join Date
- Sep 2009
- Bentonville, Ar
That was beautiful *Sniff
9/17/2010 6:24pm, #240
Maybe it's been too long since I got a hit of the goodness, but that might just be the best FF entry you've written to date.*
*We have very similar styles of childhood guilt.