My Old Kentucky Assholes; Pack Mentality Always A Loser


So. Kentucky and their asshole coach won the men’s basketball championship last night and the asshole Kentucky fans showed us why I call them assholes. Not that Kentucky has cornered the market on asshole sports fans, it’s just that when a school like Kentucky finally gets a winner at some fucking thing, you’d think they would act more human. As bad as Kentucky’s football team is, you’d think their fans would happy celebrate a big win like this, rather than tear shit up.

Makes me wonder what these assholes do when they lose at shit. If they lost last night, I guess they go down to the soup kitchen and serve the hungry or head over to Big Brothers and Sisters and sign up for sponsorship. Maybe their brains are reverse-wired from normal brains. Maybe they reward good deeds with punishments and bad deeds with good cheer and support.

Maybe they are just assholes and assholes travel in packs for protection. Notice how it’s never the lone wolf who starts a riot? Have you noticed that schoolboy fights are never started when the lone new kid at school walks over to the pack of bullies to pick a fight? Nope, assholes are chickenshits, and chickenshits require critical mass to have any guts.

OK, except I just thought of this one example of the lone wolf picking the fight with the pack. It was seventh grade and back then Austin still had an open, active Air Force Base, and my junior high school had a pack of bullies. Our school’s bully pack was led by Jimmy Seigler. All the Seiglers were from Kentucky, which I hope is the reason this story popped into my head. Jimmy was the youngest Seigler brother of four and the fourth in succession to have been held back twice by the time he hit seventh grade. He was fifteen when we started my seventh grade and turned sixteen quickly after.

So, Jimmy Seigler was sixteen in January when Robert Meone started school with us. Now, let me back up for a second and tell you that the Seigler-led wolf pack didn’t ever mess with me or my group of friends. My best bud, Streaker Jones, was the baddest mother fucker in the entire Austin Independent School District when he hit third grade. High school bullies turned tail and hid when they heard Streaker Jones was looking for them.

Streaker Jones made certain that nobody at our school got beat up without good cause, so the Seigler pack had to make due with verbal intimidation. They’d call kids sissy and queer and all of that stupid shit, and they’d posture and act like imbeciles. But they didn’t beat kids up.

So, Robert Meone was the seventh grade son of an Air Force sergeant who transferred to Austin from Georgia in January. He was tall and rope thin and looked like a Praying Mantas. We were all in the Commons before school on Robert’s first day, gathered as we did every day before school. All the kids were standing in their groups acting the variety of dumb as only junior high kids can act. Robert walked into the big room, stopped and looked around at all the groups of kids, took his jacket off, folded it and placed it carefully on the floor.

I remember that the jacket was one of those silk bomber jackets worn by servicemen of the era, and it had a hand-stitched airplane embroidered on the back. It was a jacket for the Mosquito Squadron, a famous flying group from the Korean war. Robert’s daddy was the lead mechanic for that squadron during that war. OK, conflict, the Korean Conflict.

He just stood there with his long arms dangling at his side. He had quite long arms and they hung to his thighs. We were about twenty feet away and I must admit I was curious about this new kid’s strange behaviors. I said, “Let’s go meet the new guy,” and I took a step that direction.

Streaker Jones grabbed my arm and said, “Stop, Mooner. Watch this.”

I always did, and still do, whatever Streaker Jones tells or asks me to do. He is the smartest human I know and he has both saved me from serious harm and shown me some of the funniest things on earth. Meone just stood there relaxed, with hands at his side and what as an adult I would call a “bemused” look on his face.

The noise level of the Commons was gradually lowering—like the lights at the symphony when they want you to take your seat. The talk lowered to murmurs and whispers all around as the different kids started to notice the lone figure standing in the midst of all our established groups.

“Hey, everybody, look at the Air Force queer standing like a fencepost.” It was Jimmy Seigler. “Hey queer boy, what are you doing here?”

Robert turned to face the Seigler pack, and then he smiled. Didn’t say a word, but he smiled. A simple act of defiance that instantly enraged Seigler. With his pack of junior high thugs backing him up, Seigler moved across the Commons to where Meone stood smiling. Streaker Jones said, “Look at his hands, Mooner.”

I looked and saw two raw-boned fists covered with big scabs.

