A Half-Grin And A Gleam In The Eye

I wanna tell y’all a story about the house-man blues.
I come home one particular Friday and had to tell the landlady I done lost my job.
She said, “That don't confront me, as long as I get my money next Friday.”
Now…next Friday come I didn't get the rent, and out the mother-fuckin’ door I went.

Wait… 

That’s not the story I wanna tell y'all.  That’s a Johnny Lee Hooker/George Thorogood song.

I got my ass kicked once.  Once...

The story I wanna tell y'all is true.  

It happened way back in olden times when I was in high school.

It is kinda like a parable or a fable, and maybe you can learn something from it and apply it to what’s going down today.

I’m pretty sure I was Senior at the time.

I was tall, but I couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty soaking wet, with a neck that looked like a crooked stack of dimes.

I was not an imposing figure.

I still ain’t.

There was this one kid…I’ll call him Scotty…an under-classman, whom I didn’t think showed the proper respect and deference due me.

He was short and stocky and somebody I thought would be easy pickings.

I was a Senior.  A member of the “King-Shit Club.”  Seniors rule!  All must bow down to us!  

Right?

This Scotty kid didn’t get the memo, and for some reason I felt that I needed to put him in his place.

Now…why I felt it was my duty to do this, I have no earthly idea.

Maybe it was youthful exuberance and the feelings of superiority and invincibility and hormones and stuff like that.

I dunno.

My old man hated a bully, and he beat it into me at an early age that he would not cotton to me being one.

I guess I was hardheaded, and had to learn some lessons first-hand.

Anyhoo...after a couple of days of thinking about Scotty and how much it pissed me off that he was mouthy and smart with a much-vaunted Senior, I decided I’d had enough and that today was “show-time.”

Between classes, I noticed Scotty in the hallway.

As we passed each other, I threw a shoulder into him, hoping to start some shit.

He spun around and said something like, “Hey mother-fucker!  What’s your problem?”

I said, “You’re my problem, asshole!”

We were about six feet apart.

I threw my handful of books to the floor and advanced on him.

He squared up.

He had kinda a sly half-grin on his face and a gleam in his eye…as if to say, “I didn’t ask for this, and I really don’t want to do this, but keep coming and I’m really gonna kinda enjoy this.”

It was unfortunate for me that at that point in my life I didn’t pay real close attention to the ways of the world and to body language and to the little hints folks give off when shit starts getting froggy.

Looking back on it now, I didn’t read Scotty very well at all.

I never saw that shit coming, and to this day I don’t even remember which fist he used.

He popped me hard right square in the mouth, and sent me reeling.

My glasses went flying and were merrily kicked down the hallway by my loving classmates.

I got my shit together in about three seconds, and then it was like the Charge of the Light Brigade.

I banzai-rushed Scotty, knocked him to the floor, got him in a headlock, and proceeded to wail on his face like it was a piñata.

It was too fucking late, because Mr. Smith, the history teacher and ex-Marine, broke it up before I exacted a satisfying amount of my (un)just vengeance.

My upper lip was splattered all over my face, and I was leaking like a mother-fucker all over the floor and myself.

I don’t remember if it was this incident or some fucking movie I’ve seen, but I seem to recall that Scotty said something like, “Yeah!  Fuck with me again asshole and you’ll taste more of your own blood!”

What a fucking dumbass I was. 

This had to be the low point…up to that time…of my pretty much unremarkable and disgraceful life.

I tried to bully a kid and got my clocked publicly cleaned for my troubles.

I was humiliated and felt ashamed of my actions and the way the West was really won.

Wait…that last part was a Mellencamp song.

Forget that part.

I went to the restroom and cleaned myself up the best I could.

My shit was fucked up, and I wanted to crawl under a fucking rock and disappear.

Mr. Smith came into the restroom and asked me if I was OK, but I don’t remember what I said to him.

I just knew I had to get the fuck out of that school as fast as I could.

We weren’t allowed to just leave the school whenever we wanted, but I said ‘fuck it’ and didn’t care.

I bolted, but I came back to school later in the day because I knew if my folks got wind of me cutting classes or ditching they’d be pissed off royally.

So there I am at school the rest of the day with my head down and trying to hide my swollen mouf.

Gawddamn that was embarrassing!  I don’t think I’ve ever felt like such a colossal dickhead since.

I’ve come close a time or two.

Maybe.

Anyhoo…I found out later on that this Scotty cat was a Junior Golden Gloves Boxing Champion or some shit like that!

Motherfuck!

Can somebody out there please pass on pertinent info like that?

This would have been great intel to have prior to my engagement with Scotty.

I would have changed my tactics, perhaps.

Or not…

I ran into Scotty on the streets of my small town a few years later.

As I walked up to him, I could tell he was a little bit wary of me.

I said, “Hey Scotty!  Remember me?  The guy whose ass you kicked at school?  Just wanted to tell you…I had that shit coming ‘cuz I was an asshole.  I ain’t mad atcha.  No hard feelings.”

I don’t remember what his reply was.

Hells bells.  I think we even shook hands.

I’ve never been the kinda guy who holds a grudge.

Now…some of you might be saying, “Zoomie!  What the fuck is this rambling bullshit?  You were a punk douche-bag when you were a kid and you got your ass kicked something proper!  Then you kissed Scotty’s ass and groveled like the big pussy you are!  So what?  How does this crap relate to what’s going down today?  Fuck you.  You suck.  Please hurry up and die already!  Asshole.”

Whatever.  Guilty, I suppose.

But…as I think about the commie-libs and their looming attempts to further regulate firearms and wipe their collective asses with the Bill of Rights and the Second Amendment, my point is this:

Don’t start nuthin,’ won’t be nuthin.’

Don’t under-estimate your opponent.

Beware of the sly half-grin and the twinkle in the eye, ‘cuz very bad shit could be heading your way.

I get the feeling that the Patriots and gun-owners of this nation are saying to themselves, “I didn’t ask for this, and I really don’t want to do this, but…as sick as it may sound…keep coming…and I’m really gonna kinda enjoy this.”

Folks seem to be resigned and resolved to what’s coming, and it don’t confront them none.

With a half-grin and a gleam in the eye…