So you think you’re a tough guy, eh?
Well, I bet you’re no Sylvester, though, you little punk…
“Bad-ass.” Oh, what a great phrase–and versatile, too! It can be used as an adjective: “Mess with Chuck Norris, and you can expect to get one bad-ass roundhouse kick to the face.” It works great as a noun: “Jackie Chan is such a bad-ass!” You can even add an ‘-edly’ and take it for a spin as an adverb: “He bad-assedly walked away as the building exploded behind him.”
Okay, so maybe that last one doesn’t work so well. But no worries–it doesn’t really matter, because we are only really interested in using it in its noun form today.
So I’m not gonna lie to ya: I’ve spent most of my life wishing that I, myself, were indeed “a bad-ass.” I mean, who wouldn’t want to be one? At least when it comes to the average American male demographic cohort, amiright? Perhaps at times I have achieved minor bad-ass status, but I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever sustained it for any length of time.
And if I ever get too cocky and catch myself me-thinksing me-self to be a full-time bad-ass, to keep my feet grounded I have found it helpful to remember the true bad-asses I’ve encountered in my lifetime. I would even argue that every non-bad-ass out there–and that’s most of us–should have that One True Bad-Ass that they can look to to disabuse themselves of any foolish notions that, when left unchecked, might lead to foolish choices like, say, buying a motorcycle or a completely unnecessary leather jacket.
“But, who’s your One True Bad-Ass, oh Wise and Noble Blogger?” you are absolutely most definitely asking me right now, even though you know I can’t hear you through the computer screen, right?
Well, my One True Bad-Ass is Sylvester.
No, not Sylvester Stallone–aka Rocky, aka Rambo. In all honesty, I think that guy’s a bit much, anyways, don’t you?
When it comes to bad-assery, my Sylvester is the real deal, yo. The romantic partner of one of the Boss Lady’s random co-workers from many years ago, a chica named Rose, I sadly never actually had the pleasure of meeting him in person, but let’s just say I’ve heard a story or two about the guy.
For starters, he was a bona fide gang member from some Central American country–think the infamous M13 gang–and to make this extracurricular association clear he had the bangin’ neck/face tattoo to prove it. Further, he had several deportations under his belt, so you know this guy had no problem with commitment.
Anyways, let’s just say he was more committed to their relationship than dear Rose was. For example, after one of the first times she thought she had got what I think we can all agree was a bad influence out of her life, this guy shows up to her work, with his 10-year-old son in tow, both of them wearing matching tuxedos, each carrying a bouquet of–you guessed it–roses. Because this mother- ----- believed in true love and figured that it was high time he proposed to the woman who just dumped his ass. Sorry–his bad-ass.
Yeah. That happened.
But my favorite Sylvester/commitment story is about one of the other times she had thought she had finally rid herself of him.
One day, she came home from work to find that her apartment had been broken into. To her horror, she found that nothing had been stolen. No, instead, that crackhead had broken in and moved all his shit back in. I mean, talk about legendary. If that move’s not gangsta af, I don’t know what is.
And that sure must have been one confusing 911 call: “…hold up one second, Ma’am, so…has anything been stolen or not?!?”
Oh, that rascally Sylvester…
*Wags finger disapprovingly yet with a mischievous grin on my face*
Yeah…now that I say it out loud, if being a bad-ass means being a complete ----- psycho dripping in toxic masculinity, well, then I suppose I’ll just find a way to be content with my lightly aromatic and pleasantly fragrant version of modest masculinity instead…
Content created on: 28 January 2021 (Thursday)
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