The Haltiwanger Method of Self-Defense: Part 2

As proof of how invaluable the Haltiwanger Method of Self-Defense is, since Part 1 of this post I have had the unfortunate occasion to have to use my defense system twice. It just goes to show you the amount of evil that awaits you on a daily basis whether it be liquored up punks, crazed beekeepers or depraved marionette makers with unaddressed Geppetto complexes and an obsession with lie-detecting elongating wooden noses that make castration anxiety seem like the innocent daydream of your local butcher and penis envy just another night on the town for your community centre Zumba instructor. Granted, the first time was defending myself against my neighbour, Litvack's crazed guinea pig, which has grown so big and fat and, I suspect, has developed a taste for human flesh, that I feared for my life as the beast went for my neck. Litvack claims that that's impossible as Mr. Carruthers, as Litvack calls him, is so obese he can barely walk from his food bowl to his bed of wood chips (which is only inches away as Litvack also likes to remind me since the incident), but I saw the psychotic look in Mr. Carruthers' eyes and took the necessary steps to defend myself and deter what would no doubt have been a very bloody event. The fact is, with its long hair and corpulent body, Mr. Carruthers very much resembles Alfred Hitchcock in drag and with his psychopathic eyes, one is very much put in mind of that great director's most frightening movie, Psycho. In the world of guinea pigs, Mr. Carruthers could very well be a middle-aged Norman Bates and with his two, long front teeth, not unlike a couple of fillet knives, he would have made mincemeat out of my jugular in no time. Litvack was not happy that I karate chopped his guinea pig but because of my Haltiwanger self defense training I was able to temper the blow using the Haltiwanger half-chop to merely stun the rodent when I could have just as easily crushed him like an overripe mango. That Litvack then took back the hot plate he loaned me for cooking up some of my gourmet feasts (be aware that some of the finest gourmet foods can be found in the fifty cent unlabeled dented can bin at your local grocery store and that it's creativity that makes the dish, not the price of the ingredients or their discoloration, smell or alarmingly soft texture due to the past due expiry date), is inconsequential to me and honestly, Litvack is the loser here since he was the recipient of so many of my culinary conquests. And if Mr. Carruthers bears me any ill will after I karate chopped him, so be it. That guinea pig would no doubt eat an innocent baby in its crib if given half the chance. Test his droppings and I'm sure you'll find human DNA.

Mr. Carruthers in all his psychotic glory. This picture was taken before I karate chopped him and wiped the evil gleam from his eye and made him think twice about adding human flesh to his diet.
 

And this is how I'd like to see Mr. Carruthers if I had my way. Roasted with potatoes and maybe served up with a nice Riesling or Chardonnay. Looks like the only thing those two front teeth are good for now is scooping up guinea pig gravy.

My second run-in occurred when a monkey allegedly mistook my head for a coconut. Where exactly are you living, you might ask? In what North American city might such a thing happen? Well, I'm getting older and no doubt balding but never has my head been mistaken for a coconut before. A cantaloupe maybe, even a small seedless watermelon, but a coconut has never been my head's forte in the resemblance department. The monkey in question actually belongs to Litvacks's cousin, Maurice, an unemployed organ grinder and the fact that Mr. Carruthers and the monkey, Bonga, are best friends only makes me think there's a conspiracy afoot. I'm positive that Mr. Carruthers informed Bonga of the karate chop incident and as I was leaving my rooming house a few days later, Maurice and Bonga were sitting on the stoop of Litvack's rooming house next door to me. This is the conversation that ensued.

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.