“Boy ‘s a fighter,” my friend said. “Looks like fun ta me.”

“I’m talking to you, Air Force queer boy,” Seigler said as he reached Robert’s post. “What you smiling at, queer boy?”

Robert looked him up, then down, and said, “Looks like a sack a shit to me. Are you the toughest they got here in Texas?”

Seigler clearly relished this moment because he was allowed to only fight when the other guy started it. That was a rule strictly enforced by Streaker Jones. The bully cast a sideways glance at Streaker Jones before answering, “I’m tough enough to kick your skinny Air Force queer ass.”

“OK, take the first shot,” Robert Meone told him. “My daddy only let’s me fight if I don’t throw the first punch.”

Seigler ripped his jacket off and threw it to the ground. It was a three-year letter jacket for the Auto Mechanics Club. Seigler was the only kid old enough to drive in seventh grade. He posed his fisted hands like a boxer and started circling Meone, looking for a spot to make his move. Meone didn’t even turn to follow as Seigler circled him. When he had walked all the way around, Seigler feinted a left jab and then threw a big, looping right hand. If it had landed, it might have broken bones.

If it had landed.

I’d never seen actual Asian martial arts before that morning. In less than ten seconds, Seigler was on the floor bleeding from his broken nose, and crying like a baby. His whimpers were the only sounds in the Commons. Jimmy had two fingers of his left hand bent and broken, looking like a cardboard tube from a wire pants hanger that had been twisted with pliers. He’d been punched in the nose, and kicked in his ribs—two broken and three separated—and if the asshole had any nuts, they would soon be swollen to the size of grapefruit.

Meone just stood there, his now re-bloodied fists hanging at his sides and the bemused look back on his face. After a couple minutes he broke the verbal silence. “Anyone else?”

The entire room looked over at Streaker Jones. “Welcome to Austin. I’m Streaker Jones and this here is Mooner.”

Robert Meone fast became one of our group. He was smart and funny as all get out. He had lived in many far away places and had great stories about Japan and Germany and England. His father was transferred less than six months after he arrived, and that explained Meone’s actions the first day at school.

“When you go to three different schools every year, you either eat the bear or the bear eats you. I decided to set the table and get dinner done early. I like to eat the bear, and I prefer my bear first thing of a day.”

He went on to say that he’d had his ass kicked for years until his daddy was shipped to Japan for fifth grade. There he learned martial arts and self defense. Once he knew how to fight, he made the conscious decision to not be picked on again.

And holy shit am I off the fucking tracks. Look, I love me some University of Texas sports teams, and I do mean I love them. I am a true fanatic. But when we won the football National Championship a few years ago, I didn’t go out and burn peoples’ homes or wreck their cars, I had celebratory sex a couple times to unwind from the high. And when we lost the championship game two years ago, I didn’t go looking for trouble then either. I went over to Roshandra’s house for some poor sweet baby action.

Roshandra is ex-wife number five and the best poor sweet baby partner ever. Roshandra could make me forget I had any problems.

Maybe folks up to Kentucky don’t like sex. Maybe they’d rather trash up the streets than have good sex. Maybe folks up to Kentucky don’t know how to have good sex. Hell, maybe all those rioters were toothless assholes incapable of getting laid. Hell, for all I know it was a bunch of fucking Seiglers up there getting into a pack and acting stupid.

I need a beer. Manana, y’all.

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2 Responses to “My Old Kentucky Assholes; Pack Mentality Always A Loser”

  1. squatlo says:

    It has always baffled me that a team’s fans riot after they win a title. I can understand blowing off some frustration if you LOSE a title game, as long as it’s not violent or distructive steam… but to win and THEN go turn over cars and start fires? Never understood it at all.

    Fuck Kentucky, and fuck their asshole cheat of a coach. He’s left an oil slick behind him at every school that’s had him on its payroll, and no doubt the Wildcats will be next in line from a prolonged visit from the NCAA the day after he skips out of town to his next lovely destination.

  2. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Squat. Streaker Jones says these sorts of things are like the Forest Service “controlled burns” except for dumbass. Maybe it helps get all the cars on blocks out of peoples’ front yards.

    But either way you look at it, Calapari is a cheating asshole.

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