The fucking dick measuring competition that are stupid bar fights (#8,144) serve a purpose, I suppose, but they are not what I’m talking about now. Let’s talk about fighting when it matters for now. Three rules-
1. Keep Fighting. Just keep fighting.
2. Fight Dirty.
Pretty straight forward. The first rule is Keep Fighting. Don’t surrender. You are always one second away from victory or defeat, or a Good Samaritan saving your bacon. If you give up, it’s game over. Stand there and watch the fire rage and the kids burn alive because you surrendered to nature’s fury, and try and look yourself in the mirror tomorrow. At least you made it out. Just remind me not to call you when it matters.
The second rule is Fight Dirty. When you must win at all costs honor goes out the window, at it’s fine. Going for the testicles seems like the obvious choice, but I think the eyeballs are more likely to win you the fight in the long run if you get ahold of him.
Rule three is Win. Don’t lose. When it’s you and your girlfriend and it’s a dark alley late at night and there is a knife you better fucking stand there and get stabbed and then ruin that guy’s night because the other option is something you don’t want to think about. Time to stop being a panty-waist.
The story of the 300 Spartans is an interesting one, and very compelling. It’s the kind of story that men the world over can connect with, because it represents, somewhere, they highest aspirations of us all. Robert A. Heinlen once said:
‘A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.’
Fight efficiently, die gallantly. I know that I have no interest in waiting for the sweet nectar of death to come and safe me from a life of shitting myself in a hospital bed because I’ve just gotten old. I found out the other day that the astronauts did not die when the Challenger exploded, they most likely died when they hit the ocean, and, according to a guy that knew the pilot quite well, he was fighting to steer the wingless shuttle until the moment of impact. Even if it’s not true, even if he was passed out from lack of oxygen, doesn’t it say something that the man who knew him best thought that that was how he would spend his last seconds on earth? Rule number one. Just keep fighting. You’re doing no one any good huddled in a corner, praying with your eyes closed. Stand up.
If you ever read the book, A Man Called Intrepid, you’ll read an incredibly interesting and in depth look into the underhand dealings that won the Allies World War II. Apparently we used bombs and guns, and also suicide pills and women jumping out windows onto moving trucks and TNT well placed in hard water plants and Czech assassins and planted dead bodies– because that’s what it took to win the fucking thing. To stop the armies of darkness from marching all over the face of the earth. Play Dirty.
On September 11th, Rick Rescorla, the security chief for Morgan Stanley and Dean
Witter, successfully evacuated all but 13 of the 2,700 employees of that company. Then he went back up the stairs to make sure everyone else got out. His remains have never been found. To keep people calm, he sang God Bless America and Men of Harlech as they evacuated and told them ‘be proud to be an American…everyone will be talking about you tomorrow.’ That was a terrible day, but as bad as things went, there was a small victory there. A man who used to live around the corner from me named William Wik was found on September 11th with a fireman’s gloves and a radio and flashlight. He worked for an insurance company in the towers. There is a moment of choice somewhere out in that good night ahead of you where you make a decision about what matters to you. I went to Boston College, the same time as Falcons Quarterback Matt Ryan. And I couldn’t give a good holy fuck about him. I’m glad he can throw the ball well and it was when he went there because BC won football games. But I went to a school that this man went to, and that’s the kind of tradition and legacy I wish the school talked more about.
Give a good account of yourself.
Have I Done It Yet- Obviously no. I wish I had a tenth of the manliness of any of the men I’ve written about here.
Tounges of fire on Idris flaring/ News of foemen near declaring. To heroic deeds of daring/call you, Harlech men!