Punch Drunk

Hopefully yesterdays post wasn’t to dark or long and you have come back for more. I will try to lighten things up a bit today. I am really just going with things that strike me on a daily basis, there really isn’t a plan as I look ahead. I will try not to make it sound like random babbling from the uni-bomber or something…

If you know me, you know that I am not a fighter. You know I am not tough. You know I cry more than a grown boy (I was going to say man but that didn’t seem to fit, agreed?) should. This does not stop me from slinging insults or talking tough if a situation arises and I have had some cocktails. So, before we start this little story, let’s briefly discuss drunk Tim…

If you have met him, drunk Tim is a very nice guy. He lip syncs to pop songs by female artists (mainly Christina Aguilera or Miley Cyrus… stay tuned for more on this down the road), he will talk and ask questions to figure out your life story and hang on every word as if it is the most interesting thing he has ever heard, he has even been known to engage in public displays of affection with his wife (sober Tim does NOT do this). Drunk Tim likes to party. He used to be a little boisterous back in college however, but mostly stayed out of trouble… Until one night it all caught up with him…

Fall of 2004. I was a Sophomore in college at the U of M. I was living in a house with 10 young, umm, gentlemen (yes, you read that right ten). This particular evening is a little hazy but I am sure it started out like most nights beer from the kegerator and 20-30 friendly games of Foosball. Although, as I recall, I was in my “fancy” attire at the time (sweater from 10th grade and khakis) so I must have gone someplace with my parents for a much-needed meal and money for food (beer), school supplies (beer), and a little fun (lots of beer). Whatever the case, I had managed to get myself hammered drunk and Drunk Tim was ready to party.

Our neighbors at the time were having a get together on this crisp fall evening which meant that the corner of 14th and 7th in dinkytown was rather busy as people bounced back and forth between the two houses. At some point I found myself in the basement of the neighbor’s house enjoying some of their famous blue drink that tasted like it had no alcohol but, in fact, had a high alcohol content (I researched this as a personal project during my college years). As a couple of buddies and myself were drinking and talking it became apparent that another one of the parties attendants was your textbook bad apple. The way he lurked in the corner just screamed that he was looking for trouble. There had been no incidents when I decided to leave the apartment and go back to his house (probably because the blue drink had been known to cause serious heart burn, this was discovered through the research project previously mentioned).

When I left the basement and made it outside the attendants of both parties were converging on the front lawns, worlds were colliding. As I made my way up the front walk to the porch of his house there was a young lad, er, relieving himself on the finely kept (not really) front lawn. He looked like a mix of Eminem and Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. As I passed I overheard him blabbing to his friend (who was standing far to close to him) about people, “disrespectin’ him.” He sounded like someone you might see on the Maury Povich show finding out whether or not he is the father.

I decided that the irony of this situation could not go unmentioned and in a drunken slur I said, “why you be disrespectin’ me by pissin’ on our lawn?” (I’m sure it sounded like a guy who would have been cast in an all white version of “Boyz in da Hood”) and continued on my way to the front porch of the house. Now, hindsight being 20/20, I should have recognized that respect (or lack there of) was a hot button issue for this guy. As I reached the top step, not knowing he had finished his business, he grabbed my left shoulder turned me around and nailed me with a cross to the right eye.


Now, I had never been punched in the face prior to this nor have I been since. It was flash, then a few seconds of numb while my brain tried to process what the hell just happened, surprisingly, no pain. I looked to a roommate who was standing on the porch for a clue as to what just happened… he was laughing, thus confirming that I had just been punched in the face. I heard my assailant, who had since retreated to the sidewalk, screaming in my direction… “yeah, bitch!” and “what up now?!”, I was starting to think that this guy was not in fact a student enrolled at the U of M, though I never got a chance to confirm this.

As previously stated, I am not a fighter and I am not tough. I decided that I would just retire for the evening and cut my losses. What’s more, is that my eye wouldn’t start watering (no, I wasn’t crying… I know what you’re thinking) so I thought I would go assess the damage. As I walked to the entry way I was met by a couple of roommates who looked at me and immediately asked/yelled, “who did it?!”, that is when I realized my eye was not watering but bleeding. That made me mad. I promptly pointed at the douche bag that hit me and the house of 11 drunk guys was mobilized like bees whose hive was under attack.

My original point to who had done it was not completely accurate and a smaller guy who was a spectator and not involved was shoved to the ground… At this point I was angry and kicked this guy when he was down, this is not something I am proud of and would gladly give this guy an opportunity to get me back if I were to ever encounter him. I am not a fighter and I am not tough.

What ensued from there was a stand-off and to my surprise my assailant had acquired his group of friends, including the guy I had seen in the basement earlier and he was holding a bottle that he broke over the curb (I knew he was bad news). The stand-off looked like something out of a bad reenactment of West Side Story or Michael Jackson’s “Bad” video. A few minutes into the stand-off one of my roommates was punched and knocked to the ground. He quickly got up and said, “I’m done” as he turned on his heel and retreated home.

At this point we were on the other side of the block from our house when the dreaded spot light hit our faces. Someone yelled “cops!” and I can’t swear it but I am pretty sure someone yelled “scatter!”

As we made our way through a driveway, I encountered a 5ft fence (uh oh, I know what you’re thinking). I watched a few of my roommates hop right over but as I attempted to do the same and got my left foot on top of the fence, I froze. The fence wobbled back and forth under my foot as I tried to figure out how to complete the task of getting to the other side. This thought was interrupted by my impatient roommate who gave me a helpful shove. As I went face first over the fence my khakis (remember I was wearing fancy clothes) caught on one of the rusty spires on the fence ripping the pants and digging into my mid-thigh and cutting me down past my knee. I got up and hobbled the rest of the way back home to evade the dreaded campus police.

The next day I was greeted with an eye swollen shut and a nasty cut, oddly enough we didn’t have a first aid kit in the house (we rarely had toilet paper). The next couple of weeks I was forced to walk around with the reminder on my face that… I am not a fighter and I am not tough.

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