Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything (12 page)

Also of interest and known to be true regarding Eastwood: Clint has had it up to here with your bullshit, Clint has no time for your nonsense, and Clint didn’t come here to listen to that garbage.

Another warning—don’t attempt to attack or even bother Eastwood if he’s mid-chore. This will anger him further, to a degree where victory is almost impossible. If he’s mowing his lawn; plowing a field; milking a cow; torturing a suspect; examining evidence; drinking a tall glass of milk and somehow managing to make it look cool in the process; pinning a medal … on himself; tinkering with an engine while wiping his brow with a greasy rag; chomping on and preparing to light a cigar; tossing a man out of swinging, saloon-style doors; planting crops; tilling anything; riding a bull; breaking a horse; grabbing a comic book you’ve been reading then crumpling it up and throwing it down in disgust; bartering with some savages for the release of a kidnapped girl’s life; napping; teaching punks a lesson; showing someone “what for”; winning a push-up contest; putting on a bolo tie; trading elk horns and a bearskin for some hard tack and beef jerky; burying a gunslinging partner from his old gang, skinning a snake; cooking a snake over an open fire; or finally, resting after having just eaten a snake, then don’t do it.

That’s about the sum of my knowledge on the super-powered being known here on Earth as Clint Eastwood. As the question mark on the end of the title on this entry indicates, I am unsure of how to beat up Eastwood. Rather than lie and bluff my way through, I thought I’d come clean. I’ve heard rumors of men trying to trick Clint into an interdimensional transporter, in the hopes of teleporting Clint to a far-off moon where he is incapable of reaching you with his demonic squint, but the rumors are unsubstantiated … Good luck, pardner.

HOW TO BEAT UP ANDY RICHTER

(with a rebuttal from Andy)

Andy Richter is a writer, actor, comedian, announcer, sidekick, and perfectly honed killing machine. Is that last part true? There’s only one way to find out. (Well, I guess you could ask him. So I guess there’s two ways. Plus, he could have a diary, and he could’ve written about it in there…)

At first glance, Andy Richter might seem to be a “regular guy.” That is not the case. He may seem of normal proportions but it is only in comparison to the enormous Conan O’Brien. Richter is actually well over six feet tall and built like a linebacker. He’s a big dude, with the requisite confidence and belief in oneself that all big men are given. I don’t know if he was a bully growing up, but he could have been, if he’d applied himself.

Richter is a physical force. I once saw him smash through a wall, punch a crocodile, and put on a coat made of actual live puppies! A coat fit for a barbarian king! Although … Since he was on the set of a television show when these feats were accomplished, there is a slight chance that such events were “staged” for the benefit of the program. However, that seems a bit farfetched in my opinion and to assume as such would be to underestimate a worthy foe.

As those who’ve seen him would attest, Andy Richter is also hilarious. That might not seem to have any bearing on fighting the man, but it does. Comedy requires a quick wit and perfect timing. That quick wit, when not being used to make jokes, can be channeled into other pursuits. Areas like beating you into unconsciousness. His comedic timing comes into play as well. Timing a joke is no different than timing an overhand right to land on the point of someone’s chin just as they drop their hand to jab. The similarities don’t end there. If viewed by a bystander, both these actions—the joke and you getting punched in the head—would produce laughter.

So, how then to take out this crafty foe? Simple. Make sure that he’s making jokes during the fight, thus sapping him of his ability to use that part of his brain for fighting. There are a few ways to go about this. As a performer, he no doubt has a huge ego. You could just insult him, and tell him he’s not funny, to goad him into proving his comedic ability to you. But, this could backfire. He could get so angry that he forgets about jokes and just charges you and starts throwing bombs …

A subtler approach is to make a few jokes yourself. That would lead to him to mocking your jokes, and to do that he’d have to divert energy from fighting. (If you’re wondering why both of you making jokes and diverting resources wouldn’t cancel out the maneuver, the answer is: Your jokes are terrible and don’t take any brain power to construct. Part of you always knew this.)

Here’s another detail. Despite having spent some time as a sidekick on one of the funniest shows of all-time, Andy never developed a proper martial arts side kick. Maybe he thought it was too predictable, and thus, easily defendable in battle. Maybe he thought it a way too hokey and borderline embarrassing. Perhaps he feared the comedic potential, if word got out that a famous TV sidekick had honed an actual, lethal side kick, and so he decided against it … Use this knowledge, position yourself directly in front of his side-kick strike zone, and throw punches without fear of getting kicked. He’ll be unable to attack you as long as you stay in that zone. Though eventually he’ll readjust and try hitting you with a punch.

The fact that you’re such an easy target (for jokes and face-punches)—and that the people watching are now laughing at you and your public roasting—will spur him on, causing him to unleash more and more jokes at your expense. This will divert more and more energy that he could be using for fighting. Eventually, after a barrage of clever, wiseass comments that may hurt your feelings, that area will have been depleted, and Andy will have to divert other vital resources to his comedy-making centers. Vital resources like breathing, blood circulation, and higher-brain functions.

Andy will slow down. His once crisp punches will be flailing and ineffectual. His once razor-sharp jokes will have become broad, pun-based clunkers. You’ll be able to see both coming from a mile away. Finish him off with a side kick or two for good measure. If any of the people watching
groans
at the stupid fight pun of hitting him with a side kick, just ignore it. Who did they ever beat up? Not fucking Andy Richter, I know that much!

ANDY RICHTER’S REBUTTAL

I have met Kevin Seccia a number of times. I know this from an e-mail in which Kevin Seccia says so. I tend to be very self-involved, so my not remembering him is probably not his fault. Probably. I have also heard from a number of reliable sources that Kevin Seccia is an improbable mix of the blandest aspects of at least two lamentable cultures, so the possibility exists that his insignificance isn’t his fault, or my fault, but is instead God’s fault. This is why I am thoroughly unimpressed by his strategies for defeating me in combat.

