Those of you that know the both of us, know that Johnner is insanely jealous of the fact that I am cool, while he is not. I was born in a industrious country, and he was born on a banana plantation in Ecuador. I am charming, while he is not. I am funny, while he is not, I dress well and have color combination sense, while he makes shirts out of curtains from the set of 80's sitcoms like Three's Company. He is forever challenging me to fight him, and last week I got fed up with it and took him up on his challenge. I thrashed him about, and afterwards, I held no ill will against this man. We had a beer, and discussed his inferiority complex. He was surprisingly clever and candid once he came to and picked up some teeth off the ground. I think maybe he used to box a little bit back in his adolescent days in Honduras. He kept calling me Sam, and thinking he was in a post fight interview, when in fact, he was just standing under a bright street light and talking to a hydrant. He said:
"Well, it appears as though I was somewhat presumptuous about Jokey's fighting abilities. As it turns out, he's actually quite an adept fighter—so good, in fact, that while he was snapping my head back with various lefts and rights, and blood began to fill my mouth and gush from my nose, I thought to myself, "This guy knows exactly what he's doing here in terms of fighting, whereas I clearly haven't thought this thing through."
I guess my first mistake was throwing a punch at a man who, in the interests of full disclosure, is much stronger than I initially gave him credit for. I wouldn't be surprised if he lift weights four or five times a week and is enrolled in some sort of mixed martial arts class. This would certainly explain why he seemed to expend very little energy throwing me to the ground, and why how he effortlessly put me in a hold that caused my shoulder to make a popping sound that, until that moment, I didn't know a human body could make.
By then, there was no turning back. That's not to say I didn't try. I hadn't crawled more than a few panicked feet away when he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me back into a circle of people, all of whom were looking at me as if to say, "Why would you call Jokey a fucking prick if you weren't prepared to defend yourself?" I found that to be an excellent question, one that I will explore in depth at a later date when my cranial swelling has subsided.
Anyway, he began pounding fist after fist into my helpless, highly-unprepared-to-fight-him body. My athletic fit shirt was soaked in blood and urine pretty quickly. Gotta give credit to Jokey here for putting so much force into my ribs that the blows not only caused me to gasp for air and writhe in pain, but broke my will to fight completely. I still suffer from intestinal pain, and may have to fly to Peru for some cut-rate medical attention just so I won't die. Never in my life has my spirit been so low as when Jokey started kicking me in the face with his steel-toed boots. I thought my years of Salsa Dancing training would have helped me evade the crushing hooks to the body, but i could not be more wrong.
I kept trying to defend myself now, because But you have to remember, I was still mad at Jokey. Furious, even. This is Jokey we're talking about, after all—the same Jokey whose crap I've had to put up with for far too long. Every time he makes the slightest comment, all you brother Rice guys laugh to pieces! I hate you Midwesterners! That is why my pride kicked in and I asked, through loose teeth, coughed-up blood, and what I will now admit were tears, "Hey, Jokey, is that all you got?" Well, it turns out that was not all that Jokey had. In fact, he had much, much more. You see, whereas I was ready to quit 10 seconds into the fight, Jokey somehow found another gear, and boy was it impressive.
Here's an interesting tidbit about Jokey: When he gets really mad, he does this little thing where he puts his knees on your chest so you can't move and then proceeds to elbow—not punch, elbow—your head over and over and over again. Not just the sides of your face, mind you, but the nose, the mouth, and the temples in a brisk pattern that leaves no portion un-hit for more than three seconds. I had blood dripping from my ears, which was a first for me.
So, in summation, Jokey, you are very good at fighting. So good in fact that I was not even close to achieving my initial goal of teaching you a lesson when it comes to messing with Johnner. If anything, I learned never to mess with Jokey, which is a lesson I will not soon forget." He then passed out and i remarked that those few minutes, were the most well spoken, and clear I had ever heard Johnner sound, he must have been concussed.
Jokey Jokemaker
Ass-kicker
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