12/30/2010 10:17am, #351
12/30/2010 10:30am, #352
- Join Date
- Feb 2010
12/30/2010 3:40pm, #353
- Join Date
- Dec 2010
I say Aye!
12/30/2010 5:36pm, #354
- Join Date
- May 2002
- Submission Grappling
Yea!!Now darkness comes; you don't know if the whales are coming. - Royce Gracie
KosherKickboxer has t3h r34l chi sao
In De Janerio, in blackest night,
Luta Livre flees the fight,
Behold Maeda's sacred tights;
Beware my power... Blue Lantern's light!
1/02/2011 11:54pm, #355
I am not MBG posting a new story.
1/02/2011 11:59pm, #356
1/03/2011 2:01pm, #357
- Join Date
- Oct 2007
1/20/2011 8:07pm, #358
- Join Date
- Jun 2009
I miss MBG. :(
3/31/2011 11:39pm, #359
- Join Date
- Oct 2007
- Seven Seas of Rhye
April fools, assholes!
So, the reason I'm Gaiden'ing fencing is because, well, I thought I already wrote about it. The following takes place after kung fu, but before karate.
Forever Fat Gaiden: Fencing
There I was: a young chubby nubile 16 year old man-child. I don’t really remember the why nor the how. All I remember is seeing “Fencing! Call (Phone Number)”on a dingy off-white sign that was staked in to the ground beneath an ad for “The Crooked Ferret” pub. Perhaps it was my childhood love of swashbucklery, or phallic objects, but I thought that fencing was a fantastic idea. We already had helmets, albeit they were damaged from many a drunken boxing brawl, and some practice sabers. I think they were relics from a time when my dad wanted to fence.
Really, it just made sense. My inner LARPer was all for sword fighting. My inner pragmatist convinced himself it would make me deadly with a knife (also, Bruce Lee said it helped footwork!). I converted my brother almost instantaneously, and both my parents were immediately persuaded it was a good idea. It was effortless, perhaps even meant to be. While I had been burned by my old cruel BJJ instructor, Kung Fu had failed me, this shining beacon of western martial prowess shone through the darkness of despair.
The fencing class, as it turned out, was inside of a church. I immediately became spooked; was this some kind of Jesus thing? Would we have to draw crosses in the air with our swords before each bout? Do the “Holy Ghost” maneuver (which I presume involves getting random women pregnant)? Lose, but come back to class 3 days later like nothing happened? Very much so fearing God would make use of a chance to strike my sword with a lightning bolt, I ran into the church.
My brother, upon entry, immediately took a dump. I pause here. My brother has, in his history, pooped in every holy citadel he has ever entered. Why the presence of men of the cloth make him run for the bathroom I do not know; why he must expel dark energies in temples is something I cannot answer. It is simply a fact, a known constant, that where there is a church, he will poop in it. He proved this strange natural law yet again in this church. After he had wiped to the best of his abilities, we made our way to the auditorium in which we would receive lessons.
We met the instructor; an older woman with a heavy East European accent, eyes cold and hardened through what I imagined to be many years of eating and drinking nothing but potato based products. She immediately informed me that my sabers were worthless, as was saber fencing, and that as true men we would learn the manly art of foil fencing. I sighed on the inside; this meant convincing my parents to buy equipment that only differed from what we owned in a subtle way.
She also informed us we would need some kind of special jackets. She let us make use of a loaner pair, and buckled us in. It should be mentioned that, for whatever reason, these jackets buckled in the area between your front genitals and your rear bottom end. It was uncomfortable; not in a sexual way, in that I feared getting an erection in her face because she was messing around in my swimsuit area, but in a more getting examined by a big burly doctor with flecks of steak meat in his mustache. It’s like she didn’t even care that I had a penis. She acted like hers was bigger, and I just didn’t know what to make of that.
Her instruction was short and simple. You either performed the maneuver, or you were yelled at for being a failure. You could practice perfectly the entire night, but the first mistake you made put you right back on retard row. I was the girl with daddy issues, and she was the bad boy. Every negative word she threw at me only made me crave her approval all the more.
Luckily I was adept at handling these metal rods, and I quickly outperformed the other hapless fools who were receiving their first day lessons. It wasn’t exactly rocket science; you tap the other person’s blade, then you penetrate them in the chest. How these people could not excel at such simple maneuvers was beyond me.
