Gut Rumbles

February 03, 2005

kung fu

I'm signing up for lessons today. I don't want to do any fighting or really pursue any skills. I just want to learn to strike some kind of ballet-looking pose, yell my ass off and scare people. You know, kinda like Mariguchi, or whatever his name was in The Karate Kid.

I'm as crippled as a broke-dicked dog, and I hope to hell I've had my last bar fight, because I know damn well that I won't win the next one, so I am resorting to outright bluff. I wanna stand on one foot, holler "TEE-YAH!," wave my hands in exotic circles and go all gimlet-eyed, as if I am on the brink of launching all sorts of destruction around me. If these people watch movies, I may get away with that act.

I hope that's enough to make the bad guys say, "Holy shit! Don't fuck with that old man. He's some kinda ninja."

If that doesn't work, I'll have to whip out a pistol, and I really don't want to do that.


Mr. Miyagi. Lordy - I loved that movie - when i was 14.. Heck, they just released the dvd set of all 4 Karate Kid movies.

Posted by: Kate on February 3, 2005 08:45 AM

makes me think of a poem from a long time ago, when I read Playboy, and I think that someone put it to music:

The hulk of a man with a beer in his hand looked like a drunk old fool
And I knew that if I hit him right I could knock him off that stool.
But everybody said , “watch out - that’s Tiger Man McCool
He’s had a whole lot of fights and he’s always comme out the winner, Yeah he’s a winner”

But I’d had myself about five too many and I walked up tall and proud
I faced his back and I faced the fact that he’d never stooped or bowed
I said “Tiger Man, you’re a pussycat” and a hush fell over the crowd.
I said “let’s me and you go outside and see who’s the winner.”

Well he gripped the bar with one big hairy hand and he braced against the wall
He slowly looked up from his beer... my god that man was tall
He said “Boy I see you’re a scrapper, so just before you fall,
I’m gonna tell you just a little what it means to be a winner.”

He said, “You see these bright white smilin’ teeth , you know they’re not my own
Mine rolled away like chicklets down a street in San Antone.
But I left that that person cursin’ nursin seven broken bones,
And he only broke three of mine and that makes me the winner.”

He said, “Behind this grin, I got a steel pin that holds my jaw in place.
A trophy of my most successful motorcycle race.
And each morning when I wake and touch this scar across my face
It reminds me of all that I got by bein’ the Winner.

Now this broken back was the dyin’ act of a handsome harry Clay.
That sticky Cincinatti nite I stole his wife away.
But that woman gets uglier and meaner every day.
But I got her, boy, and that makes me the winner.

You gotta speak loud when you challenge me ,son, ‘cause its hard for me to hear
With this twisted neck and these migraine pains and this cauliflower ear.
An if it weren’t for this glass eye of mine, I’d shed a happy tear
To think of all that you get by bein a winner.

I got arthurittic elbows, boy, I got dislocated knees
From pickin fights with thunderstorms and chargin’ into trees.
And my nose has been broke so many times I might lose it if I sneeze
And son, you say you still wanna be a winner

My knuckles are so swollen, I can hardly make a fist.
And who would have thought Old Charlie had a blade taped to his wrist,
And my blind eye’s where he cut me, and my good eye’s where he missed
Yeah, you lose a couple of things when you’re a winner.

My spine is short three vertebrae, and my hip is screwed together
My ankles warn me when there’ll be a change in the weather
Guess I kicked too many asses, and when the kicks all get together
They sure can slow you down when you’re a winner

My head is just a bunch of clumps and bumps and scars
From chargin broken bottles and buttin crowded bars.
And this hernia ----well it only proves a man can’t lift a car.
But you’re expected to do it all when you’re a winner

Got a steel plate inside my skull, underneath this store-bought hair
My pelvis is aluminum from takin ladies’dares.
And if you had a magnet son, you could lift me off my chair
I’m a man of steel, but I’m rustin’- what a winner

I’ve got perforated ulcer, I got strictures and incisions.
My prostrate barely holdin’ up from those all night collisions
And I’ll have to fight off two of you because of my double vision.
You’re lookin’ sick, son- that aint right for a winner

Winnin’ that last stock-car race cost me my favorite toes.
Winnin’ that factory foreman’s job, it browned and broke my nose.
And these hemmorhoids come from winnin’ all them goddamn rodeos
Sometimes it is a pain in the butt to be a winner

In the war I got a purple heart , that’s why my nerves are gone.
And I ruined my liver in drinkin contests, which I always won.
And I should be retired now, rockin’ on my lawn,
But you losers keep comin’ on- makin me a winner.

When I walk, you here my pelvis rattle , creak and crack
From my great olympic hump-off with that nymphomaniac
After which I spent the next six weeks in traction on my back
While she walked away, Smilin’, leavin’ me the winner.

