Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything (22 page)

HOW TO BEAT UP A REDHEADED STEPCHILD

There are so many references to redheaded stepchildren being beaten—often used as a barometer of just how badly some person plans on beating some other person—it’s surprising to learn that there’s actually very little knowledge on how to go about beating a redheaded stepchild. This is a horrendous oversight that I aim to correct.

Before we start, let’s clear up some misconceptions. I think the specific mention of the stepchild being “redheaded” as opposed to some other color is meant to say that a redheaded stepchild is somehow worse than a blond or brunette stepchild. Nothing could be further from the truth. ALL stepchildren are equally hated and to be despised, regardless of hair color. You will never, ever love a child from somewhere other than your own trusted loins and that feeling of disgust should not fluctuate based on something superficial like hat size, left-handedness, or hair coloring.

Does the eye color of a murderer somehow make his crime less evil? Or more?
No.
I mean, obviously a brown-eyed murderer is objectively more attractive and sexually desirable than someone with blue or hazel eyes, but it says nothing about them as a person. Merely that you’d much prefer to be with, spend time talking to, and have sex with, someone possessing brown eyes than you would someone with any other lesser, more repulsive eye coloring. With that cleared up …

Just what do we know about these milky, pasty, pudgy-faced bastards? Well, they’re freckled, love eating gumdrops, and burn when touched with wood. Their mouths are incapable of forming the word, “relinquish,” they love the movie
Over the Top,
and they refuse to partake in staring contests. Flat. Out. Refuse. For whatever reason, one of them has never been named, “Steve.” Three in five of them are named, “Lucien.” You can break their bones by whistling, and they supposedly need to take in oxygen to breathe.

Famous redheads include Conan O’Brien, Ron Howard, Taye Diggs, and Timothy Busfield. Also, the creepy kid from
Children of the Corn.
As far as we know, none of them have ever been challenged to a public fight, with the details recorded, so it doesn’t tell us much. Still, it’s good to know who they are …

Get your opponent out into the direct sun. This will weaken them. Their alabaster complexions can’t handle the sun’s life-giving rays. They’re not at that vampire “burst-into-flames” level or anything but it will bother them. They’ll squint, squirm, and visibly wilt after a few minutes. I bet you’ve got your whistle at the ready, prepared to break them redheaded stepchild bones, right? Well, forget it. They’ve gotten wise to this tactic and have trained themselves to hum at a frequency that counteracts the detrimental effects of human whistling on their delicate bird bones. A damn shame, too, ’cause they usually burst like shafts of wheat exploded from within a firecracker. A real sight to behold.

Let’s put aside the “redheaded” part and focus on the “stepchild” part. These people were abandoned by a parent, as soon as that parent had an opportunity to get away from them. Probably because of something terrible the child did. And then the remaining parent remarried. Maybe that should come up while you’re taunting them. Some examples:

“Someone gave you away, like you would an old, unwanted coat, only with a person! Then someone who wanted to have sex with your mom was forced to take you in!”

“You’re a constant reminder of your parent’s failure to make a relationship work. Don’t worry, they don’t resent you for it. That’s not how resentment works—Oh, wait…”

“You should try to find your old dad … I bet he’d appreciate knowing they did the right thing giving you away.”

“It’s better to give than to receive. They wrote that about you. It’s better to give—you away—than it is to receive you.”

You can also mock their translucency:

“I see right through you. Not in a ‘you’re a liar, and I know it’ way. Though I bet you are. I mean because your skin is see-through.”

They should be blubbering by now. They’re sufficiently softened up and ready to be taken. Throw a handful of woodchips at your foe. The chips will burn wherever they land on the redhead’s body. Then begin reading aloud from page 11 of the Hemingway novel
The Dangerous Summer
. A force field will engulf the redhead. He will look to you, helpless. The force field will flicker once, and then the redhead will be sent back in time.

