Wednesday, January 12, 2011

2011: The Year of The Bad Ass

In the past few years, I've made some remarkable strides in shedding the sensitivity I cultivated back in my ponytail-days as an undergrad. In some senses, it's natural selection. In the mid-90s, the sensitive ponytail man could adapt to the social and political climates of times. Now, after a decade blighted by war and terror and Sarah Palin, the environment demands that a man become bad-ass.

As I said, I've already taken some pro-active steps. For example, I've stopped crying when I'm intoxicated. For many years, you could've set your watch by my waterworks: "He's been drinking for three hours, and he's about put on a Jim Croce CD. T-minus 10." No longer. My tear ducts are like old pipes, starting to crack due to lack of moisture. Have you ever seen Clint Eastwood cry? No? That's because he's bad-ass.

So I've made a short list of some small things that will help me achieve my ultimate goal of becoming a full-fledged bad-ass by the end 2011.

1. Chew a toothpick. It seems too simple to be effective, but this small accoutrement goes a long way in bad-ass posturing. A toothpick in the corner of my mouth sends the message, "He seems preoccupied with his toothpick and slightly indifferent to everyone. He must be bad-ass."

2. Employ the term "beat-down" with rhetorical regularity. If someone happens to miss the toothpick and starts cramping my space, I'll simply say, "Are you looking for a beat-down?" Of course, I'm banking on the fact that the other person will recognize the question as rhetorical and back away. If I actually have to attempt a beat-down, I might end up crying.

3. Get a neck tattoo that reads, Son of a Bitch. As a general rule, it's best not to fuck with people who have neck tattoos. Now, imagine if someone has a tattoo that circumscribes the neck with the words Son of a bitch...ladies and gentleman, straight from federal prison, let's give a warm welcome to Bad-Ass!

4. Buy a Rottweiler and name him Jesus Christ. Not only am I walking around with a dog so dangerous that it could potentially rip out someone's throat, I've taken it to the next level with a name that's so sacrilegious my pup couldn't get a role as an extra in The Omen movies. Bad-ass men own bad-ass dogs.

5. Listen solely to Satanic Speed Metal. Whether or not the bands actually worship the Prince of Darkness is not my immediate concern, nor is the music, per se. I simply need a few CD's for my car (a Hyundai, yes, I'll work on that) and some band names to bat around when asked about my music. Therefore, I can rattle off, "Let's see, I listen to Destroyer 666, Sodom, Venom, Slayer. Toxic Holocaust is what's playing in my car right now. Why? You don't like it? Do you want a beat-down?"


Brian said...

As something of a closet metal fan I feel I must pass on this information to you. There is no band called Slayer, it's "fucking Slayer" said as if you're pissed you even have to explain to someone that you like them.


Nate Graziano said...

The problem being, for me, is idiosyncratic: How can saying "fucking Slayer, man" with the proper amount of enmity with a toothpick in my mouth? I might have to think through things a little more.

christopher cunningham said...

while you're walking jesus christ, you're going to stumble and give yourself a boo-boo in the mouth with that toothpick, son; they're pokey, you know? and when you drop your rottie's leash to massage your gums, it will seize that moment to administer a doggie style "beat down."

then, while jesus christ is chewing upon your neck tattoo, the odds of your crying will increase dramatically, probably to nearly 100%, and you will destroy all the cred the speed metal you were "enjoying" brought you.

sad all around, really, because while you were walking jesus, someone stole your hyundai.

Nate Graziano said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Nate Graziano said...

Well-played, Mr. Cunningham. There's always Option B.) Join the NRA.

But you can't ask me NOT to walk with Jesus. Jesus is just alright by me.