We then had live practices; fencing sparring, if you will. We wore weird shirts that somehow clipped to a machine and registered touches whenever it felt like it. Many times I was harpooning the person as hard as I could, yet my thrusts went ignored (which seems to be some kind of reoccurring gypsy curse in my life, but I digress). Technical difficulties were the least of my worries; I had to learn what “Right of Way” meant.
Right of way means whoever initiated the attack or takes initiative (through touching the opponents blade) gets their attack scored, even if it’s a simultaneous touch. This means if I moved forward first, initiating an attack, even if we stabbed each other at the same time, I win. I didn’t really understand this arbitrary rule, and I think the coach picked up on it. She explained to my brother and me why the rule was in place. Imagine you’re some crazy French dude getting ready to throw down because someone stole your crepes or something. Now, imagine you aren’t yelling “surrender!” as loud as you can. If you and your foe stabbed each other at the same time, you both died. No one really wins. So, real fencing masters would see their opponent initiating their attack, dodge it, and then skewer their opponent with impunity. The “Right of Way” rule was meant to teach this mindset.
It made sense. Unfortunately this logic was thrown out the window in practice. Right of way rules usually just led to 15 minutes of arguing who started, whether they touched blades and transferred initiative, marching attacks (initiating your attack, waving your sword around, making damn sure not to touch the other person’s blade, and eventually stabbing them), and other redonkulous strategies.
In sparring, my first opponent was a young chap who just had no clue what was going on. It was his first day as well, but he had no natural talent. I honestly felt bad for the guy. He was so bad I could only attribute his horrendous showing to either hating fencing, or incredibly high grade apathy.
The coach was our referee, told us to take our positions, and yelled “BEGIN!”
My first strategy was to “Disengage”; feinting to the outside, then going underneath the blade to stab him on the inside. He fell for my trick, and I gave him a good ol’ poke. The coach yelled, “Stop!”, informed us that I had scored a point and that my disengagement was very good.
I disengaged again for the second touch. The coach once again told us I had scored a point. My third touch I just extended my blade, he swung wide trying to block; unfortunately he missed entirely. The coach was irritated now; she told us that I had three points, and inquired as to whether or not my opponent was awake or asleep. He sheepishly looked down at his feet. She was cruel, but fair. I scored with him two more times by beating his blade.
The coach was flabbergasted. She yelled, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING, FATTY, WHY DO YOU NOT FIGHT BACK, HELLO, DO YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS, FATTY?”
Now it was my turn to look down at my shoes. I felt very uncomfortable, but most importantly, I felt the fear of becoming that other guy. My brittle self esteem would snap in twain in the face of the iron curtain personified. I didn’t know what I wanted out of fencing, but I most certainly knew I didn’t want to lose.
My brother was matched up against some little prick. He had a cartoon Richey Rich hair style, which already earned my ire. Smug and self satisfied he beat my brother 5-3. Luckily one of the more advanced fencers, a girl, was refereeing him rather than the coach, and my brother was given a consolation talk. He shrugged it off and continued on his merry way. He sharply contrasted my opponent, who looked like his penis was bitten off by the Kaiser.
Class was over, and by pure coincidence the fencing girl and I were removing our equipment somewhat close to each other. She introduces herself, I introduce myself, and she asks me how long I had been fencing. I told her it was my first day; she said that she hoped I liked it, and that I come back. She continued asking about non-fencing related things: what did I do for fun, did I play any other sports, and so on. I told her I about my martial arts experience (carefully edited such that I didn’t sound like a total idiot), and just continued small talk. We talked for a good thirty minutes, and eventually my brother and I went home.
When my brother and I arrived, my mom asked how we did and why we were so late. My brother did not pass up the chance to be an asshole and spared no time in telling my mom that I was “talking to a girl forever”. After the mandatory “Ooh’s” and kissy noises and grotesque air humps, my mom asked me if I asked her on a date. I informed her I had not, and that she was probably just being polite. My mom took me aside and gave me a little bit of relationship advice.
“Look, girls don’t just start conversations with anybody. If she starts talking to you out of the blue, it’s because she thinks you’re cute.”
I didn’t know what to make of that. My mom has made up things before and passed them off as truths: that eating burned food was good luck, that child molesters were always after me and would cut off my arms after they had finished gang banging me in an empty field if I didn’t check in every hour, that I was handsome, that if a girl ignored you it meant she had a crush on you, and so on. In time I found out that these were all untrue; however, if you haven’t learned by now that I’m gullible, then you haven’t been paying attention. Perhaps it was because I wanted it to be true, but for whatever reason, I accepted it as fact.
