I heavily disregard the idea of physical fighting. Unless you are aiming for the Olympics or UFC, you shouldn’t body wrestle anyone you don’t want to fuck. Because usually in a wrestle, there is too much of intimacy and hand holding. Which then makes people question your unspoken preferences after a point.
I think you should fight from a distance; bob and weave. Shadow punch him so he doesn’t come close. Test his agility and awareness. Unagi that shit. Don’t anaconda choke him, don’t pin him down missionary style and don’t ride his chest like a cowboy for fucks sake! (Also, is it called for fuck’s sake? or is it called for fucks sake? Is it for the sake of fuck or nah?)
Ninety percent of the fights that I have witnessed in my life are at the clubs or at the wine shops. So as a word of caution, if the wine shop owner or the bartender looks like he slaughters buffaloes to build his triceps but has also overcharged you for your wine bottle, then don’t fight him. Ask him politely. But if he is persistent, then just pay for the bottle and get out of there avoiding any sort of spine or wine injuries.
What I mean is, you should choose your bottles wisely.
The guy after all has eight packs, you just have one single pack and that too is on your back; it’s your backpack. You need that once you step out of the shop. That’s your best way to carry alcohol bottles. Apparently, aunties freak out when they see someone carrying something in a black plastic bag into their apartment building. To them, it could mean that the bachelor guy drinks, or worse or he is a non-veg eater, or both. Which in other words also means, he is not a virgin. What a sinner!
It’s also highly recommended to not fight someone who gives a fuck less than you do. Before you throw a punch at him or cuss him out, calculate his wealth in fucks that he has accumulated over the years. When they say, “sometimes less is more”, they are referring to cases like these.
Let’s see: So, there is Vicky (short for, of course, Vikash, or Vikas or Vicash). Now Vicky is the kind of a guy who’d DM a totally stranger dude, send them friend requests, call his male friends “dear” for no affectionate reason and would put up a DP wearing sunglasses that cover his entire face. He doesn’t even need a helmet or an anti-tan cream. He would also wear semi-formals to the beach; checked formal shirts, tight jeans and brown shoes. No round hats. Just a big ass Chinese cellphone to click pictures of the bikini clad women at Bagha. He clearly doesn’t have a lot of fucks to give.
So, once you breakdown his fuckometer in your head and find out he has about 7 fucks to give and you have about a 100. Then oh boy! You’re outfucked by 93. That’s bad news. If you fight Vicky, he will beat you in however unscientific way he can; slap your neck, scratch your face, spit on your ears or hit you with his invisible horns, like a Billy goat. He would then take your picture and upload it on social media, where he is posing with that “V” peace sign. You know, that mandatory pose that segregates the rest of the world from Asian girls. But Vicky doesn’t know “V” stands for peace. He thinks it stands for “violence”, or in an arrogantly delusional way, for “Vicky” and when confronted in disagreement, he is quick to say, “What do you mean, this is not the slingshot sign?”
You on the other hand, have an awkward hand syndrome while getting clicked. You are one of those, “should I put my hands inside my pocket or should I do something with it? Like, I don’t know, should I pose with my arms crossed? Or tuck my palms in my armpits?” kind of a guy.
Nothing is cute, sexy, or likeable about pictures where your hands don’t know where to be. It’s kind of innocent, yes, but overall, it’s a totally unwanted situation.
That’s why in group pictures I stand in the second row. Not too far away from the camera, like the people in the last row, who look like their eighth standard blurry self, and remind you of the legend of Bigfoot. Everyone they show that photograph to, asks them, “So which one is you, again? Oh, the one with the tie? And is that a tie?”
They bring the photo closer to their eyes, squint at it like a diamond merchant looking through a monocle. Then they look at you (as if they don’t already know how you look like). Compare the fine features in their head; ah, the same beaky nose, similar gap between the front teeth and the exact giant nostrils. Their vision plays ping-pong with you and your photograph for a minute, and then they tell you, you have changed. Wow! All that scrutiny for such a generic statement.
I don’t stand in the front row where people have to throw metal or gang signs. Some even maintain a posture of a relaxed puppet; shoulders low and fingers intertwined, head loosely resting on one side. I prefer to stand in the middle, where people have their eyes closed or they are looking everywhere else other than at the camera. My reason is simple, in the middle row, you can see my face but not my paunch. I can keep my stomach inflated and my hands jacketed. And all you get to see is a face with an expression that says, yeah, I was ready for the photo, but I wasn’t ready for a photo.