My Brain Thinks I Am Some Kind of Bad Ass

Blogged in a fit of rage by Killer

I am getting spurts of violent urges recently. I don't know if it is my diet, or maybe just too much violence on T.V., but I have moments of almost uncontrollable desire to inflict bodily harm on total strangers. I have not actually performed any of these acts, but I am starting to fear for random people on the elevator. I was sitting in my favorite local watering hole and an obnoxious group of yuppies were sitting nearby. For no discernible reason my brain will start saying, "man, those dudes better not try to throw down, or I will go medieval on their asses!" Probably the most disturbing part of this is, I am not the kind of person who says "throw down" nor "go medieval". I am not even sure what is entailed in going medieval, but I am almost certain it involves a suit of armor, and I tend to chafe in polyester, there is no telling what metal pants would do to my groin.

So, this is the scenario, me sitting in a fairly crowded bar alone. Nearby is a group of rambunctious, intoxicated late twenty-something fellows all wearing business suits in various states of dishevel. They are managing to cover the gambit of stereotypical macho, jack ass behavior; talking loudly, hitting each other, and making unwanted(?) advances towards the scantily clad bar maidens. These guys have not made any outwardly obvious signs of aggression, but my brain has kicked into over time deciding what it would want me to do if they suddenly jumped up and began an old west style bar fight. Man, an old west style bar fight would be great! See, that is my subconscious talking, deep down I know that in an old west style bar fight only the good guy has a respectable outcome, and I don't think I should be cast as the good guy. I would probably be the dude who gets hit from behind with a bottle of whiskey by some chick.

I have digressed.

My brain has determined that, although there are at least six of these younger, fitter guys nearby, I can take them with the right combination of high impact kung fu and the delivery of some bad ass one liners. I will roll up my sleeves, "I am going to give you guys two tickets to the gun show." (I will take this moment to flex in some masculine manner), PUNCH!! "Ya'll are in luck, it's happy hour and that means two for one." PUNCH-PUNCH!!

Fear not faithful readers. I neither tore six new assholes for six yuppie bastards nor did I get six shiny tassel loafers shoved up my ass. The rowdy bunch realized that they had to wake up bright and early in the morning and continue exploiting children in some third world sweat shop, or perhaps just climb back into their cubicles in accounts receiving for some faceless corporation. They paid their tabs and dispatched from the bar in a very anticlimactic manner.
Thus leaving me in a post 'roid rage state. I ordered another beer from the bartender with a menacing sneer and glanced around the bar. I focused my glare on a rapidly deteriorating group of women out for a bachelorette party. They were doing shots and getting very boisterous. I could sense trouble was afoot, and I was not afraid to throw down if any of these bitches decided to step up to the plate.