Sunday, December 21, 2008

He-Man Looks Back in Anger

Reflections and Regrets From a Former Master of the Universe

Part I: The Early Years

Look, I’ve made some mistakes. I’ve put some hard miles on this body, and when you’ve lived like I’ve lived, you’re bound to have a few things on the ol’ resume that you aren’t too proud of. But there’s one thing you should know about me: I put it all on the line, every goddamn day. I rolled the dice. I never played it safe. You know what I want on my tombstone? Balls-Out. That’s it. No “Here Lies He-Man” or any of that shit. Just Balls-Out. Balls. Out. What’s that old saying? The rolling stone gathers no moss? Well, I’ve rolled all over the goddamn world. And I was moss-free, baby. Moss-fucking-free. But now? I’m covered in the stuff. Just covered in it.

My counselor keeps telling me that I’m too trusting, that I make myself too vulnerable. He’s always like, “You can’t keep putting yourself in these situations, He-Man,” like I fucking asked to get robbed by that hooker in Carson City. Like I was wearing a goddamn sign that said, “Please stab me and rob me and roll my unconscious body into a ditch.” My counselor’s like, “He-Man, you make bad decisions.” Fuck you. You make bad decisions. You know what was a bad decision, Doc? Paying $175 an hour just to listen to you talk bullshit all day long. That was a fucking terrible decision. Give me a goddamn break. I’m He-Man. I don’t make bad decisions. I don’t even make decisions at all. Decisions are for pussies. I act. I go with the gut. And when you go with the gut, you’re gonna get stabbed and robbed by a few hooker hitchhikers every now and then. It happens. Cost of doin’ business, as they say. And I got a question for you: If this court-appointed counselor guy is a real doctor, then why can’t he prescribe medicine? I go up to him the other day and I’m like, “Hey Doc, it hurts when I sleep. Write me a note for some Oxy, will ya?” And he’s like, “Sorry He-Man. That’s not what you need. And I can’t write a prescription for you, anyway.” Fucking useless.

What were we talking about again? Right, right, my supposedly “reckless” habit of picking up hitchhikers. Look, if offering rides to poor strangers every now and again is wrong, then I’m never gonna be right, OK? I look out for the poor people of the world. It’s what I do. It’s my mission from God. Or Buddha, or Yoda, or whoever’s up there flipping burgers in that great Hardee’s in the sky. I know this might come across as a shock to some of you, but He-Man has a heart, ladies and gentlemen. He-Man cares. I’m sorry, but I do. I have a huge heart. Seriously, I have an enlarged heart. My doctor says it’s because of all the juice I’ve done over the years, but my old lady says it’s because I’m so full of love—and I’m inclined to believe her. Hey, did you ever see that Elephant Man movie? The one where he’s like, “Maybe my head is so big because it’s so full of dreams?” Well, maybe that’s why my heart got so big. Because it’s so full of love. And dreams. Yeah, that’s good shit right there, man. Write that down. Hey, you wanna hear something crazy? A few years ago, Michael Jackson went out and bought the Elephant Man’s bones. Now why in the world would somebody go and do something like that? This was back when he was the King of Pop, right? He had all the money in the world, and I guess he was like, “You know what I should do with all this coin? I should buy some dead freak’s bones.” And where would you even find that shit? Is there some kind of bone store out there that I don’t know about? He was an odd dude. Michael, I mean. Tito was pretty cool. We used to hang out. We cut an album together one time. Tito did his thing, and I rapped on it. Those were the early days of rap music. My name’s He-Man and I’m here to say, I’m the coolest guy in the USA. You know, real grassroots stuff.

He-Man in 2007 at the Toledo premiere of "Suplex of Love,"
a film about pro wrestling starring Mickey Rourke.
It was He-Man's directorial debut.
The film was not well-received.

‘Roids? You’re goddamn right I used ‘em. Of course I did. Everybody was juicing back then. I was playing JuCo ball down in San Jacinto—starting safety, plus I returned a few kicks and punts—and all the guys on my team were doing it, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Why not, right? But let me explain something to you: The shit we were doing back then wasn’t anything like that specialized junk you got nowadays. This stuff wasn’t gonna help you recover faster from workouts, or get more endurance or whatever. This shit was gonna get you big. And it worked. I have no idea what was in it. All I know is, this stuff was potent. You could basically shoot this shit in your ass and just sit around all day and drink beer and eat Fritos, and you’d still get huge.

Yeah, we had a pretty good team down there. Some crazy motherfuckers, that’s for sure. That’s where I met Duncan—you know, Man-At-Arms. He was a year ahead of me. Running Back. Went on to play at UT and got drafted 4th overall by the Oilers. Had a few good years in the League before he shredded his knee in a motorcycle accident. Clawful was down there in San Jacinto, too—but nobody called him Clawful back then. He was just Gary, the skinny-ass outside linebacker. He was quick and he could hit, but Coach was on his ass from day one telling him he had to get bigger, had to bulk up, had to add like 50 pounds of muscle if he ever wanted to play DI. Gary tried everything, but nothing worked. Then one of Gary’s buddies went down to Mexico and came back with some really crazy-looking stuff in a tiny little vial. It looked like clam chowder and smelled like the dumpster outside of Long John Silver’s. Turns out it was just anabolic mixed with crab juice, but Gary was desperate so he bought it. His buddy sold it to him for, like, a grand. He told him that the crab juice would make his bones harder—you know, like a crab’s shell. And I’ll be damned if that nasty-smelling shit didn’t work. Gary got big—real big. ‘Course, his hands turned into claws, but Gary didn’t care. I remember how he used to snip the tops off of beer cans. He’d snip ‘em off with that one giant claw of his and just guzzle ‘em down. I saw him snip his way through a couple of thirty-racks of Coors one night. Swear to god dude drank 60 beers. And if you think for a second that having claws prevented Gary from taking the field each week, then you don’t know JuCo football, my friend. Some of the teams we played, bro, having a crab-man on the field was the least of the ref’s concerns. I saw a guy get shot one time—and this was way before The Last Boy Scout came out. JuCo was no joke, man.

Anyway, after he got big, Gary dominated. Those claws made him impossible to block. He just tore through the line on every play. Led the league in sacks for two straight years. But after he killed that dude, the shit kinda hit the fan for ol’ Gary. Yeah, he killed a dude. You didn’t hear about it? Total accident. Some fool’s helmet came off, and he took a claw right to the dome. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t happen more often. Anyway, after it happened, Gary was done. None of the big DI programs would take him. Switzer tried to recruit him, but he backed off once the papers got wind of it. Something about having a half-crab with a manslaughter charge on the team just didn’t sit right with some of the folks in Oklahoma, I guess. Their loss, man. Gary was a great, great guy. Helluva linebacker, too. God damn, I miss that dude. Jesus, it’s been twenty years and I still can’t believe he’s dead.


Jay Z said...

Holy shit.

Jeff R. said...

Fucking incredible. Fucking incredible.