Now as I kick in your family jewels, you’ll notice my left leg drags,
And this jacket’s kinda padded where my right shoulder sags.
And ther’s a special part of me I keep in this paper bag,
And I’ll show it to you if you want to see all of a winner

So I never play the violin and I seldom dance or ski
They say there never was a hero brave and strong as me
But when you ‘re this year’s hero ,son, you’re next year’s used to be.
And that’s the facts of life- when you’re a winner.

Now you remind me a lot of my younger days with your knuckles clenchin’ white
But, boy , I’m gonna sit right here and sip this beer all night
And if there ‘s somethin’ you’ve gotta prove by winnin’ some silly fight
Well, OK, I quit, I lose, son. You’re the winner”

So I stumbled from that barroom not so tall and not so proud
And behind me I could hear the hoots of laughter from the crowd
But my eyes still see and my nose still works and my teeth are still in my mouth
And y’know.... I guess that makes me ..... a winner

Posted by: warren on February 3, 2005 08:56 AM

True story.
Some hell of a LOT of years ago, the bass player for The Amazing Rhythm Aces thought he’d get a job between gigs. It was a night job in one of these services in Memphis that specializes in embalming people for the funeral home and then sending them to whoever wanted them. He had the night shift. I stopped by to visit him one night to get him a little weed stoned. He took me into the back room….said he had something to show me.

On the table was some poor black shmuck with several holes in his chest. Well, that was pretty shocking of course, but the funny part came when Jeff held up the guys arms. Extending all the way from his fingertips to his elbows on the “leading edege” of both arms were numerous holes. Turned out the guys last words were spoken to a east Memphis bartender….holding a twin pipe 12 gauge and they were “Don’t fuck with me! I know Karate!”

Jeff and I laughed our asses off and fired up the doob right then and there in Gods waiting room. Seems a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, so study hard Robbo. I’d like to continue reading your blog for a little while longer. Wouldn’t want the last words you hear on this orb to be “Fuck you and get off of my earth!”

Posted by: James Hooker on February 3, 2005 09:04 AM


Try Tai Chi. Once you've mastered the kata, you can walk around the park real slow, doing these strange'll freak your enemies out.

Plus, it's perfect for old, crippled bastids such as yourself...


Posted by: Darth Monkeybone on February 3, 2005 09:06 AM

Years ago, I did some road gigs with Bobby Bare. He did "The Winner" on stage every night. I'm not 100% sure he wrote it and for some reason Shel Sylversteen comes to mind as a possible writer of this epic.

Posted by: James Hooker on February 3, 2005 09:19 AM


As a guy that's done a bit of martial arts study and spent some time in the Far East, I gotta go with Darth... at your age, Tai Chi will be the best. If you must go with something more physical, look into Aikido; which is like full-contact Tai Chi. It's a purely defensive and reactionary art, so no TEE-YAHing required. It's also *designed* to give smaller, physically-weaker people an advantage over the big brutes. I weigh around 240 and always relied on my muscles for defense. In my old club, there were a couple of women who couldn't have weighed more than 98 pounds apiece. EIther one of them could throw me across the room or bring me to my knees without hardly breaking a sweat.

Posted by: Seppo on February 3, 2005 11:16 AM

Gosh, Rob...I didn't know you OWNED a gun...

Posted by: zonker on February 3, 2005 12:47 PM

Then again, Acidman, if you want to incorporate your firearm into your self-defense agenda, Krav Maga is another alternative. It is the discipline used by the Israeli Defense Forces.

Posted by: Darth Monkeybone on February 3, 2005 12:53 PM


The key to personal defense is the ability to talk yourself out of trouble faster then you can talk yourself into it...Hell with your golden tongue that shouldn't be a problem...If all else fails act retarded...There's no honor in beating up a retard.....

Posted by: JimA on February 3, 2005 01:21 PM

Hey! I can DO retarded!

Posted by: Acidman on February 3, 2005 02:19 PM

There's no honor in beating up a retard..... if I monkey-stomp Michael Moore, it's not considered honorable? dammit.

Posted by: Darth Monkeybone on February 3, 2005 04:24 PM


He said honor, not satisfaction. ;)

Posted by: Scott on February 3, 2005 05:12 PM

I should add, my comment applies specifically to Mr. Moore, not intellectually challenged people in general.

In general, I agree there's no honor...or much of anything positive there.

Posted by: Scott on February 3, 2005 05:14 PM

I know a 62 yr. old woman Karate black belt.
I carry on intellectual conversations with her.
Sometimes I lose the arguments. Gracefully.

Oh Yeah, don't forget Jim Croce's "Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown".
There's a good life lesson in there.

Posted by: Dan Pursel on February 3, 2005 09:45 PM

I wanna stand on one foot, holler "TEE-YAH!," wave my hands in exotic circles and go all gimlet-eyed, as if I am on the brink of launching all sorts of destruction around me.

Where I come from, that's a surefire way to end up wearing the debris of a beer bottle in your scalp. Everybody assumes that a guy doing that crap is just bluffing, because somewhere between 100% and all of the time, he is.

Real martial-arts guys don't put on a pre-fight performance.

Posted by: McGehee on February 4, 2005 11:34 AM
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