Maurice: Hey, Haltiwanger. How is youse?
Me: Hi, Maurice. Hi Bonga. Enjoying the sunshine?
Maurice: We're liking it just fine. Eh, Bonga? Too bad not everyone can be enjoying it today though. Like, for example, take Bonga's guinea pig pal, Mr. Carruthers. He don't wanna come outside on account'a his nerves are shot after some wiseguy gave him a karate chop. Now who would karate chop a cute little guinea pig, a guinea pig I might add who's getting on in years. It's like hitting a senior citizen. I ask youse, what kind'a person would hit an old fat hairy senior citizen? What kind'a louse would do that? Eh? That's what me and Bonga here are wondering. Right, Bonga?
Bonga: Eee, eeee, eeeee! Whooo, whooo, ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh!
Me: Oh, yeah...well...well, that's really terrible there Maurice. I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Carruthers and his nerves and all. Very unfortunate. Please send him my regards and express my deepest sympathies. I really have to be going now (I must add that at this point I knew the jig was up and Bonga was looking at me with fiery vengeance in his beady little monkey eyes and his tiny, green pillbox hat was tilted at a peculiar angle that insinuated trouble but then maybe I'm just paranoid and out-of-work organ grinder monkeys make me nervous although there is no confusion about what happened next).
Maurice: Sure, sure, have a nice day. By the way, did you get a haircut. 'Cause your head looks kind'a like, well, I don't know, whadd'ya think Bonga but I think it looks a lot like a coconut. I mean I'd say a melon but there's just a bit of this thin, wispy hair sticking up, which really is coconut-like. Like if youse body was a tree and your head was on top I'd climb up that tree without a thought and pick that coconut before it drops to the ground and rots. Just a thought.
Me: Uh, well, that's very astute of you, Maurice. Very goods powers of observation you got there although I'd beg to differ about the whole coconut head resemblance thing, especially because, if you might've noticed, the back of my head is actually rather flat, which is not something you normally see on a coconut. Maybe more like a papaya that's gone kind'a soft and is resting on a counter top so one side gets a little flat due to pressure and gravity and sunlight and fibrous texture and such, so papaya yes, coconut not so much (I might further add that at this point Bonga was pretty much chomping at the bit, trying to shake off his little dress and I noticed that Maurice had subtly unhooked Bonga's chain from the tiny leash around his neck).
Maurice: Papaya, coconut, it's all the same to me. They're fruit, grow on tropical trees and they're both delicious. Am I right, Bonga? Yum, yum.
It was at this point that I turned to go and I'd taken only half a step before I felt Bonga's hairy and slightly piquant smelling body landing squarely on my shoulders as he grabbed my head with his deceptively strong little monkey-handed grip and began twisting my head this way and that, attempting to wrench my noggin from my neck. When that didn't work he began to pummel me with his tiny monkey fists and I believe he also defecated on my treasured Arrow Mach II tailored shirt (luckily the shirt's strong polyester fibers withstood the torrent of monkey fecal matter and made for an easier clean-up process in the end so hats off to all the fabric scientists and engineers at the Arrow corporation).
|All I can say is that if a monkey defecated on Bob, Paul or Steve's shirt they wouldn't bat an eyelash knowing that the scientific construction of their Arrow Mach II shirts are built to withstand any primate's fecal onslaught. Cooler heads shall always prevail as Bob, Paul and Steve easily illustrate and if the confidence in their gaze doesn't take your breath away maybe their shaped shirts, well-groomed facial hair and easygoing yet confident manliness will.|
|Maurice and Bonga in better days before Bonga allegedly mistook my head for a coconut and paid the price for it. Don't let Maurice's charming facade fool you for beneath the jaunty hat, colourful bandana and ruddy Alp-climbing complexion lies the complex cogs and wheels turning in the psychological machinery of an inherently evil man. The Nazis in the Sound of Music could learn a thing or two from this organ-grinding despot. As for Bonga, one look at his feral little face says it all. If this isn't a monkey that would crack open your skull and suck out your brains like they were just so much banana puree, then you've obviously been taken in by his fetching sun dress and stylish accessories.|
|Gorblon the Russian (left) and Huch-Huch the Turk, ready for business with their special abdominal push buttons that trigger their lethal karate chops and punches. Combined with their kicks, activated by quick finger taps on their spring-loaded blue support stands, these two spell trouble even if they couldn't spell the word trouble if their lives depended on it.|
|Here is Gorblon and Huch-Huch in action, demonstrating their deadly chops and kicks. But those black belts won't count for much when you pop off their heads and send their puppet masters scurrying for the shrubbery.|
|It may look bad for the shrimp in the shiny underpants but when the big buffoon is laying on the ground trying to lick his own groin wounds we'll see who's doing the laughing.|
Now here's where things get interesting. No doubt the boneheaded chump is going to take offense at these comments and and make a beeline straight for your jugular veins. One glance at the couple of squirts calling him names and he'll think he has it made in the shade when it comes to putting you and your runt friends' lights out. But this is where you'll surprise him using a trick I learned, interestingly enough, from old episodes of the Three Stooges and is a move I like to call the "Moe Howard Subterfuge." In essence, you'll be offering up your shrimp pal as a diversion so you can hit the big galoot right where it counts. The image below illustrates both the simplicity and the effectiveness of the Moe Howard defense. As the goon approaches, you throw your half-pint pal into the fray head first. The natural reaction is for the big bruiser to grasp the shrimp's hair or ear to move him out of the way, seriously compromising his concentration. Get your shrimp friend to make lots of whimpering noises too, although he might be doing that naturally as the huge buffoon tears out tufts of your friend's hair. Now is the time to act before your buddy is completely bald. Grip the clodhopper's free arm (the one that's not pulling at your sidekick's hair or ear) but entwine your arms in such a way that you're pulling back against his elbow joint. Then apply my patented shoulder pinch on the dolt's collarbone (you may need to stand on a stool to reach it so maybe carry a small stool with you on your travels-your sidekick can carry it), squeezing it like an enthusiastic accordion player. You'll hear the sweet music of "I surrender, dear," from your oafish foe in seconds and your shrimp sidekick should have lost only a slight amount of hair.
