Expensive Evil - GCW Fight Night, or Ode to the Tryhard

They joy of tables breaking.

Round Three of Expensive Evil, my nonfiction gift to supporters. It’s about escaping my apartment, with occasional crimes.

The windup’s free, and the pitch is paywalled. Throw in for fun with folding chairs.

Dedicated to Tommy, who sees most twists a year before I do.

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Rated T for Teen. Cartoon violence, crude humor, cartoon humor, and crude violence.

Miss me?

True! But America loves fraud. After ages pushing Huck Finn’s personal growth, we’ve embraced Tom Sawyer’s easy answers. The law simply hasn’t caught up yet.

Jump in. Charlatans don’t need second acts: their first rarely ends. Why sabotage your odds of a glowing New York Times profile? Or an credulous New Yorker profile? Step on enough lives, and someone, somewhere (Manhattan) will wash your feet. Praise the vampire.

What mood? I’m great. Tom proved winning’s easy. Life as a whole, if you avoid tragically-named felons. Why paddle upriver when tryhard’s the insult of the decade?

Fine personal picks. But they’ve already hit self-identification. From there, it’s a short journey to t-shirts and song titles. Plenty of sober adults would get them tattooed. No one you’d hang out with, but functional minds. Every insult ends in Odd Future’s “nigga” hat.

Besides, they have political baggage. Only half the country uses them at a time. “Tryhard” is a toy for everyone. An inclusive jab at effort beyond breathing or PPP loans.

That’s not you, is it? Painting Tom’s fence? That’d be embarrassing.

Well-played.

I invented new insults on the ride north. Subway DJs invite them. I should be better, but anyone that can enjoy 2002’s worst music through 1965’s worst speakers belongs in the Peace Corps. You’re a giving soul, to a resume-freezing fault. As a low-tier humanist, I had to focus on my ticket. It promised a less annoying future.

It was time for Friday night action. And a Thursday. I made do, which is the spirit that elevated GCW from backyard wrestling to ballroom wrestling. Though ballroom wrestling is mostly backyard wrestling with high-definition cameras. I let two cans of lightning summon my weekend persona. After 400 milligrams of caffeine, I found love for “Crunk Ain’t Dead.”

Ballroom wrestling isn’t standard slang, in case that’s unclear. I’m watching out for that, after it killed an ex’s career. Or at least her vocabulary. She mixed my free-association nonsense with standard American pidgin.

“Nothing you say is real,” she explained. “I said Nguyen Special at lunch, and they thought it was a slur. I should smack you.”

She was right. You should adapt for an expat willing to sit through Birdemic 2, or at least make a glossary. But I had punchlines to hit. Hopefully, enough people now appreciate James Nguyen’s anti-brilliance for her to communicate. On the other hand, she might repeat “gunpowder suppository” at a gala.

GCW: Fight Night wasn’t a Nguyen special. It’s the most targeted fun I’ve had since escaping the apartment.