In the flurry of enraged monkey activity I think he also tried to have sex with my ear (it's a known fact organ grinder monkeys' sex drives kick into high gear when they're faced with stressful and confrontational situations which is why, particularly in the city, you can see many of them fornicating with dead pigeons, squirrels, discarded burritos, senior citizens that have fallen to the pavement as a result of over-medication and the odd raccoon that they've just killed in an argument). In fact, it's when I felt that tiny, stiff monkey member enter my ear canal that I realized now was the time to act quickly and defend myself before the monkey, in the throes of passion and at the height of arousal, achieved orgasm and flooded my ear with his beastly genetic matter. I used the Haltiwanger Monkey Evasive Maneuver #4 which entails grasping the monkey's penis between thumb and forefinger while the other hand finds the beast's tail and gives a good tug. This way the animal is being pulled in opposite directions by its two most sensitive appendages and if any monkey thinks his opposable thumbs make him cock-of-the-walk in the concrete jungle, wait until he meets the Haltiwanger Opposable Thumb Double-Tug and Peek-a-Boo Testicle Scoop'n'Squish Defense. Now that you have the beast's attention, release its tail and bring your hand up to your face, fingers splayed so that you're peeking through your digits. You can even blurt a playful "peekaboo" like you would to a baby to make it gurgle and goo. This will puzzle the monkey, causing him a moment's pause whereupon you can take advantage of his bewildered state to scoop his family jewels into your palm (as unseemly as this seems), and give a good squeeze which should result in the monkey looking for coconuts, if those coconuts grew in the dirt and could only be found by falling to one's knees and screaming like a primate that just saw its entire family turned into bush meat. That's the kind of coconuts I'm talking about. Looks like the only organ grinding this monkey is going to experience involves his own organ unfortunately. Or at least the coconuts that hang beneath his monkey tree. Now I'm not a big fan of grabbing any sort of testicles, be they on a man, monkey, iguana or Liberace wax museum figure, but when push comes to shove and your head is in danger of being torn asunder by an evil unemployed organ-grinder monkey with a chip on his shoulder, an axe to grind and an overactive libido, it's best to put your nose to the grindstone and your hand to the testes and put the primate in his place as swiftly as possible so your afternoon is free to enjoy a nice donair on a park bench or hitting the dollar store to stock up on decorative toothpicks for the next time company drops over. In fact that's where I was headed before Maurice and Bonga waylaid me and Maurice so surreptitiously hinted to Bonga that my head might resemble the hard-shelled fruit of a tree. By the time I was through with Bonga I could count organ grinder monkeys as well as guinea pigs as my mortal enemies as news travels fast in the animal kingdom, even if you've been karate chopped or had your testicles crushed and can barely squeak or grunt out the news. Now there's no doubt Maurice will lie in wait for me, looking for that perfect opportunity to seek revenge for what I did to his monkey's testes (not to mention squashing Bonga's little pillbox hat and getting schmutz on his sundress), but Maurice is truly a coward at heart and always cowers behind his monkey whenever there's trouble afoot. I expect no trouble from him or at least not the sort of trouble I can't handle with some of my Haltiwanger self-defense techniques and if all goes according to plan, the street in front of my rooming house will be strewn with primates in pain clutching their reproductive organs while a hand-cranked organ plays Lara's Theme at an abominable tempo and Omar Sharif (aka Dr. Zhivago) rolls over in his grave.  

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.  

Now that we've taken care of self defense tactics when dealing with insane members of various animal species (and although I've only described guinea pigs and organ grinder monkeys these defense techniques are easily applicable to all manner of creature, be they lizard, lemur, hamster, halibut, praying mantis or mangy game-park denizen looking to pad out its next measly meal with some human meat), it's time to take a look at another source of attacks from one of the least likely of places, making this type of perpetrator extremely dangerous. Serial killers, you ask yourself? Crazed, balding butchers with cleavers who can't get a date because they smell like pig's feet and refuse to take off their bloody aprons, even at the movies, perhaps? No, I'm talking about fully functional martial arts puppets controlled by withering yellow-bellied wimps who are so afraid of physical contact that they make attack puppets do their bidding. You can recognize them easily as they appear ham-fisted from a distance but as they draw nearer the illusion is revealed as martial arts puppets clutched in each sweaty palm. I have had first-hand experience with these puppet-wielding deviants, the most recent occurring as I was napping on my usual park bench surrounded by cooing pigeons, frolicsome squirrels and mentally-ill men urinating, defecating and/or masturbating in the bushes. There I was enjoying the sunshine and catching a few winks in order to re-energize my constantly put-to-the-test self-defense depleted physique when I felt a flurry of tiny hands and feet pummeling my face and neck. Groggy at first, I snapped quickly to attention once the mucous crust flaked from my eyelashes and I was able to focus, finding myself staring into the evil visages of two of the most devious martial arts puppets to ever walk this planet. Gorblon the Russian and Huch-Huch the Turk, manufactured by Flimbor Industries and discontinued after both were implicated in a rash of attacks on unsuspecting citizens who weren't expecting to have two harmlessly seeming toys rain blows upon their nostrils, earlobes, eyebrows, belly buttons, nipples, toenails, dewlaps, double chins and any part of their thoraxes exposed by revealing summer clothing.   

