Serena Williams would kick my ass

PALM BEACH GARDENS, FLA – "You shouldn’t hit girls." My father taught me that. A wise man, my father. He also taught me that where my older sister, Phyllis, was concerned I might have to make an exception. You see, I had a big sister who didn’t like me from the time I was born. There’s a family story about the time she was two and I was an infant and while I nursed she threw a phonebook at me and mother, knocking me off a teat and marking the first shot in a battle that would rage for decades to come.

The situation between my sister and me is better now. She lives a few thousand miles away and although she visits regularly, we no longer strike one another in anger. We haven’t come to blows since 1981, when I was 15 and went upside her like ugly on an ape before school one morning. While time mightn’t heal all wounds, it does fix the problem of being so little a girl can kick your ass any time she wants. Phyllis and I still bicker quite a bit, but in terms of actual brawling, there’s nothing going on.

Despite the détente between us, something obviously lingers in my psyche from my experience with Phyllis. It’s either that or else I have some kind of mother-hating issues stowed deeply in my subconscious. Or maybe it’s that I spent four years married to a reptile. I’m not sure. Whatever it is, I habitually surround myself with vituperating cunts. It’s a bad pattern I can’t seem to break. Whether it’s co-workers, or girlfriends, or sport pussy or whatever, I just end up immersed in a sea of horrible women. There are wonderful women in this world. I’ve seen many of them. My friends have told me about them. I know they exist.

But my own personal sphere is and always has been inhabited by the most venomous, carping, black-hearted harpies imaginable. It’s like waking up every day in the center of a Hieronymous Bosch painting. I’m not kidding. I’m surrounded by screeching demonettes, flesh-eating, winged serpents with toothed vaginas. Insatiable, life-drinking crones claw at me every waking moment and when I sleep I dream of ballistic titties firing milk shrapnel missiles in clusters all around me, trapping me in a mine field of gargantuan, subterranean, snarling twats that burst violently forth from the bloodied earth, belching out their fiendish contents, dousing me and the surrounding landscape in clotted gore.

All right. It’s not really that bad. But I was having fun. Forgive the hyperbole. I’ll discuss it in therapy. Anyway . . .

It puzzles me why my father would instruct me about the untouchability of women, given that so many of them, or at least so many I know, deserve and probably require a swift smack. I was wondering just yesterday, “Why oh why, Dad, mustn’t one hit girls?” Then I came upon something.

Because I spend far too much time alone (understandably enough) and because I’ve got a thing for sweaty women with fantastic bodies (and who doesn’t) and because I happen to believe that the internet exists for two reasons (fruitless job searches and masturbation), I was googling images of female athletes recently and I pulled up this frightening photo. That woman, my friends, could kick your ass. There are like maybe three guys in the world who could take Serena Williams: Ving Rhames, Danny Trejo and my World of Warcraft character. That’s pretty much it.

I’m sure glad Serena Williams isn’t my big sister. If she were, I’d probably still be taking an ass-whooping from a girl every day. As it is, I’m a free man. But I’m not looking to tangle with Serena any time soon, nor do I want to mix it up with her Amazonian sibling, Venus. Those two are too much for an ordinary man to handle in a fair fight. Of course, that said, I don’t believe in fighting fairly. If a Williams sustah stepped to me I’d have to cheat. I’d break a bottle, or pull a pool cue, or throw a chair at the big horse. Whatever. With access to makeshift weaons I might hold my own for a few minutes. Butt-naked, no foreign objects – that’s a different story. She’d beat me like a stepchild. Admitting that to myself was humbling.

I like self-reflection. It’s good for me. So I dwelt on the matter for a while. “I wonder,” said I to my lonely self, “what other women in this world could fuck me completely up.” I found quite a few.

For starters, there’s Denise Masino, although calling yourself a girl when you’ve got an Adam’s apple and a four-inch clitoris, that’s kind of playing fast and free with terms. And then there’s Lucia Rijker. Talk about beauty and the beast, she’s both. Dubbed by the press, “The Most Dangerous Woman in the World,” Rijker is undefeated as a professional fighter with a boxing record of 17-0 and a kickboxing record of 37-0, with 39 knockouts in her combined 54 fights. She’s a bad mamma jamma and just as fine as she could be.

And one can’t overlook Kyra Gracie. Born into the Gracie ultimate fighting empire and learned her science from uncles Ralph, Renzo and Ryan Gracie, bad dudes all. Ms. Gracie is the first woman to actively participate in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, in which she is holds a black belt and numerous titles. Obviously Kyra’s got other assets working for her. Yes indeed you’d love to nail her, but don’t pull her hair or call her names. She’ll fuck you utterly up.

Besides the women in the world who could actually kick your ass, there’s also the raft of broads who just seem like they could. I know Wendy O. Williams is pushing up daisies, but the mere thought of her in her prime can still scare a quart of blood out of a grown man. Tura Satana, star of screen classic Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, is now 69 and probably can’t really kick your ass, but I bet you wouldn’t want to test that hypothesis. And what about Grace Jones? Grace Jones is like hard drugs; you really, really, really wanna do her but you know she could destroy you.

That’s just a small sample of the deadly menagerie of women our world has to offer. There are far too many to list in a blog post. And anyway, this post isn’t about making a list anyway. It’s about one simple fact: there are chicks out there who would own you. I don’t care how tough you think you are; some broad somewhere could knock your snot loose.

And now, I think when it’s all said and done perhaps it’s that fact that underlies my father’s true wisdom. “You hadn’t oughtta hit girls, boy,” he’d say. “I know Dad,” I’d assure him. I always thought it was a gentle spot in him that made him instill so deeply in me the notion that a woman is a precious creature not to be fouled by man’s aggression. I still think that’s a part of it. Dad was a gentle man. But he was also a realistic man, and realistically speaking, if your son makes a habit of getting into it with girls, one day sooner or later he’s gonna get his ass kicked right in front of everybody. No man should want his son to live with the public stigma of getting owned by a woman. For that reason, if no other, you shouldn’t hit girls.

Especially not Serena Williams.