Read Online Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything by Kevin Seccia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin Seccia
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comes for you to walk a mile in my shoes, you’ll be damn glad to look down and see that you’re wearing alligator-skin boots.
Tools needed: standard automobile jack, can-do attitude, nerves of whatever is harder than steel, or, if necessary, steel.
Approach him from behind and clear your throat loudly. Or circle him while muttering, “Well, well … and so it begins.” Now that you’ve alerted him to your presence like a gentleman, everything from here on out is fair game. He should turn and lunge. Avoid his first bite attempt. As his mouth opens after snapping shut, leap up into the air and toward his open mouth using a headfirst flip. If done properly, you’ll land in his mouth, safely behind his teeth and in total darkness.
Don’t panic. Remove your auto jack, place it on the bottom of his mouth, then use it to crank his mouth open. Now that you can see, step on the beast’s tongue while pulling on the end of it, stretching it out like a rubber band. Now begin plucking the tongue as if it were a stand-up bass. Part of me thinks this is a dick move (you’ve already got him, why humiliate him further), but part of me thinks that, regardless of the circumstances, the creation of music is a wonderful thing that should be cherished and encouraged … and I’d like to believe that deep down in his reptilian heart, the alligator feels the same way, and would understand.
When you’re done playing, while still inside, punch the roof of the creature’s mouth. His eyes will spin back into his head like slot machine reels, finally stopping to reveal two dollar signs at which point he’ll vomit up a wave of shiny gold coins that will lift you up and out of his mouth, depositing you to safety several yards away. Dust yourself off and help yourself to however many coins you can carry! He won’t need it. As we all know, gold is worthless in alligator heaven.
HOW TO BEAT UP A BARBERSHOP GORILLA
The first question I should answer is: What is a barbershop gorilla?
When I was kid I went to this ’50s style, slightly grizzled, salt-o’-the-earth-type barber. His name was John, though I can’t recall “John” ever being used without the “the Barber” tacked on to the end of it. This guy was what you’d call a loud-talking, yarn-spinner. I’m tempted to say he was a man’s man, but a more accurate description would be that he’s the man who cuts the man’s man’s hair.
Apparently I hated getting my hair cut. I’d whine and cry and refuse to go, and cause a headache for all involved. They tell me it was because I was a brat who didn’t know how to behave, but I’d like to believe it’s because I knew that my hair already looked awesome and needed no improvement. Anyway, for some reason I didn’t mind John’s barbershop. I actually wanted to go there. It smelled like sawdust though none was visible, and there was always a stack of comics in the waiting area. Sure, they were Archie comics but that still beat the stale copies of Elle magazine at my mom’s hair salon. All that was nice, but John’s affable manner and tall tales were the main attraction.
One day John told me that he had a pet snake in the back room. I think I was going through the typical kid’s “I like snakes!” phase (after dinosaurs, before wolves) and this was probably the result of that. My reaction was, of course: “No way! You do not! That’s impossible … Can I see it!?” No, he’s sleeping, was the reply. John claimed it slept on a pile of the shop’s hair clippings, ate local dogs, and was the biggest snake on Earth. I asked if it was a boa constrictor, since that was a snake I knew of. The answer: “No, it’s bigger, it’s an anaconda.” Bigger than the boa constrictor?!? “Um, there’s no way that the giant snake you have in the back of the barbershop, that sleeps on hair and eats dogs, is somehow bigger than a boa. How dumb do you think I am?”
I’d never heard of an anaconda and when I went home, cracked
Tools needed: standard automobile jack, can-do attitude, nerves of whatever is harder than steel, or, if necessary, steel.
Approach him from behind and clear your throat loudly. Or circle him while muttering, “Well, well … and so it begins.” Now that you’ve alerted him to your presence like a gentleman, everything from here on out is fair game. He should turn and lunge. Avoid his first bite attempt. As his mouth opens after snapping shut, leap up into the air and toward his open mouth using a headfirst flip. If done properly, you’ll land in his mouth, safely behind his teeth and in total darkness.
Don’t panic. Remove your auto jack, place it on the bottom of his mouth, then use it to crank his mouth open. Now that you can see, step on the beast’s tongue while pulling on the end of it, stretching it out like a rubber band. Now begin plucking the tongue as if it were a stand-up bass. Part of me thinks this is a dick move (you’ve already got him, why humiliate him further), but part of me thinks that, regardless of the circumstances, the creation of music is a wonderful thing that should be cherished and encouraged … and I’d like to believe that deep down in his reptilian heart, the alligator feels the same way, and would understand.
When you’re done playing, while still inside, punch the roof of the creature’s mouth. His eyes will spin back into his head like slot machine reels, finally stopping to reveal two dollar signs at which point he’ll vomit up a wave of shiny gold coins that will lift you up and out of his mouth, depositing you to safety several yards away. Dust yourself off and help yourself to however many coins you can carry! He won’t need it. As we all know, gold is worthless in alligator heaven.
HOW TO BEAT UP A BARBERSHOP GORILLA
The first question I should answer is: What is a barbershop gorilla?
When I was kid I went to this ’50s style, slightly grizzled, salt-o’-the-earth-type barber. His name was John, though I can’t recall “John” ever being used without the “the Barber” tacked on to the end of it. This guy was what you’d call a loud-talking, yarn-spinner. I’m tempted to say he was a man’s man, but a more accurate description would be that he’s the man who cuts the man’s man’s hair.
Apparently I hated getting my hair cut. I’d whine and cry and refuse to go, and cause a headache for all involved. They tell me it was because I was a brat who didn’t know how to behave, but I’d like to believe it’s because I knew that my hair already looked awesome and needed no improvement. Anyway, for some reason I didn’t mind John’s barbershop. I actually wanted to go there. It smelled like sawdust though none was visible, and there was always a stack of comics in the waiting area. Sure, they were Archie comics but that still beat the stale copies of Elle magazine at my mom’s hair salon. All that was nice, but John’s affable manner and tall tales were the main attraction.
One day John told me that he had a pet snake in the back room. I think I was going through the typical kid’s “I like snakes!” phase (after dinosaurs, before wolves) and this was probably the result of that. My reaction was, of course: “No way! You do not! That’s impossible … Can I see it!?” No, he’s sleeping, was the reply. John claimed it slept on a pile of the shop’s hair clippings, ate local dogs, and was the biggest snake on Earth. I asked if it was a boa constrictor, since that was a snake I knew of. The answer: “No, it’s bigger, it’s an anaconda.” Bigger than the boa constrictor?!? “Um, there’s no way that the giant snake you have in the back of the barbershop, that sleeps on hair and eats dogs, is somehow bigger than a boa. How dumb do you think I am?”
I’d never heard of an anaconda and when I went home, cracked
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