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. 

Now, the key to properly dispatching these two diabolical evil-doers and their fists and well-manicured feet of fury is to not concentrate on the puppets but rather their milquetoast puppet masters. You must strike at the source to disarm their terrible tools of pent-up rage administered by those with personality disorders and incontinence problems, the prime catalyst being inferiority complexes that, if translated into neon signage, would put any Las Vegas marquee to shame. The fear shining in the eyes of these lily-livered malefactors could easily be discerned by astronauts in space, even more so than the Great Wall of China. So, disregard the puppets and lunge straight for the controlling hands and arms of their masters. Chicken-hearted miscreants such as these are easily overpowered if you follow my three easy steps to successful self-defense. First, tear the heads off the martial arts puppets. You do this by grasping the hand of the puppet master, encircling the thin, knobby wrist with what I call the "grip of death," which is really just a regular grip but you squeeze really hard and grimace and growl and perhaps even drool for effect while you do it. You'd be surprised the results this technique gets, especially when dealing with spineless and malnourished crooks whose last meal was a half of a chewed chicken wing, three shriveled French fries and the backwash from a nearly empty plastic bottle of Pepsi fished from the garbage can of a public park. As they stare at you with a shocked face, their hand immobilized by your "death grip," you simply reach out with the other hand and grasping the albeit small but fearsomely bearded and mustachioed plastic head of Gorblon the Russian or Huch-Huch the Turk, you rip their head asunder from their neck much the same way Bonga, the organ grinder monkey wished to tear my allegedly coconut-shaped noggin from my body. Repeat again with the other hand and now the deadly martial arts puppets are just a two headless, inconsequential dolls that not even Barbie would sleep with. As for their master, I promise he will be left standing, mouth agape, spindly wrists throbbing and two headless puppets fallen at his fungus-riddled feet. Count slowly backwards from five and if he hasn't run off or at least begun to back away by this time, use the "Hammer of Thor" side hand blow, so named from olden days when Vikings used it to chop the heads of their freshly caught herring, striking at either the collarbone or the earlobes, two extremely sensitive parts of the human body (a trait also shared by wombats and anteaters). To use the "Hammer of Thor" side hand blow simply keep your hand open and stiff and chop at your attacker while yelling "Hammer of Thor" simultaneously.     

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.

Here's another situation you might find yourself in, especially if you fall under the category of human shrimp. I don't mean that you're actually half-human and half-crustacean because that would really work in your favour when it comes to self-defense, especially if you had enormous pincers, but rather than you're diminutive in stature and can be tossed around like a beach ball, even in a strong wind. Here's the premise. A bully or a wise guy who is much taller than you is loaded with confidence but you're about to prove to him that most of it is false. He's living in a fool's paradise but little does he know that you're living on a luxurious cruise ship called the H.M.S. Haltiwanger with enough power to send old Neptune himself running for his mommy. He thinks that because he towers over you, he can defeat you with one big knock-out blow and then go home to watch the Late Show on television. Maybe have a bowl of crispy pork rinds, six or seven brewskies and then pass out while passing vile gas during an episode of Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea. Well just let him try it (not the gas passing and beer and pork rinds but the knock-out punch), because you're ready. The photo below says it all. As he grasps your head with his car-wrecker crane sized mitt, give him a convincing fearful human-shrimp like look that says, "please don't hurt me because I don't want to defecate in my pants or crustacean carapace." While he's looking down at you with disdain and maybe even a little disgust at the thought that you might actually soil yourself, you now have the huge ignoramus exactly where you want him. Before he can even strike, thinking he might have the whole situation wrapped up before he even throws a punch, you strike instead with the speed of a rattlesnake that's been disturbed by a lost tire salesman fanning himself with a pork pie hat and singing Ave Maria at the top of his lungs to keep himself company in the corn field he's wandered into after drinking too much schnapps. Using the "Shrimp Finger Thrust," with the hand straightened but fingers flexing like shrimp legs, grasp the goon's waist while driving your shrimp fingers into his abdomen. The bully's pride will be hurt by this point but that's not all. Follow this up with a second "shrimp finger thrust" to the testicles and the tormentor will be licking his wounds, although licking your own testicles or abdomen is no easy feat. 

