Punching Tom Hanks: Dropkicking Gorillas and Pummeling Zombified Ex-Presidents---A Guide to Beating Up Anything (8 page)

Types of hammers commonly favored by hammer-wielding monkeys.

HOW TO BEAT UP AN ALLIGATOR

It seems lately like any chaw-spitting rube with the ability to discern the business end of a gator from the pleasure end (ask me later) is capable of quickly incapacitating one. Said rube sneaks up on it from behind like a coward, grabs the gator’s clamped mouth and then tapes it shut, bags it, etc. Big deal. I don’t know about you, but that’s not how
I’ve
always dreamed of kicking the shit out of a gator. I mean, if you’re comfortable with forever having an asterisk next to your alligator fight, fine by me. Knowing people are gonna see that mark, then follow it to read something like. “Oh, by the way, I totally cheated by sneaking up on the alligator, and there was zero honor associated with my victory, just an FYI.” That’s cool.

Hey, maybe you’ll get lucky—lots of people never even read the footnotes. I know I don’t.
*
Who’s got the time? I’ll see that asterisk, drop down the page, then quickly scan the lower right margin before coming to my senses and realizing, “This is dumb! Who cares! A second ago I was reading and now I’m on some sort of scavenger hunt? They couldn’t have just parenthetically relayed the information?”

Trust me, you don’t want any part of that shit. I know you might not be able to relate to what I’m saying, yet. But someday, when the time 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 open the encyclopedia and saw a picture of this giant snake, which was, in fact, billed as the “world’s biggest snake” I started to believe him. I mean, I’d never heard of it and here it was in the encyclopedia! He must be telling the truth, right?

After a few haircuts and much pestering to see the creature, John told me that the snake had been beaten up and eaten by … a gorilla. The gorilla was his new, equally reclusive and prone to daytime sleeping, pet. All haircut long I’d stare at the crack under the door, eyes locked, looking for his shadow to pass by. I never saw one, but if I had, I’m sure that it would’ve convinced me the ape was real … despite the fact that the presence of someone in the backroom of a barbershop is hardly scientific proof of the existence of a gigantic, eerily quiet gorilla.

Many years later, as a wiser and fully grown man, I understand that those stories were probably just him messing with some silly kid. It’s unlikely he was telling the truth, it’s borderline impossible and probably nothing but bullshit. I know that. However …

I can’t afford to take that chance. I can’t afford to just go ahead and assume that’s the case. ’Cause if I did? I’d be a fool. I’d be putting at risk countless men and boys just looking to get a safe, gorilla-free haircut, and I’d deserve whatever fate befell me at the hairy hands of this ape to best all apes.

No. I must prepare for all scenarios and situations. Maybe that wide-eyed kid knew something, sensed something we no longer can, as adults. No, for the purposes of our training, that ape was real … and he must pay, the same as anyone else. With an ape-sized ass whooping.

Here’s how you beat that impeccably groomed gorilla with the oddly trendy haircut and close shave. Oh, you don’t think he was taking advantage of all the free haircuts he could scam from John? I bet that was the bargain the two struck. He probably said, “Listen, ape. You hang out here and let me spin yarns of your great exploits, if anyone ever tries to break in and rob me, you step in. For that, you get all the free cuts you’d ever want. We’re talking everything. Shampoo, perms, highlights, the works!”

So, we know the ape is larger than a normal ape, and we know the ape is incredibly vain. The years of primping and styling in that mirror-filled room have changed him. He’s … a fancy ape. His hair needs to be just-fucking-so; he don’t care how long it takes. If you had your own personal chef for a year, you’d get pretty damn picky about your food, right? Same principle applies here.

This ape thinks he’s better than you.

When that simian bursts through the door, regardless of whether your haircut is done, calmly wave the barber off … and wait. Remain calm as the ape bears down on you. When he’s five feet away, jump up, flinging the protective poncho outward, in his direction. The hair will momentarily blind him. Then, remove the poncho, pull that little white strip of paper off your neck, and put up your dukes.