|It's shrimp fest down at the docks but it looks like this brute is going to get a bruising once you snap his elbow like a dry lasagna noodle and squeeze his collarbone like you're playing Flight of the Bumblebee.|
|The pork pie hat and cane attack: Your attacker confronts you, cane at the ready. Perhaps you had a few disagreeing words with him last week. Now he's returned to exact his revenge. Assume the cane-defense position, which means simply stand with legs apart, cane raised and hiss through your teeth, "Suck broomstick you filthy hoodlum." Then lean forward and tap him on the top of his pork pie hat. This lets you know if there's any beef jerky, old tea bags or Bible page reinforcement in the lid. Regardless, the fact that you tapped him on the hat first means you've won the fight. If he persists in his attack you may defecate in your pants, which should confuse him long enough that you can then run or there's a good chance he may run first. If you decide to stand your soiled ground, it helps to remove your hat and use it to fan your stench into your adversary's face. If all else fails, feel free to throw some feces at him.With any luck you'll hit him in the eyes, blinding him temporarily whereupon you can beat him soundly with your cane.|
|The Mary Poppins Defense: A variation on the walking cane, using an umbrella instead, this self-defense technique asks that before leaving the house you dress like Mary Poppins first. A man, upon seeing you, goes berserk. Perhaps he saw the movie as a child and has bad memories of the experience. Perhaps he just hates Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke. Maybe his mother sang him "A Spoon Full of Sugar" as she shoved cod-liver oil down his throat. Either way he means business but luckily you have your umbrella with you and are wearing a roomy dress, making it easier to perform sweeping leg kicks. Talk to the oaf in a high voice in order to trick him into thinking you'll be a pushover. Say things like "Oh, please dear sir, do not rob or harm me. I have but a tuppence piece to buy something to feed my squealing pig that, in turn, needs to feed the forty wretched, ungrateful and ugly children in my charge that remain unimpressed by my singing or flying though they do like to look up my dress while I'm in the air and stare at my underpants and perhaps you'd like to do the same, which I will let you do if you are kind to me." His bowler hat is a dead giveaway to some form of armoured head reinforcement, be it past date due deli meats or a block of cheese so avoid a blow to the head and instead ram the tip of your umbrella under the roughneck's chin, followed by a knee to the face and then just get all Mary Poppins on his ass. You can use the curved handle of the umbrella, secured behind the fiend's neck, to drag him to the ground where you can then stomp on him with your matronly shoes. He'll be dead before you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Then squat over his face, hike up your skirt and show your underpants to his lifeless eyes. "How do you like them bananas?" you say, adjusting yourself.|
|The B.O. Defense: The final example in this cane attack segment requires not bathing for a few days or weeks or even a month or two if you really want to be sure of this defense technique's effectiveness. A ruffian struts down the street, happy as can be in this dog eat dog society. He flicks his walking cane at anyone who dares get too close to him and threatens to get dust on his leotards or in his mustache. You approach in a sleeveless undershirt. He doesn't like the looks of you or the fact your mustache is bushier than his (tip: spend the time you save by not bathing to put your efforts into growing an impressive mustache). His raises his cane and makes a thrust. You lift your arms and let the full force of your formidable body odour hit him square in the face. Too bad his life insurance policy doesn't provide for death by B.O. That's okay. You go to his home, marry his wife and raise his children as your own. End of story.|
Next, I'm going to quickly illustrate how an everyday routine can be utilized in your self-defense technique. Notice a similarity in the two images below. One shows a man doing that popular dance known as the Watusi. It's a dance still popular with both young and old these days and I, for one, Watusi at least once a day. Even if it's just with myself in a mirror or looking into the back of a soup spoon. The image beneath that shows one of my prized pupils, Egon Plimpset, leading a class through a series of Haltiwanger self-defense exercises. See where I'm going with this? That's right, the Watusi moves have been integrated into my self-defense system so that your opponent will just think you're dancing while you Watusi his sorry ass all the way to the emergency room. Whether wearing a suit or martial arts outfit, the key is to look convincing and it even helps to sing along with your moves like "Boom de boom de boom, yeah, bumpity boom de bump, yeah," smiling and giving thumbs-up fist pumps before going in for the kill. There's your enemy dancing along and starting to enjoy himself when suddenly you give him the 'kiss and grind' punch that's as easy as blowing a kiss and waving goodbye to a loved one departing on a train or ship. Except you're also hitting that person in the face which you certainly wouldn't do to a loved one unless it was your Aunt Phyllis and she made you massage her dewlaps. Anyway, you'll get the last laugh thinking of your foe trying to do the Watusi in a full body cast.