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.

Next is another shrimp vs. giant scenario except this time the shrimpy fellow isn't you but rather your sidekick. This kind of defense counts on some beforehand preparation and the sense that you're going to get into a skirmish with some giant blockhead at some point during your daily travels, even if you have to instigate it yourself to test the efficiency of this self-defense technique. So, call up the smallest, shrimp-like meekest friend you know and have them accompany you for the day. Saunter the city streets, whistling, humming songs or just spitting on things, all the while keeping an eye out for big oafs looking to beat up on a couple of pipsqueaks like yourselves. Really, this shouldn't take long, especially if you roam a bad section of town and make loud comments like "Get a load of that dumb ox over there," or "Looks like Blimpo the Blockhead escaped from the circus again."
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.

I'm now going to devote a bit of time to a new problem arising on the city streets these days. As you know everything old is new again and that especially holds true for pork pie hats and walking canes. Now the pork pie hats (and the occasional bowler hat too), pose very little threat but those walking canes are something else. Thus, chances are any villain you should happen to meet on the street is undoubtedly carrying one of these canes and though this might give him the air of a debonair gentleman out for a stroll, how many gentlemen do you know wearing sweatpants stained with whiskey, the run-off from nosebleeds and aerosol cheese? Not to mention the snake tattoos on their necks. These are the visual clues that will help you discern the true gentleman from the riffraff. Once you have ascertained that the approaching fellow with the walking cane means to bean you on the bean, followed perhaps by a few stinging strikes to the buttocks and some pokes to the solar plexus, it's time to give this cad a taste of his own medicine. Thus I recommend always carrying a walking cane on your person and if you don't have or can't afford one, a simple broomstick will suffice. Also, regarding pork pie hats, if you want to one-up your adversary I suggest a hat equipped with  armour reinforcement. Now this doesn't mean using expensive metals like Kevlar or lead when easily-found household objects will do the trick. Simply line the top of your hat with pages torn from an old Bible or use deli meat or beef jerky strips. Save up your old teabags and these also will cushion any blow. If you don't own a pork pie hat but feel the need for protective head covering, a good-sized pot lid attached to the head with elastics or string makes an excellent armoured hat. Now let's get down to the nitty-gritty. The three examples below should cover any cane attack scenario.

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.

Now I'd like to return to some tips I gave in Part I of the Haltiwanger Method of Self-Defense dealing with passing gas through plaid pants as a self-defense technique. The effectiveness of this approach cannot be underestimated, which makes me want to revisit it with a new set of circumstances. Say you're an attractive woman taking a walk through the park or a well-fenced petting zoo. Suddenly some big galoot with a nice hairline and fancy V-neck sweater decides you're going to be his gal and to drive home this point he grasps you beneath your bazooms. Fortunately, you've taken my suggestion and worn plaid pants precisely for this kind of situation.You've also kept up a good gas-inducing diet over the past few days so that when a situation such as this rears its ugly head (as it undoubtedly will, especially for an unattended woman at a petting zoo), your rear will be ready to pass muster when push comes to shove and fisticuffs turn to farting. The two examples below should prepare you for any attack by some cad in polyester/rayon blend slacks.

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.

