As a kid, I was picked on a lot.
These things happen when you’re frail, freckle-faced and a tad effeminate. Pair that with “Little Ronnie Howard” red hair and an overbite big enough to make Mr. Ed envious and, well, you’re destined for years of torment and teasing.
I was taunted with every name in the book back then. Poindexter. Bucky Beaver. Alfred E. Neuman. And a few times I was called faggot. Nasty little word, that last one.
But all that nonsense ended when I grew a pair. Of balls, I mean, in case allusion is lost on you. A few years of orthodontics helped, too.
Now I don’t take shit from anyone – no matter how big they are. Life’s too short to spend it being pushed around by doofs who have more brawn than brains.
Eh – Not so fast, my friends of limited strength and over-sized vendettas…
Before you start puffing up those concave pecs, realize that I don’t advocate violence of any sort – so don’t go around punching people in the puss and blaming it all on Mikey Rox; I’m not your fall guy.
But, between you and me, every time International Pillow Fight Day rolls around, my chest does get a little hairier, my ‘nads a little naddier.
Revenge is sweet – and simple. Just grab a pillow – the featherless kind (unless you want to clean up that mess); head to Union Square; scope out the scene; and attack the biggest, bulliest-looking douche-nozzle there. Whack away until he realizes what hit him. Then run like the motherfucking wind.
When you’ve caught your breath, you’ll feel it – the weight of antiquated anguish will be gone. And nothing got hurt.
Except for that guy’s ego, of course.
Some sacrifices must be made.
International Pillow Fight Day
Saturday, April 3