After a recent visit to a certain uncle, I have been inspired to dedicate my first "row" (if you will) of this blog to a top-notch nitwit.
Let me just ask - what do you envisage when given the following descriptors:
62-year old man
5 foot 5
Father of four, grandfather of three
As much as I like to think I am some Foucault-like philosopher who questions the legitimacy of any types of social norms, when I think little old man I don't think “tough” and I am pretty sure you don't either.
My uncle Bill is not tough; not at all. He is 62. He is short. He has kids, grandkids, two ex-wives and loads of responsibility.
So then, why the hell does this guy think he is a friggin street-fighter?
My uncle Bill used to be a truck driver. He used to drive all over the US and Canada. Did being on the road all of the time make him feel big and manly? Did those late nights behind the wheel listening to Johnny Cash make him feel tough and hard done by?
Even if one could answer "yes" to both of these questions, it still does not explain the extent of his street-fighting delusion.
Let me give you a little break-down of the severity of his mental state:
Friday 14 April 2006. Outside my Grandma's house; Toronto ON, Canada. Just got off a flight from Melbourne, Australia and my parents thought it would be nice to drop in and say hello...
Me: (rings doorbell)
Grandma: (opens door) Oh hi doll! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Australia!
Me: Yes gram I do live there, but I am visiting for Easter break, remember?
(Uncle Bill, who is living with my Grandma, walks down the hall eyeing my chunky belt buckle)
Uncle Bill: Oh, hi dolly doll - I've got a belt-buckle just like that one. Nice and thick. Won lots of fights with it...even killed a few men.
Me: Cool.
Uncle Bill: Let me go get it and show it to you...
Me: Um...that's ok-
Uncle Bill: (interrupting)...I'll be right back down.
(Grandma goes back into the living room and sits down, seemingly oblivious as to Uncle Bill’s presence. This is probably because she trained herself to block out everything he says.)
Uncle Bill: Take a look at this baby. (whips belt) WHACK. The government sanctions me to fight you know - if anyone looks at me the wrong way they are going to get it. I just tear them apart...they don't even know what has hit them.
Me: Wow (note: very unenthusiastic)
Uncle Bill: Once I get them to those satanic fighting grounds they haven't got a chance (note: I have no clue what a satanic fighting ground is, and I am pretty sure that it is something he has made up)
Me: Sounds scary.
Uncle Bill: It’s not scary. It’s what I do. I am a street-fighter.
Me: Um...yeah...ok so why do you talk about street-fighting so much? And when was the last time that you were in a "street-fight"?
Uncle Bill: Street-fighting is great exercise. GREAT exercise. I have only lost ONE fight. I have won two-hundred and ninety-nine. (note: no YOU are not crazy, he has completely ignored the nature of the question).
Me: Is getting your head pounded in really great exercise Uncle Bill?
Uncle Bill: No one can touch me. I have got the belt.
I imagine that you have gotten the idea. That recent conversation is just a small dose of how big of a nitwit good old Bill is. (In that same evening he tried to make me count the money that he saved up to fix his non-exisitent motorcycle, while he counted all of the rapes that he has prevented.)
Let me conclude by saying that, medically speaking, this man (supposedly) has no discernable mental conditions. He has worked all of his life, raised his children and gone about his business.
I have known Uncle Bill since I can remember, and had never heard news about his street-fighting life until very recently.
Maybe he felt that his life was too R-rated for a little girl. Maybe all that street-fighting has just finally gotten to his head.
I put my money on him being crazy.
