If you’re thinking about proposing to someone in 2018, take it from a guy who has been married for close to 10 years…don’t.  I mean, don’t forget the ring.  And when I say “ring”, I don’t mean the shiny thing with a freaking huge diamond from some jewelry store you will never visit again, I mean the squared circle.  Or for you UFC fans, the Octagon.

If you’re not following, let me explain.

Marriage is a battlefield.  You (the guy or girl proposing) are going to be trading blows with your partner for life.  Left the toilet seat up again?  Here comes a shot across the bow in the form of an evil stare.  Forgot to give the kid her lunch (they don’t eat that shit anyway), no sexy time tonight for you!  Haven’t cooked a meal for the family this year (or any year) – your partner turns into Jimmy Super Fly Snucka and flies off the top ropes on your ass.  Every day, all day, it goes – jab, jab, upper cut, upper cut, upper cut until one of you goes down for the TKO a’la Mike Tyson’s Punchout.

If you’re lucky like me, none of these problems will ever befell you.  Right Sweetie?  In fact, my wife is my tag team partner, always there by my side even when I fail to use my Jedi powers to read her mind and intuitively know that she wants me to fold the clothes out of the dryer rather than sit on the sofa and surf YouTube for clips of 5-year-old Shaolin Kung Fu kids in China (search for them, you won’t be disappointed).  (Side note – in a marriage between two women, do the ladies have to actually communicate verbally or is it all done through mind meld?  I’m actually curious).

Anyway, this is the story how my tag team partner, Jenny, went full Wonder Woman in my honor.

In 2008, we were living it up across the pond in London.  Jenny’s employer paid for our 400 square foot flat near London Bridge giving us a nice financial cushion to see the city and the rest of Europe.  In return for that free flat, we worked our faces off to the tune of 12-14 hour days (this is an average – she worked way more).  When the weekend rolled around, you better believe we were going to make them count.

On this particular weekend, my 18-year-old cousin, Becca, and her friend (sorry friend, I can’t remember your name and I’m too lazy to cyberstalk you on Facebook) were in town enjoying the sights and taking advantage of our free sofa and 14 inch “teley.”

Wanting to show them a good time, we grabbed tickets for Groove Armada at Fabric, a pretty well-known club in the Islington section of town (dodgy in some corners, but a popular up and coming neighborhood).  Doing as the cool kids do, we arrived at 11pm and found a nearly empty club (the tickets didn’t say this was one of those SUPER cool clubs that don’t really get started until 3am).  Whatever – no people in da club just made it easy for me and my 5’7” diesel frame (not Vin Diesel, think more skinny guy wearing Diesel) to get a bunch of pints and shots from the bar.

If memory serves me, we probably had 10 drinks each.  Then again, maybe we had 8 drinks a piece as the girls weighed 20 stone total (yeah, exactly – wtf is a stone!?) or roughly 300 pounds.  But who am I kidding, my buddies all know I drink like a fish (a fish that’s allergic to water), so I’m gonna say we all had 3 shots a piece and were probably feeling pretty warm and fuzzy inside.

Eventually, Groove Armada started playing their music, but I can’t remember ever seeing what they looked like or how they sounded.  Are they the ones that sing, Come on Ride that Train?

I’m not sure where everyone came from, but once the music started, the club turned into an inferno of flesh, complete with moisture falling from the ceiling like the Mother Alien was dripping ooze on all of us.  Shortly thereafter, Mother Alien must have moved her human cocoon corpses to the basement, because the ooze was now seeping through the floors making a slippery mess.  Thankfully, I was wearing my pleather white Pumas at the time that were nearly waterproof and gripped the floor like Peter Parker.

Deciding to get a better look at the stage, we did the whole communicate with your hands at the concert thing and started to navigate the freak line of people.  Sliding their way through the masses, my cousin’s friend went first, followed by my cousin, then Jenny, and then me.

This is where things get interesting.

As we are rubbing butts (as my 4 year old says when she does exactly what it sounds like with her freaky friends) trying to get to the stage, a dude (we’ll call him Peter Putin – Vladimir’s skinny nephew “studying” abroad) appears in front of us with a shit eating grin.  You know, the typical sleazy Mr. Bean grin that makes you feel damp all over.

Thinking my cousin’s friend’s face was a sucker fish, Peter Putin proceeds to put his hands on her face and tries to lay a wet one on her.  She does an effective swim move and gets by, leaving my cousin up next to get a “me too” kiss.  She’s craftier than she looks and manages to squeeze by as well.  Now mind you, I’m helpless as I’m watching all this unfold as people much larger than me pack me in like Luke, Han and Leia in that garbage swamp mess in the first Star Wars (don’t fucking tell me the Phantom Menace is the first one, that shit never existed in my book).

Not able to do a god damn thing, I know what’s coming next.  My man, Putin Fuck Face, puts his hands on my wife and goes to kiss her on the lips…

OH

HELL

F*CKING

NO.

Only one thing to do now…

BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL, I HAVE THE POWERRRRRRRRRRRR!

In my head, I have instantly grown a foot, gained 14 stone and turned into The Rock.  In reality, I’m the same 5’7” (fine, 5’6 and ½ with shoes on) 10 stone (150 pounds) dude with a whole one year of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu training and a high school wrestling record of 0 wins and 6 losses (I blame the coaches).  Makes no difference.  When another man touches your wife (sorry cousin and cousin’s friend, I wasn’t really that concerned about you), it’s time to revisit your Wu-Tang listening days and bring the mutha fuckin ruckus!

Remembering that one time during high school wrestling when I was actually winning, I grabbed the dude around the shoulders with supreme force and vengeance.  Time to end this m’fer’s kissing spree and throw him out of the ring!

However, when I grabbed his shoulders, I realized something.  This jabroni had no balance.  Whether it was the slippery Alien ooze, the traction of my Pumas, or the probability that this hooligan had drunk his weight in Stella Artois, I could do whatever I wanted with this fool.  Upon realizing this, I looked the sad bloke in his eyes, taking stock of his soul I would soon discard of, when something caught my attention…

My brain couldn’t quite process what I was seeing.  My 4’11” wife (don’t believe her when she says she’s 5 foot) was also looking me in the eye.  How can this be?  Did she knock over the friend of my cousin to stand on her?  Does her Asian ancestry give her Zen like levitating powers in moments of turmoil?  No, my wife had jumped on the back of this drunk Russian and now appeared to be getting a piggy back ride from him!?

Totally confused now as to what to do (if I slam him, I slam her too), I shrunk back to normal size to consider the situation.  Actually, I didn’t get any smaller, the bouncer who had made his way through the crowd was now towering over all of us, making me feel quite insignificant.  Looking like a deranged animal staring at his rubber toy (me), this 6’6” 500 stone bouncer was out for blood.

Thankfully, cousin’s friend and cousin made themselves useful and directed his venom towards Peter Putin, telling the bouncer in no uncertain terms that the drunk needed to go.  The bouncer picked up our old friend like a can of beer and did whatever it is that British bouncers do with guys like that (probably forced him to eat Spotted Dick).

Now that order had been restored, there was only one thing left to do.  I turned to my wife, sweet little Jenny, future mother of dragons (our children) and asked, “what the hell were you trying to do?”  To which she replied, “I was gonna choke him out.”

Oh.

Right.

Nothing strange about that at all.

Ummmmm…

Do you choke out dudes often?

I gained a newfound respect for my lady that day.  It’s also the reason I don’t cook.  Crazy puta might sneak up on me as I’m stirring the peas and choke me out.