Crossroads

I realize that I've been a little slack in posting lately, I've got a couple ideas floating right now.
But, with the exception of Cletus, I'm not sure if anyone else besides the two of us are reading. (BTW, thanks Cletus for giving me a kick in the ass when needed, and also the positive feedback when I started this.)
Point is, I know that there are some of you I told about this and I'm asking for something from you. Here is what I want:
- "Keep going, T-bone, I like checking in once in awhile."
- "Shut the fuck up, T-bone, you are like fingernails on the chalkboard of my mind."
- "Hey, how about writing about....."
- "Here are some pics of my tits." (This doesn't extend to you, Cletus; while spectacular, your tits are a little to hairy for my taste.)
- "Put the stripper story back up, I was going to show my mom."
So there you have it. I guess I'm wondering whether to keep going with this or resigning myself to a lifetime of professional responsibility (gasp!). It's in your hands.
No pressure.

Really.

Yet another benefit of bulimia

I’ve been watching The Ultimate Fighter, season 5. In case you didn’t know, MMA is kick-ass. Anyway, the theme to this season’s TUF seems to be cutting weight. Before the majority of the fights, a good portion is devoted to the fighters’ struggles to make it down to 155 lbs. for the weigh in. Let me tell you, cutting weight is a bitch. When I wrestled in high school, I would run and run, spitting the whole time (in order to dehydrate, cause ya know, that pesky water weighs so much) and not eating. Not eating, that is, until after the weigh-in. Because then, you could eat what you wanted. One time, I lost 4 pounds in a day. It was not easy, but when weigh-in came at 5 p.m., I had made the target weight, all 105 pounds, and RAN back to my locker. Because, you see, I was prepared. While going 2 days with only ingesting a couple sticks of celery, I had planned a feast, the kind of food-orgy that only a starving15 year old can dream up. Blueberry fruit pie, ravioli (courtesy of Monsieur Boyardee), chocolate cookies, and Gatorade to wash it down. Delicious fruity-chocolaty-pasty goodness, oh yeaaaaahhh!

Fully sated, I grab a seat on the bleachers to watch the junior varsity matches. I was wrestling varsity that night, so I has about an hour until my match to lay about. Feeling good, only a few pre-match butterflies. The varsity introductions take place, and I’m the second match, right after the 98 pound class. My opponent is 105 pounds, but he’s fat. I know what you’re thinking: “Fat? At 105 pounds? How can that be?” I’ll tell you how that can be, the little shit’s only about 4 foot 2. He looks like a little toy Samoan, I want to put him up on a knick-knack shelf with Hummels and Precious Moments figurines. But I’m not taking my esteemed opponent lightly. Oh no, he’s got a low center of gravity and those Samoans are strong as bulls. You never know, I could be wrestling fucking Bam-Bam Rubble for all I know.

We start wrestling and I jump out to a lead. It seems his center of gravity is too low, and I’m able to drive his head into the mat and spin around for the takedown. The first period ends with me up by 4 points and he loses the coin flip, which means I choose to start the second period on top. He escapes, but I take him down, using the patented Drive-the-head-into-the-mat takedown, the bane of pocket-Samoans everywhere. As I’m in the top position, in control, I feel like I have to burp, and I let one fly.

Only, I got a little extra sauce with that. A beautiful, purple pearlescent blop of vomit, right on his left shoulder blade. The look on his face, as he looks over at what has just been deposited and is now squelching into the back of his singlet, is that of abject horror. But I’m not letting him go because the ref hasn’t seen this angle yet nor whistled a timeout. Even though it’s only a few seconds, for each of us it seems like a lot longer. My first thought is, of course, embarrassment and a vague hope that no chicks in the stands are going to see this. I don’t know what my little buddy is thinking. Probably that he’s being attacked by some mutant human fly. The ref whistles time-out and we go to our respective coaches. My coach hands me a towel and says

“New strategy, T-bone?”

Uh, yeah coach. Why should I waste my time busting my ass in practice? Vomiting on your opponent is so much more efficient. In fact, why stop there? I’ll become the GG Allin of wrestling on my way to an undefeated season.

“No, I think I ate too much after weigh-in.”

“Should I throw the towel?”

“No, I don’t feel sick, I swear I thought I was just going to burp.”

“With benefits.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, get back in there. You better beat him after puking on him, cause if you lose, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

I went back in and pinned him. As we walked to the center of the ring, the Samoan didn’t look pissed; he just looked scared, all white-eyed and jumpy. I can’t blame him. It was over pretty quickly, just the way we both wanted it.