Everyone Has a Little Bitch in Them

Suck it up, buttercup.

When I was about 12, I remember taking a road trip down to the beach with my Mom and Steve. Steve was a friend of my mom’s. Was he her boyfriend? I have no idea. (My dad was a drunk and my mom got fed up and divorced him when I was 3.) I was 12 and all I knew was that he came by our apartment occasionally and sometimes left cool stuff. He was a civil engineer and had really fancy drafting tools that I would take and mess around with occasionally. At this time I also knew that Robotech was the greatest show in television history. (I tried watching Robotech again while I was in my 30s and just turned it off. I should have let it be. I ruined He-Man for myself too, and am vowing never to try re-watching Mighty Orbots

Anyways, the three of us took a ride down to the beach, which was about an hour one way. Steve played soccer in his free time, that made him a bit suspect to me. The concept that “fủtbol” was actually the biggest game on the planet hadn’t made it’s way into my brain yet. Soccer was for foreigners, hoops was where it was at for me. I brought my basketball because I KNEW that I was the next Boston Strangler and I was going to show grown-ass Steve a few things on the court. I would have to give this soccer-playing weirdo cuddling up to my mom a lesson.

That didn’t actually happen.

Grown-ass Steve kicked my ass. He blocked my shots. He wouldn’t let me dribble anywhere. He just went around or through me when I tried to guard him. If I remember correctly, I only got a bucket when he let me shoot from the top of the key. He probably gave me that one. My mother watched the whole thing and probably laughed at me, this is way before smartphones, so she couldn’t play Candy Crush while her son’s ego was crushed. On the ride home, I sniveled in the back seat to myself while my Mom and Steve listened to the radio and talked. My fledgling manhood had been shattered, and my mother NEVER EVEN CONSOLED ME!

Thanks Mom.

When I revisit this day in my memory I think to myself “Damnit, I was a little BITCH!” I should have gone home, grabbed my ball and went out to the court to practice and plot my revenge the next time I got a shot at that jerk-off Pelé wannabe. Instead, I went home, played Atari 2600 and felt sorry for myself. I’ve read about Magic Johnson, my favorite player ever, shoveling snow off of the court in East Lansing, Michigan so that he could practice when he was a kid. I didn’t have that drive in me. That’s why Magic went to the NBA and I became a Couch Coach. If Magic had an Inner Little Bitch (from now on ‘ILB’) he smothered it with his drive and ambition. Mine flourished and thrived on my self-doubt and shyness for years.

Everyone has an ILB in them. You have to murder that bastard if you’re gonna get anything done. Jocko Willink whacked his ILB and lives a life of service and accomplishment. Shaquem Griffin offed his ILB long ago, he has important things to do. Tammy Duckworth should change her middle name to “Freaking.” She strangled her ILB.

And then there is President Trump, who carefully nurtures his ILB every day with tweets like this. Trump treats his ILB like parents treat their new baby. His ego is so fragile it’s turned him into an elderly man that can’t even accept that he’s bald. Mr. President, PUT DOWN THAT COMB.

My ILB rears his head in certain situations. He revs my heart, tightens my throat, and in some cases makes me sweat. The little bugger regularly prevented me from approaching women in my single days. I should have ended him when I had the chance. Multiple gin-and-tonics calmed my nerves and let me deliver the kick-ass Best Man speech I gave at my buddy’s wedding last year. Public speaking usually horrifies me.

I’m no self-help guru. I spend hours in a cubicle doing mind-numbing work every weekday. But I have realized that if you want to accomplish anything in your life, you have to be a murderer. Kill your ILB and live the life you’ve imagined. Do it early. Walk up to that guy/girl and introduce yourself. Start your side business so you can escape your cubicle (I’m still figuring out how to do this one). Shave your damn head and stop the charade President Trump! Stop eating junk food and go outside for a walk, fatso. Murder is the only solution.