"Oh yes, it's a known fact." If, in the course of daily events, you were to be told this by someone, you would most likely be instantly compelled to place your own hand in very close proximity to your own face (for comparison purposes, of course). The dirty ruffian who spurted this falsehood in the first place would then push your OWN hand into your OWN face and shout "why are you hitting yourself," or something equally as juvenile, and run off like the salty dog he (or she) is. During your formative years, you probably fell victim to some ruse similar to this, perpetuated such offenses on your classmates or siblings, or both. The answer is probably the latter, I mean, c'mon...Who HASN'T done something mean and/or destructive when they were kids, especially to other kids? Seriously, if you had this trick played on you, you'd most likely try and console yourself later in the day by performing the same prank for some other unsuspecting soul. Indeed, human nature in action is quite fun to watch...

Of course, the stupid pranks and games don't end after elementary school, they just get worse. (Of course, when I say "worse," I mean "better and (potentially) more harmful.") I can fondly recall playing a wonderfully raucous two-player game in high school wherein one player would start a shiny quarter spinning on a table (any table would do). The other player would then have to try and hit this (now spinning) quarter with their fingertip in a manner that would keep it spinning without knocking it down. If this second player succeeded with this task, the first player would have to repeat the feat, with both players alternating until one poor bastard caused the quarter in question to fall...(hang on, kids, here's where the fun starts)...The unfortunate player who knocked the quarter down would then be required (by rules sanctioned by the international quarter spinning coalition) to place his (or her, I guess) fist, knuckles down, on the table (any table will do). The "winning player" would then be allowed to accelerate the quarter across the table (imagine placing your index and middle finger on a table, spread apart in an inverted "V" shape. You would then place your thumb on the quarter (now behind the "V")and fire it through the inverted "V".) into the knuckles of the other player. According to the rules set forth governing play, the individual "rounds" that make up a "game" continue until a one of the competitors resigns from the contest, the "bell" rings, effectively ending "lunch" or a teacher (or other administrator) takes the quarter away. I was quite good at this game. In fact, in my "prime," I could embed a quarter into any opponent's knuckle on the first try. I also had a deadly "backspin" technique that almost guaranteed victory. Ah, the memories...You should see the higlight reel, followed closely by the "blooper" reel. Yes, good times indeed...

Ok, I know it sounds lame NOW, but it was fun THEN. I don't get to play this particular game anymore, mostly due to the lack of "competitors" hanging around. I don't have THAT kind of animosity toward my "loved ones..." These days, the only thing that I fire quarters into at high rates of speed are candy machines, which explains my "weight problem"...But I digress...

Anyway, among many others, there was a particular little game that I remember nearly falling victim to in school entitled "Italian Arm Wrestling." I'm not sure why the person who tried to play the trick on me called it that, but I can't go changing history...Italian Arm Wrestling basically goes like this: You ask your "mark" if they think they're "man enough" to try "Italian Arm Wrestling." You then place your arm on a table (or desk), elbow down, fist clenched, folded fingers FACING YOU. You then instruct your victim to take his (or her, if you're totally heartless) place across from you. You tell your "opponent" that they should place their arm in the same position that you just had yours in. You then grasp their clenched fist and tell them that they'll "win the game if they can pull their arm up and toward themselves, keeping their elbow on the table." Your job, as game master, is to try and pull their arm down...For a while, at least...

Hopefully, you can see where this is going. If you can't...um...Hey, you wanna Italian Arm Wrestle? Heh heh heh...

So anyway, yes. After a few moments of playing this "game," you tell your victim to "focus their power!" This little Mr. Miyagi-esque saying will invariably cause this poor unfortunate bastard to stare intently AT THEIR OWN FIST...You then release your grip on their fist, thereby causing the other "player" to forcibly punch themselves in the nose with a satisfying "thunk." Perhaps you're thinking "Nooo, this can't REALLY work, can it? Nobody could be THAT guillible..." Well kids, there ARE people who, indeed, ARE "that gullible." Go try it on somebody! When you do, have a camera handy and, after it's all over, email me the pictures. Seriously. I'm not kidding...Anyhoo, The fondest memory of any "Italian Arm Wrestler" I have locked up in my little brain would have to be (the legendary) Cory...