HOW TO BEAT UP THAT GUY FROM HIGH SCHOOL WHO YOU KNEW, BUT KINDA DIDN’T KNOW WHO’D USUALLY BE A DICK TO YOU WHEN YOU’D SEE HIM, WHICH MADE NO SENSE BECAUSE WHO THE FUCK WAS HE; IT’S NOT LIKE HE WAS POPULAR AND YOU WEREN’T, YOU WERE BOTH KIND OF WHATEVER AND THEN YEARS LATER YOU SEE HIM AT THE BAR ON A TRIP BACK TO YOUR HOMETOWN FOR THE HOLIDAYS AND HE’S LIKE “WHAT’S UP, WHAT’VE YOU BEEN DOING?” AND YOU’RE LIKE, OKAY, I CAN BE AN ADULT HERE, HUMOR THE GUY, BUT BEFORE YOU CAN ANSWER HE’S TALKING ABOUT HOW HE SELLS INSURANCE NOW AND HOW IT’S REALLY COOL AND FULFILLING ON DIFFERENT LEVELS AND HOLY SHIT, NOW YOU’RE REALLY STUCK FUCKING TALKING TO THIS GUY AND HE’S GOING INTO DETAIL ABOUT WHAT HIS WORK IS LIKE AND NO OFFENSE TO PEOPLE IN INSURANCE BUT THAT JOB DOES NOT JUSTIFY THIS LEVEL OF DETAIL AT A BAR WITH A GUY YOU KINDA KNEW IN HIGH SCHOOL; JESUS, HE’S STILL GOING, AND YOU KEEP TRYING TO BE POLITE WHILE ALSO TRYING TO GET THE BARTENDER’S ATTENTION BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS JUST TOO MUCH TO HAVE TO HEAR SOBER AND HE MISINTERPRETS IT AND THINKS YOU’RE BLOWING HIM OFF AND NOT PAYING ATTENTION AND NOW IT’S A FUCKING THING. THAT GUY

Tell him his life is dumb. Then slam the corner of the peanut bowl on the edge of the bar, creating a
peanut-y
smoke screen, which will distract him. Punch him through the hail of peanuts. Catch a peanut from midair, then eat it.

HOW TO BEAT UP THE COMMON COLD

No doubt you’ve already been given plenty of advice on how to beat a cold. Chicken soup, vitamin C, Airborne remedy, wolfsbane, etc. Nope, total bullshit. None of them work.

It’s because they are actually something known as a placebo (pronunciation:
pluh-se-bois-la-uiz-in$roargh
). A placebo is something that someone gives you that they tell you will work, even though it won’t actually accomplish anything. This is also called “getting lied to,” or “lying.”

Now, if you’re going to believe in some miracle cure-all, why not have it be something that actually works? Yes, I’m talking about a wizard’s magical potion.

They’ve got one for everything these days. Love, invisibility, levitation, sass, one that prevents face-reddening after you call a coworker by the wrong name in front of the Arrowhead guy.

There are two ways to kill a wizard, so that you may take his potions: you can kill him by beheading him, or you can kill him with kindness (I’m actually suspicious of this second option. I’ve been trying it on my neighbor for years. I am nothing but kind to him. I bring him flowers and baked goods, drag in his trashcans, share “fun” recipes with him. It only seems to make him happier. Hmm…).

However, a third option is to get him to give the potions to you. The best way to do this is to slowly, over time, break his heart, disappointing him again and again, until he questions the very existence of true good in the world.

Let’s elaborate on this one. Prove to him that he was wrong to put his faith in you.

If he gives you money to use to attend college, spend it on drugs and/or a Jet Ski. Then ingest the drugs and show up unexpectedly at his house or castle.

Borrow his winged steed-drawn chariot or Celica without asking. When you return it, tell him you’re pretty certain the rear bumper was always hanging off like that, and so what if you’ve had a few drinks. Who is he, the goddamn drug and alcohol police?

The last straw should be just outright stealing money from him. Break into and then ransack his home. Knock over vases and sculptures, and open drawers and dump them on the floor. Find his wallet (it will look just like a regular wallet, only with glittery stars and half moons on it), open it, and take out the money or purple crystals inside, then toss the wallet on the ground like you totally hate that wallet. Kick it across the room if you like, and feel free to “sneer” while doing so and saying, “Bah, stupid old man, I’ll teach you to trust me!” Something like that.

