Somewhere on YouTube there are videos of me arm wrestling a roller derby girl.
If you had said this past weekend would entail my drinking enough $2 PBR tallboys to brazenly challenge an unseen roller derby girl to an arm wrestling feat of strength, I wouldn't have believed you.
It was a fundraiser for all the Windy City Rollers, and I'd just purchased a slew of raffle tickets (none of which won) and a platter of baby back ribs, pulled pork, chicken, and Texas Toast. Some friends and I parked ourselves in the first booth near the restrooms (men, women, and men/women), perfect position to watch the girls go by.
Also perfect position to be in the midst of a potential brawl later in the night involving a broken mason jar of moonshine that wound up on our table.
And to show how tough this bar is, the female bartendress laughed at my friend's face while ordering a buttery nipple shot for me, even though he combined the order with three shots of Jameson.
My initial naive thought for a pickup line was comparing bruises and scars (I'll show you mine if you show me yours) as a charming way to get in with the girls, but somehow as I tried to say that, the PBRs instead forced me to make a challenge to bring me their toughest girl.
Immediately, a call was put out through the scores of roller girls, and minutes later my competitor arrived.
Somehow I think they've done this before.
Her name was Ying o' Fire (the decal on her back said so), and she looked all muscle and brimstone. 'Course, the photo I found of her doesn't do her justice.
She wore a one-piece sleeveless leotard that accented her curves and fading tattoos running up and down her arms.
Arms? Guns. None of that turkey neck forearm waddle on this chick.
She scanned our group like The Terminator, asking who wanted to wrestle. Everyone pointed to me and then leaped out of the booth.
I squeaked out a hello, saying what a coincidence her name was Ying, because my name was Yang. Um, Yang a Gong. She didn't muster a smile. All business.
With one swoop, the table's cleared to make room for Ms. o'Fire. She sits and gets into arm wrestling mode, complete with her opposite hand sliding beneath her arm wrestling hand.
Just like in that arm-wrestling movie with Sylvester Stallone.
You know, the one where he broke a guy's wrist.
I don't think I've ever really arm wrestled anyone in my life. Perfect time to start with a girl.
What did I get into?
I contemplated how I could ease myself out of this and maintain some dignity. I was in a no-win situation. Even if I were to win, beating a girl is still losing.
The back exit looked tempting, but I'd started this, I had to end it.
Dollar bills are thrown on the table. Odds are given. I feel the majority of the money on Ying to win, though a few people take pity on me.
I would've bet on Ying as well.
I first offer my hand for a friendly shake to get an idea of her strength: it wasn't iron, but it wasn't limp either. Maybe I had a shot.
The next couple minutes are a blur of cell phone camera flashes, rowdy cheering, and being unable to move my arm one way or another.
I ask her if she wanted to call it a draw, mistakenly opening an invite of weakness. Being the competitor she is, she says no and we continue.
Just in sheer stamina, I felt my arm give way, and the instant it did she went in for the kill. I could probably have held the neutral state for awhile, but I didn't want my wrist snapping.
Later after wallowing in my humiliation at being beaten by a girl, I realized a better challenge would have been a kissing contest.
Another time.
by grubette
Grubby's Hands of the Week
What is The Hammer?