I bought her line, and giggled on the inside. A girl liked me of all people!
Over the following weeks, the fencing girl would occasionally show up, and I would chat her up. I wasn’t quite ready to risk rejection (I was usually psychologically drained due to the fencing coach’s constant pressure to be a fencing over-man), but I was slowly building report with the young lady. In fencing matches, she and I would go back and forth on who would win, and according to the coach, I was considered as being the best male student.
One day I came in, and the deepest voiced guy of all time was practicing in the corner before class. I had never seen him before, but he had some pretty good moves. The coach informed us he had returned from a vacation, and that he was the best student she had. I cringed ever so slightly; the coach’s praises were hard enough to earn, the last thing I needed was this b-hole coming in and messing up the order.
Sparring came, and with a cruel twisted grin the coach paired Deep Voice Guy and I. I won three points in a row, and I felt pretty good. This guy was about a hundred years too early to be challenging my throne.
And then he started.
It was just a twist of his wrist, and suddenly the light went off for him. He hadn’t stabbed me; I had gone to block his blade and steal initiative, so I knew he didn’t stab me. He had flicked me. By exploiting the flaccidity of the blades, he could bend his sword around mine to just tap me. I thought this was both lame and gay; show me the old school French guys killing each other with flicks. It was an affront to my idea of fencing and my pride. The coach, however, giggled in glee. “Nice flick, Deep Voice Guy! How wonderful, Deep Voice Guy!”
He flicked me two more times. I was furious. I didn’t want to lose, and certainly not to some god damn flicker. He had stolen the spot light, bruised my ego, but worst of all, offended my inner LARP-er. This wasn’t a sword fight. It was some silly spaghetti noodle fight, and I wasn’t going to have it.
He set up a fourth flick, but I forced my way in and speared his chest earning my fourth touch. Talk about that with your penis-is-probably-half-the-size-of-a-hula-hoop-deep-voice.
We started again, except he made no set ups for his flicks. Instead he began a marching attack. I tried to follow his blade, to intercept it somewhere, to steal initiative. He marched me down the entire strip, and proudly extended his arm to touch me. With body language conveying the highest level of smugness, he held it on my chest for a second longer than necessary, adding insult to injury.
The score was tied, and the next touch would win. The coach repeated this, and said “Ooh, I wonder who will win; I hope you don’t lose to this beginner, Deep Voice Guy! I will be very disappointed!” The fencer girl heard this and came up. “They’re tied?” Apparently this guy was some big deal, and the coach’s announcement drew the attention of the entire class.
The battle for the final point began, and he started with another marching attack. I managed to touch his blade and steal initiative; as I pressed after him, he backed away quickly, and I lost my advantage. We stared at each other from a distance, slowly inching closer and closer. In a flash, we both strike out.
Only one light comes on.
The coach lets out a moan of ecstasy!
Deep voice guy has prevailed.
He shakes my hand and says I did well for a beginner. What a bastard.
Fencer girl comforts me after class, saying that I did amazing. I feel pretty good; maybe while she’s in this estrogen fueled mode of pity, I can steal a date. I take a deep breath, clear my throat, and ask her if she’d like to do something sometime or something.
She looks at me as the words register. She opens her mouth to reply. The seconds turn in to months, when the door suddenly opens. A guy who I can only describe as Adonis personified walks in; glorious golden locks cascade down his perfectly chiseled jaw. Tall and lean, with not an ounce of unnecessary flesh attached to his body, he strides over gracefully to fencer girl and I. His biceps flex resplendently as he reaches for fencer girl and kisses her passionately. She turns to me and says, “This is my boyfriend.” He shakes my hand. To add insult to injury, she adds, “He fences saber.”
I just smile and nod as I walk out. This is exactly why I didn’t want to learn fencing in a church. God is an asshole with impeccable timing.
To finish the night, my parents inform me that my dad has a new job with a lower pay rate, and that they can’t afford fencing any more. I’m really fine with that. I’m ready for a new marital art anyway. Maybe something Japanese…
4/01/2011 12:14am, #360
Brother, I know you've heard this since bulldinkie one but this is good writing.
...for a beginner