The Sadly Unlost Art Of Wall-Punching

"I punched a wall."

Is that not the most idiotic statement ever made? Why not just broadcast to the entire world that you are a masochistic simpleton? Who in his right mind would punch a wall? And then expect sympathy from sane people?

What does The Puncher want, a medal? Has he been wounded in the line of duty? His duty of being an idiot so others can feel superior? I do not suffer Punchers gladly. I can barely tolerate Punchers. I do not "tsk, tsk" them or mollify their rage or make over their swollen knuckles or smooth their furrowed brows. I give Punchers the look: You flippin' moron.

Punchers come in all shapes, sizes, and sexes. I once had a roommate Puncher. Plowed her hand right into the blackboard poster that was a beer promotion giveaway from our local bar, hanging on our kitchen wall between the working stove and nonworking dishwasher, the poster on which the three of us wrote amusing sayings each morning. I was having none of it. I was not the one to throw together an ice pack to reduce pain and swelling. No sympathy from me. No wrapping the throbbing paw in an Ace bandage to flaunt as a badge of badassery. Just the look.

Hillmomba is full of redneck Punchers. They wallow in their Puncherdom. Take pride in puffy knuckles. They throw out their chests, strut like banty roosters, and act all noble and whatnot. "That's what a real man does," thinks The Puncher. "Hits a wall instead of his woman. I'm a regular saint, I am."

Punchers get an early start in the heartland. "Can I go see if the nurse is here? I must have done something to my hand. See? It's all swelled up. It hurts to move it. I think something might be broken." Uh huh. Your common sense bone.

Spare me the drama that is The Puncher.