Don’t get me wrong, flowerpot, but sometimes I really just wanna give someone a fist sandwich.
Ya know what I mean?
A knuckle burger!
A big jaw of coleslaw!
A dental visit on rye!
I gots General Patton’s best wishes – an’ I knows how ta use ‘em!
Never trust a pacifist, I say.
Born liars, fiends of the very worst kind, suppressing their natural impulse – that halcyon moment when Popeye finally hits back, exclaiming “I cants takes it no more. Olives, I cants takes it no more!”
Gandhi, Buddha, Jesus Christ, John Lennon – Mickey Mouse – charismatic each and all – stifling the action, resting on a laurel of thorns.
Superman, withholding the lethal blow.
Einstein, suffering his relatives.
Thoreau, skating on a pond.
Honest! I gots no beef with dese guys!
It’s just a good punch is what I really crave.
Five ready ones – right in da mug, da kisser, da Mona Lisa – I can takes it and I keeps on smilin’ – as good as I can dish it out – mebbe better.
But, don’t get me wrong, I’m no brute – it’s more the journey before the strike I savor, the primal ride of that unleashed energy – the burst, the release, the arc of the impending fist – a sheet of muscles lurching forward across the back, tiny fissures filling with oxygen – Captain Marvel’s ham hock meeting Captain Nazi’s bread basket.
Take that picnic, ya dirty rat!
Sure, I’ll sock an imaginary dimple, erase a penciled grin – but I don’t do windows.
Or walls.
Or tabletop cities.
I’m no Godzilla, no thing-breaker – I don’t relish violence – but I will stand the match of my own inherent fury – my hands gloves of bone, my eyes dead as stone, a tilt to my modest jaw – the imperfect monster – dressed for his own funeral.
Beat and pound and batter and blow, dese are the words I know!
Chowder-maker.
Nose job.
Plug the Puss.
The nursemaid’s grenade!
A dint. A slog. A smack.
A slug. A clip. A clout.
Blammo!
Kapow!
Whack. Thwack.
Coffin crack.
And dere’s more where dat came from!
