I dreamed of other elite props.
The front row of a rugby scrum is starts out like you are taking a crap in the woods. Then you get your ass snug on some behemoth's shoulder, binds tight, and violence is at hand. The trick is to beat your opponent to the fulcrum. A brutal science, leverage. There have been a few miles of props in my way over the years. An unending line. A new candidate for my advanced form of radical chiro-practice every Saturday. Men who want me to reverse engineer their skulls back through their esophagus. People that wanted to see their breakfast again. My job was to bend people in un-natural ways. I enjoyed my violent Saturday's until the great betrayal of my knees. Then the fat came. I became the slow moving dream target in the hyper-violent macho violence that is rugby played correctly. I do not have a "target" kind of personality. I reluctantly decommissioned my rage machine.
Do remember the commercial with the aging tough guy with the battery on his shoulder. Come on , knock it off? That parody started to resemble my life. No one wants to hear about ten years ago. Who would want to live in the past anyway? Did you do it right? Did you leave any beer left in the keg? Are all of the party favors ingested? Were the available women properly entertained? Did the frisky girlfriend get taste of danger that she was looking for, did she find out the truth about the man-beast? Whose couch is this? Where are my pants? That was my life for 25 years. There was always a team with a need for my services. Someone to do the heavy lifting. The local free lance Chiropractor. A guy that would occasionally bite, (if it served a strategic purpose)
Then I got old, became a cliche, became worse than a cliche', because somewhere along the way I forgot to establish social skills and rode my natural aggression wherever. The real life things that I put on hold for rugby for two decades. Things I was sure to pick up later are still waiting to be picked up. Things likes a career, a house, a wife, which all seemed like traps when I was being me. When I was processing my great rage. When I was turning the shit of my life into a healthy athletic outlet. Rugby is a delicious, violent mushroom.
But that's ok, me and Sinatra bay-bee. Too few regrets to mention. I wound up in Mexico,. I have a perfect job a mile away from my house. 14 hours a week is enough to live on and it's nice to be able to tell your boss you don't mind doing a little extra work every now and then. I'm not as angry anymore, I take a lot of naps in my hammock and the sea is only 20 minutes away. The trees are full of food and I am living in a little bubble of English in the heart of the thumb of the Yucatan, A well kept secret where the world famous Mexican drug cartel hyper-violence has not penetrated or is kept away by Mayan Mojo. It is ironic I wound up in the Yucatan as my student teaching experience being an eighth grade social studies placement teaching Central American civilizations.
I have always been lucky to land on my feet somehow. One last lucky bounce in a life filled with lucky bounces. I've lost 50 pounds and counting. My mind is clearing up and one of the projects that needs to be completed is the story of the violent men in my dreams. They don't cause me to smash them anymore. I'm like Ferdinand the Bull and Bartleby the Scrivener, I'd prefer not to. That was then, this is now.
It always felt that I just missed out on some great violence, a little early to the party, or a little late. My top tier opponents, the ones I trained hard to beat were often hard to find. You know who you are. The ones who took the early flight home from the tournament, got cancer, the flu, had surgery. The missing rugby assholes who ruined the second act of my rugby drama. I was there at the corral waiting, the lovely music montage of ride of the Valkyries meets Rage against the machine, throw a little anti-war Metallica in there and who doesn't want to get into a few smash-ups this weekend? I needed the competition to get me out on the trails because I was sure they were doing the same thing, and I do not like to give an edge to my opponent.
That is the beauty of playing in the front row of a rugby team. You know who you are. The eight guys on your team also now who you are by the way their bodies are moving. As the point of contact, the initiator of the violence of eight type A mesomorphs trying to out chiropract each other. The point of contact. The Permalink beginning of the big bang. I'm prop. I am prop. Or.
The front row of a rugby scrum is starts out like you are taking a crap in the woods. Then you get your ass snug on some behemoth's shoulder, binds tight, and violence is at hand. The trick is to beat your opponent to the fulcrum. A brutal science, leverage. There have been a few miles of props in my way over the years. An unending line. A new candidate for my advanced form of radical chiro-practice every Saturday. Men who want me to reverse engineer their skulls back through their esophagus. People that wanted to see their breakfast again. My job was to bend people in un-natural ways. I enjoyed my violent Saturday's until the great betrayal of my knees. Then the fat came. I became the slow moving dream target in the hyper-violent macho violence that is rugby played correctly. I do not have a "target" kind of personality. I reluctantly decommissioned my rage machine.
Do remember the commercial with the aging tough guy with the battery on his shoulder. Come on , knock it off? That parody started to resemble my life. No one wants to hear about ten years ago. Who would want to live in the past anyway? Did you do it right? Did you leave any beer left in the keg? Are all of the party favors ingested? Were the available women properly entertained? Did the frisky girlfriend get taste of danger that she was looking for, did she find out the truth about the man-beast? Whose couch is this? Where are my pants? That was my life for 25 years. There was always a team with a need for my services. Someone to do the heavy lifting. The local free lance Chiropractor. A guy that would occasionally bite, (if it served a strategic purpose)
Then I got old, became a cliche, became worse than a cliche', because somewhere along the way I forgot to establish social skills and rode my natural aggression wherever. The real life things that I put on hold for rugby for two decades. Things I was sure to pick up later are still waiting to be picked up. Things likes a career, a house, a wife, which all seemed like traps when I was being me. When I was processing my great rage. When I was turning the shit of my life into a healthy athletic outlet. Rugby is a delicious, violent mushroom.
But that's ok, me and Sinatra bay-bee. Too few regrets to mention. I wound up in Mexico,. I have a perfect job a mile away from my house. 14 hours a week is enough to live on and it's nice to be able to tell your boss you don't mind doing a little extra work every now and then. I'm not as angry anymore, I take a lot of naps in my hammock and the sea is only 20 minutes away. The trees are full of food and I am living in a little bubble of English in the heart of the thumb of the Yucatan, A well kept secret where the world famous Mexican drug cartel hyper-violence has not penetrated or is kept away by Mayan Mojo. It is ironic I wound up in the Yucatan as my student teaching experience being an eighth grade social studies placement teaching Central American civilizations.
I have always been lucky to land on my feet somehow. One last lucky bounce in a life filled with lucky bounces. I've lost 50 pounds and counting. My mind is clearing up and one of the projects that needs to be completed is the story of the violent men in my dreams. They don't cause me to smash them anymore. I'm like Ferdinand the Bull and Bartleby the Scrivener, I'd prefer not to. That was then, this is now.
It always felt that I just missed out on some great violence, a little early to the party, or a little late. My top tier opponents, the ones I trained hard to beat were often hard to find. You know who you are. The ones who took the early flight home from the tournament, got cancer, the flu, had surgery. The missing rugby assholes who ruined the second act of my rugby drama. I was there at the corral waiting, the lovely music montage of ride of the Valkyries meets Rage against the machine, throw a little anti-war Metallica in there and who doesn't want to get into a few smash-ups this weekend? I needed the competition to get me out on the trails because I was sure they were doing the same thing, and I do not like to give an edge to my opponent.
That is the beauty of playing in the front row of a rugby team. You know who you are. The eight guys on your team also now who you are by the way their bodies are moving. As the point of contact, the initiator of the violence of eight type A mesomorphs trying to out chiropract each other. The point of contact. The Permalink beginning of the big bang. I'm prop. I am prop. Or.
