The title of this entry is borrowed from a good friend of mine. Maybe you've heard of him. His name is The Undertaker. That's right, four time WWE Heavyweight Champion. The Deadman. The Phenom. The American Badass.
And I don't think he would mind my borrowing his phrase to make a point, as I am somewhat of a man to be reckoned with myself. What's a little plagiarism among friends. Heck, maybe even best friends. Why does our society have to label everything? Anyway, my point is as follows:
It all started in the summer of my second senior year in college, while on a trip home to solicit more money for tuition related expenses. I was meeting my dad in my hometown's most upscale tavern and bowling alley, and arrived a few minutes prior to said pater familias. I walked in wearing my new Hobie Cat t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and my best Sunday jorts. After assuring the server I did not need access to the receiving dock in the alley behind the building, I was shown to a table located delightfully near to the mensroom. I ordered a High Life that arrived from under the counter at almost one degree cooler than room temperature. A moment later, my dad walked in, sneered at my choice of tables, and held up an index finger to the waitress. She promptly nodded and ducked into the kitchen only to return a minute later with an identical High Life to mine, except for the bits of ice clinging to the cap, frosted label, and unexpired expiration date.
That was a real 'Tony Robbins" moment for me. That was the day I decided to stop being a slapnuts. I started grabbing life by the coin purse and shaking until I got every last bit of loose change and respect I deserved.
Oh, I still wear shirts with cut off sleeves into restaurants, but now those sleeves are hemmed and they have a little something extra in the form of a logo on the chest. Like a Polo insignia or a "C" for Champion, which is what I am. Oh, and those jorts? Let's just say the ladies like them creased, light starch.
Take it easy, brothers.
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