|Just an innocent guy having a little Watusi fun? Think again when he's dancing on your coffin.|
|"Meow," said the innocent cat. "Wanna dance?" Don't be fooled because seconds later he'll make you cough up your internal organs like a hairball on the gymnasium floor during the slow dance at prom night. Grrrr! This house cat suddenly became a tiger and you're about to step into his den of death.|
|In this photo series, the big louse (let's call him Armando because I hate that name) grabs Miss Glinkwurst just beneath her gazongas. "How about a roll in the hay in the pygmy goat display," he slobbers in her ear. No doubt those hairy paws will be making fast work on the hooks of her brassiere under the leering eyes of the pygmy goats and, unfortunately, any children who might be petting them. But not so fast, Armando you disgusting lout because Miss Glinkwurst uses the Haltiwanger "untied shoelace" approach. "Excuse me, sir," she says, "but I believe your shoelace is untied. Let me do it up for you." Armando can't resist, especially since as she bends over to tie his shoe he'll get a riveting view of her rear end. Of course that will also be the end of him. As Miss Glinkwurst bends forward, she releases some lethal intestinal gas that she tested earlier on her pet dachshund, Mumpsy, who was overcome almost immediately (dachshunds make perfect test subjects for these kinds of emissions since their long, sausage bodies make them more immune to blasts from the bowels due to length and circumference). If you own a dachshund you can do your own testing or else visit your local park, find a dachshund and when the owner isn't looking fart in the dog's face and then monitor the results. Because Miss Glinkwurst is wearing plaid pants, the gas is able to spread all that more easily through the looser weave of the fabric and as Armando is hit in the face with the first wave of the deadly odour, Miss Glinkwurst is able to grab Armando's ankle and pull upwards throwing him off balance. A couple of more farts to the kneecap and then a quick buttock chop to the solar plexus and testicles and the only thing Armando will be good for after that is playing the lead part in Annie at an assisted living facility for the elderly where he can try his new soprano voice on for size.|
|In this second example, Armando is again up to his dirty tricks. This time he's using a frontal assault hoping the shimmer of his polyester/rayon blend slacks will be enough to distract the lady until he has her firmly in his clutches. Unfortunately for him she's on to his devious ways and with some fancy wrist twists to break his grip along with plaid pants, a stomach full of gas and a couple of swift kicks to the genitals and ankles, this guy is definitely off the bowling team, at least until the end of summer. The only ten-pin ball Armando will be lifting is the one in his swollen scrotum.|
|It's not only the choke hold that's doing the work here but also the proximity of the mustache and mouth to the adversary's ear, allowing you to both whisper insults to him as you cut off his airway while simultaneously letting flakes of old food particles from your mustache fall like a fine fetid snow into his face. My thanks to two of my former pupils, Vern Chuggers and Gorgon Haupsmeyer for re-enacting this scenario. Unfortunately both have since passed away, Gorgon from auto-erotic asphyxiation and Vern was beaten to death by a couple of drunk funeral directors at an Advancements in Embalming convention.|
|My old friend, Captain Blimpy Mycroft modeling the prototype of my Leather Coconut Head Protector. Blimpy liked wearing it so much, to this day he refuses to take if off. That he has a face uglier than a baboon's bottom actually works out in everyone's favour. Some people have a face for radio, others a face for sitting on. I call this the Mycroft Syndrome, a treatise of which I'm still working on.|