He’ll appear in the doorway of his bedroom (Did he “magic” himself into that spot from some other location, or just get up from his bed and shamble over? With a wizard, you never really know.), hang his head in shame, and say, “Just … just take them and go…”

Success! Or, in wizard-speak:
“Gazlam!”
Go over to the potion counter. Scoop them all up, but leave the “erase memory” potion for him to drink later. That way you guys will still be cool if you ever need him again, and tomorrow you can plead ignorance in regard to his trashed residence.

Now, let’s take care of that cold of yours. Pass up the “healing” and “protection” potions for a powerful orange liquid he’ll be storing in a plastic bottle rather than a glass beaker. It will be labeled
GATORADE
. Drink this concoction immediately.

Also, remember to get lots of rest, and drink plenty of water. Don’t tax yourself, or try to rush the healing process. After a few days of taking it easy, some sleep, and that magical wizard’s potion, you’ll be good as new!

HOW TO BEAT UP AN ORANGE TRAFFIC CONE

This one is surprisingly simple. And a perfect starting point for novice battlers.
*
I mean, we’re just talking about a typical, run-of-the-mill, garden variety, traffic cone, right? Not a cone containing the souls of ten dead Apache warriors, reincarnated to punish mankind, but mistakenly placed into a traffic cone instead of the cigar store Indian the cone was next to? Not a sentient cone with teeny-tiny hands holding an adorable, yet
lethal,
matching orange derringer? Not even a metal cone painted orange to look like a rubber cone?

Just a plain old, textbook, everyday traffic cone, right?

Once you’ve determined that the above is indeed the case, approach the cone. Say, “Stupid!” under your breath, and then kick the cone over with one fluid motion. If you like, kick it close to the base, so that it will flip once before landing on the ground. Maybe kick it once when it’s lying on its side.

Then, just walk away.

I’m serious, it’s over. No need to be a dick about it. You’ve made your point, and the fight’s over.

Note:
If after you kick it, the cone starts HISSING WILDLY, spinning across the ground like a defective bottle rocket as it fires off sparks and emits a ghostly orange smoke that then takes the form of a row of Apache warriors … there is a chance you misread your opponent. Time to get out of Dodge!

HOW TO BEAT UP YOUR SWORN ENEMY

Have a newspaper print the following letter:

An open letter to the man I swore to destroy eighteen years ago, shortly after watching you murder my father in a sword fight. Well, you can relax; I guess it’s not going to happen …

Watching you there, blood-covered katana held above my father’s newly severed head, I was filled with a white-hot rage. Though I was only eight years old, I vowed right then to avenge his death. That no matter how long it took, no matter the cost—friends, career, relationships, be damned—I’d track you to the ends of the Earth if need to be, to extract my bloody revenge and finally find some measure of peace within my soul.

I studied at the feet of the world’s greatest killers, absorbed the wisdom of the martial arts’ living gods, dined with Death himself … I gotta say, none of it really stuck. I kind of sucked at it. As you’ve no doubt discovered yourself, it’s really, really hard to become good at sword fighting. Like, wow … It’s kind of an all or nothing thing. Weekends will not get it done. Ninja training? Equally hard. I’m not even going to get started on the “killing silently” training. That’s what I said then, to the teacher: “I’m not even gonna get started, cause of how hard this looks.”

The white-hot rage was eventually replaced by a reddish burning anger, then a dull simmering pain (orange?), which was soon replaced by an overall feeling of helplessness and general impotence (definitely yellowish).

That was around the time I decided to abandon my blood quest—after losing my left hand, sense of dignity, and most of my twenties. From there things went downhill. I tried to reconnect with family, but they weren’t really interested thanks to my years of shunning them. Maybe that’s for the best. I wasn’t too excited about telling them I’d failed at the one thing I swore over a dead man’s body to accomplish. Them: “How’d your bloody revenge pact go?” Me: “Oh, it didn’t happen, actually.”