Long time readers may find it hard to believe but recently, I’ve started to drink. Beer, whiskey, vodka, rum, moonshine, whatever, there isn’t a drink that hasn’t been in my piss stream. I haven’t told my parents yet so shh. The rationale for keeping it from them being a) I don’t enjoy drinking. I am as indifferent towards drinking now as I was before I started drinking, and b) I don’t get drunk. I remain sober no matter how much I’ve had to drink. No point in letting my parents make me feel guilty for something I don’t enjoy! The Nazi officials should have used the same defense at the Nuremberg trials. “We didn’t enjoy torturing them, your honor. We are therefore not guilty. Please set us free. We have much to contribute to the new world order.”
The thing about drinking is that it puts you amidst drunks. The thing about being amidst drunks is that they’re brimming with Dutch courage and are ready to pester the opposite sex. The thing about being amidst drunks brimming with cheap booze and fake courage and ready to pester the opposite sex is that it gives you the opportunity to play the knight in the shining armor. You get to be Shrek, the drunk gets to be the dragon, the woman upon whom unwanted attention is being bestowed gets to be Princess Fiona, and Eddie Murphy gets to be the donkey. The thing about rescuing possibly slightly inebriated damsels from booze-sponsored dragons is that it gets you fast-tracked into their good books- and if lucky, into their other good things. (Wink)
The other night while I was trying to leverage a stranger into my wingman, things took a turn to the violent as they are wont to do under such circumstances. The dude wasn’t pleased that I was preventing him from hitting on this woman. He started to punch and kick out at me. His words were no less violent. I tried to laugh him off but he put me in a chokehold. I didn’t have the power to break free. The dude was enjoying the dominance, the primordial exhibition of manliness. I was deprived of options. I reached for the only one I had, his balls. No one could believe what I’d done. India, after all, is still quite homophobic and Indians shy away from touching another dude’s balls even if it’s a life or death situation. But not me, I don’t feel restricted by such mores. I take advantage of them rather.
And in this instance, the dude was predictably gobsmacked. He instinctively let go and put his hands up in the air- as if I had a gun against the back of his head, as if he was at a music concert and the DJ had ordered him to do so. I didn’t reciprocate by letting go off his balls though, I ain’t no damn monkey. I adjusted my grip and made him wince some more. I asked if I reminded him of his dad. The color slowly began to return to his face, rage was taking over from shock. I goaded him on some more, he reached out for a glass and smashed it against my face.
The referee called for the bell. The dude was disqualified and I got to keep my world heavyweight championship.