Cory was a couple years ahead of me in high school. I remember him as one of those gangly, dirty "rocker dudes," kind of ahead of his time with the whole "grunge look," except that his grunginess was born of necessity. Kids, Cory was "poor." Sorry to be so blunt, but he was pretty much the real life equivalent of Kenny from South Park. Anyway, Cory and I had a few classes in common my sophomore year, including "Advanced Art." Cory was one of those kids who was both "cool" and "uncool" at the same time, depending upon who you talked to. I never had much of a problem with him, and most of the people I knew didn't either. At the same time, I didn't see any problem the day that the person (can't remember his name) who sat next to me in art class challenged Cory to an Italian Arm Wrestling match...

Much like in life, it's not very often that you get a front row seat for an event of this proportion. I was THRILLED at the prospect of seeing someone smack themself in the face and have a good chuckle...One of those "ah, ha ha! You got me there! Can I have a tissue for my now bleeding nose?" moments...For whatever reason, Cory agreed to this "challenge." He was quickly apprised of the "rules" and the "competition" began, right there next to my desk. It became rapidly apparent that this was to be NO ORDINARY Italian Arm Wrestling Match, on no...The perpetrator of the prank was determined to make Cory work pretty hard prior to "the big payoff"..."C'mon, Cory," he shouted "C'mon, man, you can do it!" Cory's arm was now bulging, easily twice it's normal size, with veins popping out all over his forearm. Cory was sweating profusely and his face was steadily turning red. He was certainly giving it his all...Soon enough, though, the magic words "FOCUS YOUR POWER, CORY" were shouted...Cory, in fact, DID focus his power. He suddenly took on the most determined look I've ever seen and REALLY started to pull his hand toward himself. During all of this, his steely gaze was fixed, dead center, on his tightly-clenched fist.

Of course, his opponent (predictably and finally) let go of Cory's hand.

the next second or two are forever burned into a special little corner of my brain. When I think of the events that followed the "release," I see them unfold in "super slow motion." Cory's fist rocketed toward his own face with unmatched speed. Just before impact, Cory's eyes widened AND crossed, still focusing on his own hand. (C'MON, THAT'S FUNNY!) His fist then made SOLID contact, burying itself in his face, directly between his eyes. The force of the blow launched Cory backwards, into a bank of those little "cube lockers." He ricocheted off of the lockers, his fist still embedded in his own face, and hit the floor with a resounding "bang." Everyone who witnessed Cory's cold-blooded assault (on himself) was now stunned, sitting in wide-eyed and silent amazement. Nobody seemed to be able to believe what they had just seen, myself included. One of the other members of the class muttered "man, that was just wrong" and walked away, but nobody rushed to Cory's aid. He just lay there, at the front of the class, enjoying a well earned nap on the cold tile floor, his face laying on his still clenched fist. Not even our instructor, Mr. Setter, seemed to care that Cory wasn't where he was supposed to be...

Eventually, Cory "came to" and struggled to his feet. Nobody really wanted to make eye contact with him at this point and, conversely, Cory didn't seem too keen on striking up a conversation with anyone. Cory wiped his face and found that his nose was bleeding. Still a bit dazed, he staggered toward the instructor and asked if he could go see the nurse.

"What the Hell did you do?" Mr. Setter asked Cory.

" I....I don't know. I must've got hit." Cory responded.

"Who hit you?" Mr Setter asked.

Cory stared blankly at this question, still not able to come up with a real creative response. Breaking the silence, someone from the class finally got up the nerve to say, calmly, "He hit himself in the face, Mr. Setter...Hard." Stifled laughter moved throughout the class and Cory, quickly becoming red in the face, couldn't really deny this assertion. After all, he HAD, in fact, struck himself in the face. Mr Setter looked at Cory, calmly handed him a tissue and instructed him to take his seat. Cory did ultimately visit the nurse between periods...I heard (yes, through the "grapevine") that he ended up breaking his own nose. Not surprisingly, Cory didn't engage in anymore arm wrestling matches that year. In fact, he probably runs screaming if challenged to any sort of strength-related contest. Hell, I would if I were him...

So what this story ultimately comes down to is the fact that, if someone asks if you want to compete in a competition of ANY KIND that seems even a little suspect, you should probably figure out which side of the table you're going to be standing on. That, and (obviously) "don't hit yourself in the face." It's like stepping on a rake, you're not going to earn a whole lot of sympathy points OR style points that way...

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, tales of triumph