Monday, June 16, 2014

Rest Stop Throwdown

I'm so tired of the angle, "Big city guy goes to small town, where he is shortly accosted by drunken, ignorant, unattractive locals, who threaten him for no reason whatsoever, then turn into cowards when he demonstrates that he can kick their asses as fast as ordering a latte." From Pawn Shop Chronicles to Emma to Ex Machina and a million more, rich white guys are obsessed with the idea that they can throw down like Glasgow boys when it comes to beating sense into a bunch of tradesmen in trailers. After all, they did P90X twice a week for a whole month last time it was popular!

Luckily, in the real world, said white guys tend not to be quite as rangy as their fictional counterparts. If forced to disembark from their rented beamers to squeeze out a whiz in the freeway-side gas & piss with the broken sink, these heroic Manhattanites prefer to fumble-dial 911 on their cell phones as soon as they encounter a tradesman with a patina of sweat and ash--then apologize to the dispatcher when they realize the local only came inside to pay for filling his truck at pump #2.

Nothing new here, I suppose. Lords have always liked the idea that, with stuff as surreal as their fencing classes, they would be able to handle a farmer with a mere walking stick, when little could be further from the truth. The classy New Yorker and/or Beverly Hills entity seems to have that curious split between subconscious reality and conscious reality, where they think they believe they could really take care of themselves if they had to, but they don't actually want to stop the car, because some part deep inside of them is whispering, "Hurry back to Saks where it's safe, hun."

Moral authority is on your side, as long as the small-town folks you're mutilating on behalf of some innocent girl somewhere are white (1973-2014) or black (∞-1972). Show them a stiff upper lip, teach the Roma the taste of your polished cane, and they'll concede to your class, breaking beneath your genteel gaze like a dollar-store mirror.

Hey, when the rich have moved to their spacescrapers, it'll be all those rural hicks living in Aspen who get cinematically looked down upon. And when they've deleted themselves for replacement by hybrid sex/combat robots, they actually will win all the fights they pick with the meat-occupying folk. Finally, fact and fiction will be unified!


  1. Lol, I've seen dudes loading a truckful of 90 lbs bales of hay, by simply tossing them into it over their shoulder. Way more and faster than the carefully managed power clean at crossfit. Aside from the dream confrontations/dominations, the wishful thinking also extends to women, who supposedly flock to the suave, and urprisingly -rich dude.
    (This will come as a surprise to my rural carpenter cousin, who has bee with far more ladies than my white collar ass can boast about.)

    Not so sure if the robots will win. I like the opening scene of the new Robocob, showing at least two true and tried ways in which overwhelming force is still powerless

    1. Yeah, more like the actual clean and jerk: destroy your joints in exchange for rugged, painful strength that either kills you or leaves you strong at 60. Of course, the hay bales still win overall.