A Special Labor Day Edition of The Curious Urinal

Old vs. Young
(or How to win a No-holds Barred Battle Royal in 12 minutes)
By staff reporter Juan Motyme

The story you're about to read is mostly true... The names haven't been changed to protect anyone.

It was another beautiful evening in downtown Buzzardbait when this reporter took off from his grueling task of reporting the news. It was the last official weekend of summer and I was finally off from work to enjoy the rest of the three-day weekend. The sun was still shining brightly with a few clouds on the horizon. It was the perfect time to head to the Buzzardbait Pool Hall and Bar.

Upon entering, there were only a few patrons, all huddled around their respective beers, listening to Kid Rock doing a duet with Snoop Dog on the juke box. The karaoke machine was broken, thus the night seemed like it held promise. Maybe it would be a quiet, uneventful evening?

And all of that should have been an omen.

A lady friend of mine was already there, shooting pool by herself. I bought two Schitts beers and walked over to the pool table, handing her one and grabbing myself a pool cue. On the TV, some motocross race was underway, with no one paying any attention to it.

After a couple of games, my lady friend motioned toward the door. When I turned around there were six of the ugliest people I have ever laid eyes upon walking into the bar. None of them looked to be over eighteen or nineteen years old. And every one of them sported a variety of tattoos, assorted body piercings and nearly shaved heads. It looked like a bunch of neo-Nazis had walked in the bar.

My lady friend whispered to me, “Looks like the circus is in town, ‘cause the freak show just walked in!”

After being in the bar less than thirty seconds or so, the owner, Phillip Douschbagger, came walking up to them and asked to see ID’s. Of course, none of them happened to have a drivers license, library card, nor anything remotely resembling an ID. Phillip Douschbagger then asked the boys, tattoos, body piercings and all to vacate the premises since they had to be 21 to enter.

The boys left, mumbling about old f**kers, nig*a’s and rednecks. They were obviously a well-mannered bunch of boys. They proceeded to walk outside and piled-up on the trunk of their P.O.S. car and started mouthing off at Butch Hootergripper, one of the newest regulars at the pool hall/bar. He and his wife, Ima (along with Ima's elderly mother), came in the door and immediately informer Phillip Douschbagger of the rowdies in the parking lot.

Now, normally I shy away from fights, but somehow I knew that there was about to be one, and there were six crack-head freakshow’s in the parking lot, and only one Phillip Douschbagger, who was heading out the door to run them off. Needless to say, every man in the building began heading to the door; and I was among them. Damned if I was gonna sit this one out. These kids needed a lesson in manners, and us old men were all going to volunteer to be their teachers.

When the young pencil-neck geeks began filing off the trunk and was in the process of surrounding Phillip Douschbagger, the old men of the bar, myself included, began our advance out of the door (When we came out of the door, two things went through my mind: 1. I might die tonight; and 2. I better pull out my knife and have it handy... Just in case). In the finest military tradition, we marched out to battle, fists doubled-up, pool cues and knives in hand, all ready to take on the enemy.

When the first shove turned into the first punch, I saw one of the little hoodlums heading toward me. I brandished the knife, showing the punk I meant business, and said, “You don’t want any of this!” Apparently he agreed as he wet himself and moved back, away from my position. But another punk, bigger than the first moved toward me. He obviously wasn’t aware that I intended to cut him up into Chicken McNuggets if he got close enough. Instead, he went to Butch Hootergripper (who stood just to my right, behind me), and they began trading punches.

Roscoe Harritung had one of the boys on the ground, sitting on him; all the while connecting his right fist with the boy's nose. In his left hand was a cold Schitts beer, in which he was imbibing every few punches.

Jack Midick and a tall, skinny boy who has a tattoo of a dragon on his neck and three piercing in his bottom lip, were trading punches until Jack decided that it was time to kick the tall boy in the gonads. When the punk doubled over, writhing in agony, Jack proceeded to take his elbow and drive in into the punks back, sending him to his knees. Jack proceeded to kick the boy in the arse several times before feeling sorry for him and knocking him out with a boot to the head.

Meanwhile, Phillip Douschbagger had the punk with black teeth (obviously a crack head), in a head lock and was putting on a show like he was a star in the WWE. He brought the little punker off of his feet several time before body slamming him onto the hood of the car.

Now, before I go any further, there was one of the punklets that seemed to have enough sense to try to get his friends into the car and kept apologizing for the trouble. He was the only one of the group that seemed to not want to fight anyone. I looked at him and said, “You need new friends!”

He nodded his agreement and actually got three of the punks into the car. But the taller, uglier of the bunch decided to be a real man and punch Ima Hootergripper’s mother, Gerlene Tushylumps, in the side of the head. He had picked up a piece of stray pool cue (that laid in the parking lot in three pieces after being broken over the head of black teeth earlier) and waylaid her in the jaw. He was such a real man for doing that; hitting an elderly woman, who was just trying to help her son-in-law out by handing him a broken beer bottle.

Needless to say, Black Teeth, the instigator of the entire ordeal, decided he’d have the last word and picked up a can of cold beer (not Schitts, but one of the national brands) and tried to make a line drive into the back of Phillip Douschbagger's head. I intercepted the thrown beer, spun around and tossed it into the windshield of the car, busting it out. Damn, that felt good!

Finally, the little punklets left, laying a patch of rubber all the way out of the parking lot (Oh, I do remember when my mom and dad bought my tires, too).

Three minutes later, four squad cars of Buzzardbait’s Finest (the Buzzardbait Police Department) arrived. Detective Inspector took statements from all of us, and we gave him a description of the vehicle, the license plate number, and the complete descriptions of the perps in question. Then the police left, in search of the suspects.

The entire ordeal took only twelve minutes. And then, after 45 minutes of police reports, we all re-entered the bar. The fight was over, and I - for one - was damned glad of it. But, for the rest of the evening we all sat around and swapped stories of our individual fights for survival. The testosterone and Schitts beers flowed freely from that point on.

By the time the bar filled-up about an hour later, each new patron was filled-in on the antics of the Old Guys versus the Young Punks. And each of us bragged on the other about our collective heroics in defeating the enemy; all the while being up against superior odds.

When the bar closed-down at midnight, I went home - hoping not to have another night like that again.

We’re all too old for that kind of action!

Or are we?

The moral of this story is: Even though you may be young and full of piss and vinegar, never underestimate the power of some old man with years of experience behind him... Or you might just find yourself on the receiving end of that experience, and years of pent-up frustration.

Youth is truly wasted on the Young!