I have the feeling that Kevin Seccia’s worst enemy in his attempt to beat me is his inescapable ability to bore me into forgetting that we are locked in battle. I have a feeling that mid-fight I might check my e-mail, start organizing a closet, or begin my rigorous regimen of ablutions. And once my ablutions start, there’s no stopping them. So maybe his worst enemy is actually his greatest strength, as it occurs to me now that if I should wander away and forget that we are battling, he could claim it as a victory. Still, though, I remain unconcerned, as this supposed “victory” would be much like the insects under my house electing a new bug mayor; what is momentous in their little world is utterly irrelevant in mine.

Furthermore, the above scenario is one that Kevin Seccia should probably hope for, as it would most certainly not be in his best interest to tap into the pressurized white-hot cauldron of rage that lies deep inside me. You see, living your entire life putting the needs of others first, embracing a wholly codependent way of doing business, always supporting, supporting, supporting—is usually a recipe for psychological/emotional disaster. But through a combination of antidepressants (prescribed and otherwise) and a positively Bill-Clinton-esque ability to compartmentalize, I manage to hold it together. Many mountains are sleeping volcanoes, Kevin Seccia, and you’d be unwise to tap into my lava.

—Andy Richter

3/25/10

HOW TO BEAT UP BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN

Bruce Springsteen is a beloved music icon. He’s also a beloved New Jersey icon. Guess which of those plaudits is the more prestigious? It’s the one he doesn’t also share with Axe body spray, ’roid rage, pork roll, and “just hanging out” rape …

Beating up Bruce Springsteen is no walk in the (Asbury) park. (However, the entry, “How to Beat Up a Park Bench Hobo,” is like 60 percent walking in the park, so if that’s your thing, have at it.) Legend has it that Bruce cannot be harmed through mortal means while standing on New Jersey ground, nor within forty-eight hours of having drunk of her life-affirming waters.

According to my sources, back in ’78 a guy called “Vin” (as that was his name) got past Bruce’s tour manager and two bodyguards, and was able to swipe at Bruce with a switchblade before anyone even noticed him. The blade shattered on impact, leaving nary a mark on Bruce. Bruce smirked, picked Vin up by the throat, and then hurled him through a plate glass window. The location? The Americana Hotel in Vernon, New Jersey,… You know what they call ole Vin these days? Well, they still call him Vin, but they wince while doing so, because he’s all fucked up from the glass.

The legend goes on to say that Bruce carries a bit of New Jersey soil in his right jean pocket. Don’t worry about it, though. My sources tell me that it’s for nostalgia purposes only and that he retains NONE of his New Jersey-based power set with the soil. Not even while contentedly running his fingers through it while murmuring incomprehensibly. It seems like this could be a small edge for you. If you were to come upon him as he was running his fingers through the soil, in the pocket, he would therefore only have one hand unencumbered and ready to go. Those jeans he works with are tight, man. By the time he yanks that hand free to defend himself it’ll be “Goodnight Irene,” which, it occurs to me suddenly, sounds like it should be a Bruce Springsteen song.

So … New Jersey is a no-go for a strike zone. You’re going to have to goad him into leaving the state. Or, you could just wait for him to go on tour, at which point he’ll leave happily.

Ironically, the key to defeating Bruce Springsteen lies in the lyrics of one of his classic songs. Specifically “Glory Days.” The line is: “reminisce about the glory days.” Now that’s no big deal for you or me. It’s fun for us, no bother at all. We each have a handful of beloved memories from our glory days that we can call up and enjoy. Winning the big game by making the ball go far, running into the part where the points are made, ball in hand. Or perhaps you were a person playing with a musical instrument while the other people touched the ball, and that’s your memory … It’s no big deal for us.

Not so for Bruce Springsteen.

Bruce reminiscing about the glory days must be downright exhausting. You ask him to reminisce and focus on his glory days and he’ll flash back over years and years of memories. His “glory days” begin with the morning of that very day on which you’re speaking with him and goes back through every decade since he was seventeen. One wildly successful, critically acclaimed, beloved by all, period of time after another. You’ll ask: “Hey Bruce, remember that one special summer?” He’ll say: “Which one? You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve experienced a ridiculous level of success few alive can even comprehend. To which mind-blowingly awesome, world-touring, jetsetting, culturally relevant summer do you mean?”

He could say that, OR, he could attempt to parse those experiences himself, curious as to which moment was in fact, the most glorious.

If I’m right, the moment you ask him about his GDs he’ll pause, then go into a happy trance, eyes closed, smiling ear-to-ear, with head bobbing along with the intoxicating rush of memories. Wonderful, haze-inducing memories which will block you and the rest of the world out …

Strike now! Batter him from pillar to post. You know how in dreams in movies people incorporate whatever is waking them up in the real world, into the end of their dream? That should happen here as well. He’ll be dreaming about being onstage in Jersey, knee-deep in gravy fries while topless, salt-of-the-earth women hand him Grammys—and then suddenly your real-world fists will invade the dream. I don’t know if your fists will be actual fists in that dream world, or the fists of some other dude, or if the impact of your blows will be represented by, like, an amp in the fantasy falling on him … Doesn’t matter, the point is it will take him a minute or so to snap from the dream state and begin fight preparations. Minutes he doesn’t have. Congratulations. On this day the Garden State will be watered with the tears of the Boss himself.

Don’t pity him. He’ll be accumulating even more once-in-a-lifetime-except-for-him memories in no time at all.