Moving on, I'd just like to say that in this day and age of vicious degenerates preying on the innocent we must remember that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Unless you're talking about a pound of cured deli meats like, say, pastrami, which needs no preventative and should be eaten immediately. Anyway, here's the situation and how the Haltiwanger Method of Self-Defense can keep it from escalating. You get into a verbal argument with somebody, perhaps over a parking spot or you both tried to grab the same watermelon at the supermarket or a heated debate over who has the bushiest mustache but regardless of the cause, the result is always the same. Maybe he's a poker-faced wiseguy who likes to poke you in the chest or the poker's cousin, the pusher who likes to push you about. He feels superior, confident, cocksure and as you stand there being poked or pushed, you must anticipate his next move while nonchalantly striking the Spring Attack Avec Mustache Stance. You pretend you're only holding your fingers and sniffing them a little bit but really you are poised like a tiger or the broken coil spring on an old mattress.Your opponent has already sized you up as a patsy so won't he be surprised when you suddenly leap sideways, pivot quickly on the ball of your foot or if you don't know where the ball of your foot is use your heel instead, or simply jump behind your foe and grasp him around the neck in my Haltiwanger Super Coma Mustache Hold (see image below). Note; you will need to grow a mustache to use this technique. Now you've got the blubbering punk right where you want him. Get your mouth and mustache close to his ear while maintaining the coma-inducing hold around his neck. It's best to not comb your mustache for a few days letting plenty of food particles build up in its bristles, which you can then gently blow into your assailant's ear causing him discomfort not to mention the smell of old soup and deli meat grease that he's bound to get a whiff of. If he has a mustache, insult it. Say things like "I think you have some mouse droppings under your nose," or "Hey, Ash Wednesday's over, you can wipe that schmutz off your face." This should enrage him causing him to struggle beneath the arm you've circled around his throat and then all you have to do is merely squeeze and start cutting off arteries and blood flow and whatever else goes up through the neck to the brain but suffice to say your opponent is sure to black out or at least get very sleepy looking and maybe even froth a bit at the mouth. If he does pass out you can shave off his mustache just to let him know who's boss when he wakes up and if he doesn't wake up and you've accidentally killed him, well, in the big city that's what we call results.

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.

Finally, I'd just like to say that you shouldn't fall for all those cockamamie self-defense schemes like those Chuck Norris Action Jeans pictured below. It's not the jeans that make the fearless man, it's the technique and the ability to defecate on cue. And this you can do whether you're wearing jeans, a bathrobe, a hula skirt or an Elvis-style pantsuit complete with cape. Of course I still stand by plaid pants paired with built-up intestinal gas as a successful part of your self-defense arsenal and they will stand you in good stead better than some crappy action pants and a couple of feeble leg kicks to go with your sparse, dying grass mustache.

And for those of you who should suffer the same fate as mine with your head being mistaken for a coconut by an out-of-work and disgruntled organ-grinder monkey, take heart. Just like old Chuck Norris there, I too have developed my own special self-defense clothing line specifically for this situation. I call it the Leather Coconut Head Protector and what it does is alters the coconut-like appearance of your cranium so that the monkey is led to believe it's actually a bitter and unpleasant gourd he's seeing. If he still decides to make the leap, the thick leather covering will protect you from monkey paw scratches and any fecal or reproductive matter the primate may release in its excitement. If you think this situation is just an anomaly, I direct you to a recent copy of the Costa Rican Times where the headline read, "Monkey Mistakes Man's Head For Coconut," right on the front page. Al Lumbargo of Minnesota was quoted as saying, "I just got off the cruise ship and was looking at some nice souvenir carvings when this goddamn monkey leaped on my head and began twisting and pulling like I was an Iowa cornstalk. I ain't no ear of corn or banana for that matter but try telling that to this monkey or any of his friends that were cheering him on." Mr. Lumbargo is currently suing the Costa Rica government, the souvenir shop and the cruise line. He's also suing the monkey if it can be found. All of this could have been avoided with my Leather Coconut Head Protector.

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.

So, in summary, whether it's monkeys or malevolent human beings you're dealing with, the Haltiwanger Method of Self-Defense will supply you with all the information and technique you'll need so you can protect yourself with the speed and ease usually associated with making spaetzle mit ham hoofs or a nice apple strudel assembled by a team of displaced Romanian gypsies. You will fear no man, no matter how puny you are and if they're puny, well all the better for you. If you're both puny well, you could charge money and call it midget wrestling. Either way you can't lose and all those beady-eyed punks and mashers and juvenile delinquents and hoodlums stinking of liquor better watch out because once they tangle with you they just might find themselves six feet under washing socks for Satan's army.