American Bad Ass

Predator Press

[LOBO]

Well, the Cardinal Fitness thing -my New Year's Resolution- hasn't really panned, so LadyTerri and I have been trying to get creative. She made me promise to spend three hours a week at the gym, and frankly I can't take that much tanning: I look like a disoriented lobster, and everyone complains the booth smells like bacon for hours afterwards.

So she says, "Why don't you try Karate?"

Well, I figured that 'Karate' was some kind of exotic takeout.

Maybe a cologne.

But it turns out it's like kickboxing and crap.

As the last Grand Master of the lost Peking Duck martial arts style, I figure fine: I can hide under or behind anything virtually instantly (Muay Thai legend says it can only be learned in a vision during intense meditation, but I posses this innate ability anytime I don't want my ass kicked at Denny's). How bad could this 'Karate' thing be then? It's just another martial art, right? We all put on our pajamas and go to the dojo and powernap for two hours? I'm down with that.

While initially pleased that my Peking Duck expertise had provided me an honorary status of 'White Belt', it soon became apparent that this was not a very high rank: I was being trained with a teeny-tiny squad of precocious little 5-year-olds.

And honestly? It got pretty boring after five or six weeks: I could kick the crap out of every single one those little chumps ... and I got trophys to prove it. I would waste them little bastards too: I once made the challenger watch me savagely amputate his own stuffed toy Barney tail before beating him severely with it while listening to Slayer on my headphones. I was like an evil Jackie Chan: there were little GI Joe parts 'an Pokemon cards flyin' everywhere.

But rather than finally promoting me a rank, Grand Master Futon called the cops.

I think he was afraid of my potential.