^ Has anyone ever taken a bad photo of Mr. T? Honestly! I'm not trying to get a laugh here. I'm fucking serious.^
I wrote the following tale as an inspirational speech I performed in 11th grade. Whereas my classmates spoke fondly of heroes, role models, and departed loved ones, I chose the fictitious route. The others were sentimental. I was emotionally detached.
The
response to my speech was mostly positive. Some laughed. Some worried
about me.
The
story has since been lightly revised, but it remains the product of
a prolific yet blundering 17-year-old. Enjoy? Yeah. Do that.
It's not Shakespeare, but then again, a lot of people hate
Shakespeare.
###
Whenever
I hear the word “inspirational,” my mind drifts back to my first
day of kindergarten. It was a sunny late August afternoon and I
remember how hard it was to let go of my mom's hand when we arrived
at Waters Elementary.
Our
teacher was very nice. Her smile made me feel at ease. I spoke to
some of my classmates even though I was nervous.
I ran into a problem during recess, however. After two or three
brushes with death on the jungle gym, I decided the slide might be a
welcome retreat.
When
I got to the ladder of the slide, a burly sixth-grader stood in my
way. He scowled and crossed his arms.
“This
slide ain't for girls,” the bully scoffed.
“But
I'm a boy,” I squeaked.
“Well,
then you should prove it,” he said. He pointed to a girl with brown
pigtails playing four square. “Kiss that girl over there.”
His
virtually toothless cohort sidled up and chimed in.
“Wait.
What if the kid's a thespian, like them chicks in them movies yer
uncle's always watchin'?”
“You
shut that yapper of yours, Q-Bert!”
The bully nearly turned on his cohort.
I
wanted so badly to wake up from this nightmare and be back home in my
cozy bed. But I was stuck in reality, which sometimes gets ugly. I
was on the verge of shamefully ambushing that unknown girl with a
kiss when a strong, dark hand grabbed my shoulder.
“This
boy ain't doin' no kissin' 'til he's damn good and horny.”
Oh,
my God! It was Mr. T!
“Now,
listen here,” he went on. “What's your name, kid?”
“It's
Chad, sir,” the bully said with a tremble.
“OK.
Now listen here, FOOL! This boy has the right to do whatever he
chooses on this here playground, and I ain't gonna let you tell him
otherwise. Now apologize to him, sucka.”
“Sorry!”
Chad said. “I'm really, really sorry.”
Mr.
T taught me at a young age how to resolve conflicts with others...
when he launched little Chad through a nearby window. As if that
wasn't merciless enough, Mr. T then pulled Chad's limp body back onto
the playground, where he ordered Q-Bert to keep his friend's dead
weight propped up. Then Mr. T hustled up three flights of stairs to
the roof of the school. He jumped down about 30 feet—in slow
motion, mind you—and diving-tackled the poor kid.
Chad
got a little case of permanent brain damage on his day of
comeuppance, but I've heard he has recently relearned how to wipe
himself. So, he's making progress.
Anyway,
the recess monitor came over to scold us, and what does T do? He
pulls out a freaking machine gun, that's what. But he was careful to
shoot only the ground surrounding the teacher until she retreated.
That way no one got hurt. Except for... you know.
Mr.
T then hoisted me onto his shoulder, made a mad dash, and eventually forced me into the back of
the A-Team van. I'm still recovering psychologically from what he did
in that van.
He
admitted that he threw his fight with Sylvester Stallone in Rocky
3, through a waterfall of tears,
I should add. As if that wasn't shocking enough, Mr. T also told me
that the writers of The
A-Team stole a lot of
their material from The Dukes of Hazard. For
instance, the scene where the villain's car veers out of control and
winds up sinking in a pond. Also mentioned was the part where there's a cool
explosion and people have to dive for safety.
He
was really sobbing when I told him what was up between T and me.
“Mr.
T, you're still my hero.”
The
man looked at me with those soaked brown eyes and smiled.
“You
know something, Nick, the fool I pity most is the one who doesn't
believe in himself.”
And
as the gentle giant gave me a hug, I whispered to him:
“Do
you pity me?”
Mr.
T shook his head so hard his gold chains jingled. He replied:
“Not
after today, son. Not after today.”
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