I wonder how I’d win a real fight.
I hate to think of the victor merely being the superior shover.
Punching is very hard to accomplish with any degree of accomplishment. It really takes two to tango, and an equal number to punch and be punched. And if that other guy doesn’t want to be punched, it’ll take a lot of convincing or a monumental favour to be repaid.
Sure you throw a punch, or perhaps more likely you’ll proffer a soft and awkwardly angled set of barely curled knuckles in the direction of his personhood, but you’re more likely to be aggressively flailing.
And this is ineffective.
Stop being ineffective.
Particularly when considering his response to your flailing is to flail back.
Retaliatory flailing is the assured way of no punches being thrown and no punches landing because you’re all to busy enjoying a nice flail against each other’s wrists, necks and lapels.
I don’t want to flail, but it’s better than successfully landing a blow and then suffering the depressing lack of positive consequence to it.
Imagine having the ideal draw of elbow with which to fling your perfectly crunched-up fist with utmost accuracy against and into that sweet spot on his chinny-chin-chin.
And he proceeds to look at you with all audacity it takes to remain standing and the lack of decency to even have a next-day bruise. He bruises like a brick; hitting him hurts.
Then consider the utter failure of your apparent zero knockout power is equalled by the stinging pain of fractured fingers that’ve suffered the distinctly bad time of colliding with something altogether more impressive and coming off, not only worse, but pitied.
The punched-yet-smiling chap proceeds to proffer a rugged hand whose strength you feel as it shakes your wrist to the very point of being registered on the Richter scale, that it could send you and your inconsiderable chin through the door, floor, ceiling, family dinner, town hall meeting, santos grotto, or whatever else is in the same direction as his punch.
You know what’d be worse than the punch; the fact that the watch you see following up behind it, like a bride’s wedding train, is nicer and more expensive looking than you car, house and wife combined and there’s no way he’s going to do a swapsies.
This kind of chap could punch through even your finest flailing and then he’d save your life with that utterly masculine First Aid he learnt on a business course in which he really did rather impress the former army guys doing the training.
Despite the testament of cannibals, people don’t taste good and even that dopey dose of adrenalin that powers you to nobly bite his ankle isn’t going to persuade your taste buds that this was a good idea. Whilst biting works, especially when eating, it is a move that will gain you no fans, only a wide community of people who prefer to know just how close you’re standing to them and their ankles.
Plus, this chap would simply ‘ankle’ you into the ground, charisma his way into convincing your teeth into changing whose team their on and, ultimately, punch you on-in-and-up the nose.
In a fight, the nose is a place to be, and brother I’ve been there. Or, more accurately, I’ve hosted visitors.
And whilst the nose holds that stinging and shocking sensation of pain that also handily blinds your foe for a mo, it falls pathetically in comparison to kicking a swaying pair testicles. Testicles, surprisingly, tend to mind their own business in most matters, and are hence utterly surprised themselves by the intended collision with whatever you’ve elected to swiftly introduce them to.
I mentioned how this fellow would ‘ankle’ you, at will. Don’t try this yourself. It’s like attempting to Adam’s Apple a fellow into submission and pretty much comes down to an embarrassing and ineffectual rub. He might even enjoy it. He might even pay a woman to do it for him, though without the Adam’s Apple.
Hair pulling is one of those things you don’t want to happen to you, especially in a case it turns out you enjoy it and enjoy it too much too. I’ve no doubt sudden arousal can be an intriguing aid in combat, especially if you have an heavily armoured and sharpened penis, but the distraction of enjoying the hurt would certainly be a disadvantage. Plus you’ll need that blood for pulsing around your body, not to flooding it all into one brand new 6-inch limb.
And in such a case, why not tug his hair too, for you both might get a literal rise out of it and could bring a cessation to conflict
My advice is this.
Run away and prepare to show him who’s boss when he’s not looking, develop a limp as an excuse to carry a walking stick (strolling shalaylee) and proceed to be ‘the funny guy’ for a good long while onward so as to avoid the slightest possibility of conflict.
He’s probably more than agreeable anyway, especially when he’s standing behind you as backup for when your jokes aren’t going down so well.
All the best,