When he regains his sight, you leap in with a wide hook, and clip him right on that big monkey jaw. He won’t expect it. He’ll stagger for a second. Then, you reach up with both hands and muss up that pretty head of hair of his. He’s going to freak out. He’ll grab a comb, go over to the mirror, and attempt to fix his coif. Punch him in the kidneys while he’s facing the mirror. He’ll be too transfixed by his hair to see you. When the shot lands he’ll turn and come for you but you’ll muss his hair up again, causing him to again forget you and return to the mirror. Repeat this until he’s had enough.

Return to the chair and finish that cut. No need to neglect your grooming just ’cause of a little fight with a monkey. Tip the barber double on your way out.

HOW TO BEAT UP A TYRANNOSAURUS REX AND ACTOR MARK WAHLBERG

I can already hear your confused questions: “Wait, what? Why the hell is
this
happening? Do Mark Wahlberg and this dinosaur know each other? Or did they just meet up here randomly a minute ago? And why do they want to fight me? Is this a dream? What do Mark Wahlberg and this dinosaur do together when they’re
not
trying to fight me?

“Did Mark Wahlberg summon this thing from the past with a time machine? Or merely discover a dino egg that he then nurtured with love and tenderness, until it hatched out from under him and the specially made ‘dino-egg nest pillow’ he’d been squatting on?”

The answers are: DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT. You’ve got a creature with a walnut-size brain to fight, and he’s got a dinosaur with him. Honestly, it really doesn’t matter why. Let’s just say they like each other’s company and connect on some level. Now, the only tool you’ll need for this fight is a toaster with an extra-long extension cord. Plug it in and set it aside, it’ll come into play later. Tackle Wahlberg first. A quick glance at the threat he poses can seem daunting, due to the following:

1.
He’s from Boston, which is very impressive to people from Boston.

2.
He often wears a leather jacket. (This tells you he’s no nerd, otherwise he’d be wearing glasses, like nerds do, and not a leather jacket, like nerds clearly
don’t do.
)

3.
His level of physical conditioning is unknown. (Does anyone know if he works out? I’ve never heard anything about that.) And—

4.
His greatest weakness (an inability to avoid movies, projects, and endeavors that are terrible) is not something that can be exploited in a physical encounter.

However he’s actually not that big of a threat. To begin, FLIP BOTH OF THEM OFF, then immediately take off running toward a heavily wooded, rain forest-type area. The ’saur will quickly lose sight of you, but ’berg will pursue enthusiastically. Once you’re far enough into the underbrush, turn and confront him.

Step one in defeating Mark? You’ve got to trick him into putting on a cow costume. Now, there are many ways to do this, as you’ve no doubt seen documented on plenty of Web sites. However, for those of you too lazy to google, “Mark Wahlberg, cow costume, trick him into it,” I’d say the easiest way to do it is to, on the spot, quickly churn out a horrendous screenplay starring a cow, and then offer to let him audition once he puts on the costume.

I know what you’re thinking: “I’m not a writer … The script will be unreadable. He’s probably going to know it sucks, etc.” My answers, in order: “I know, it will, and he really won’t.” Trust me, as an expert on fighting, and a guy who saw
Max Payne,
it will work. As he’s demonstrated over the past decade, for whatever reason, Wahlberg is unable to discern the quality of a script before buying, filming, and then appearing in it. ONLY THEN, AND NOT A MOMENT BEFORE. Oh, he might suspect it’s bad, he may even make a sarcastic remark, but he WILL proceed with the audition (and then produce and star in it, if you were to let him, but it won’t get that far).

Just grab a large leaf off a tree, and using mud, begin scrawling things on the leaf. Random words, bits of songs you remember, something your uncle once told you, it doesn’t matter. Hand the leaves to him as you finish them. At some point while he’s reading he’ll probably say, “Damn … this is some good shit you got here. What did you say you did for a living?” Just ignore him and insist he jump to the part where he has to don a cow-suit.