Don't Hiss Yourself

Courage, valor, bravery; whatever you want to call it, is such a strange commodity. For most people, I think, it’s instinctual; you just react, there’s no time to think. For other folks, courage is a willful act. I’ve also heard it said that a hero is nothing but a coward who screwed up and ran the wrong way.
What defines a courageous act? My father strapped a B-17 around himself and flew bombing missions over Nazi Germany, at a time when the Luftwaffe was swatting down American bombers as if it were nothing more than a turkey shoot. My father’s final mission was over Stuttgart, Germany, in August of 1943. Only two planes returned to their base in Chelveston, England, that day. Two planes. Out of an entire squadron. My father’s plane, Rigor Mortis went down in flames that day and after two years of war. my father's luck had finally run out. With only seconds to spare, he was thrown from the plane, just a few heartbeats before it disintegrated. Gravely wounded, only he and one other crewmember made it to the ground alive. Captured and hospitalized, he managed to escape from Germany and made his way back to England, where he was awarded a shit ton of medals. That took some serious balls.
My brother volunteered for Viet Nam at a time when duty, honor and country were concepts that most of the country seemed to have forgotten. That also took some seriously big balls. He got himself a bunch of little trinkets, too.
My friend Paul, a federal law enforcement officer and Afghanistan vet, found himself in the middle of the OK Corral, while on a shopping trip at a local mall. While he engaged the shooter, his young daughter B, took his even younger daughter into the Sprint store and calmly dialed 911. What Paul did took guts, but if you ask me, it was just fucking crazy, but that girl has more balls and brains than most of the guys I know.
As for me, when I was younger, I used to question my own courage, but it’s been tested, numerous times and I’m proud to say that I’ve always done the right thing, every time. I’m not claiming to have done anything special, or extraordinary, just the same thing anyone else would have done, in the same situation. Sometimes, what I’ve done was instinctual and others were more of an “Oh shit, I guess I’ve got to do something” kind of thing. That’s when you have time to get scared and the pucker factor comes into play. Don’t know what the pucker factor is? The pucker factor is how tightly your sphincter contracts, in direct relation to your level of fear. In other words, it’s how tightly your asshole slams shut when you’re scared shitless, so to speak. The combination of fear and pucker factor might even cause you to lose your courage, even if it’s only for a moment.
Like everyone else, I get frightened, but I can work through my fear and get the job done. However, there are two things that can get me to freeze up; spiders and snakes. I don’t like spiders and snakes. Sorry, they just completely freak me the fuck out. Spiders don’t bother me as much, anymore. Hopefully. Snakes, however, are a different story.
And so we begin…
It was an amazing spring, that year. The birds had returned, en masse and the mountain had exploded with its usual color, vibrancy and splendor. There’s nothing like a deep breath of pure mountain air, mixed with the bouquet of spring. It was magnificent. There was an overabundance of life that year and we were having lots of close encounters with the local wildlife. Our favorite discovery was when we found that a robin had built a nest in a basket on our front door and the eggs had just hatched, bringing three new chicks into the world. We were all so excited and would watch from the window as the mother fed her babies.
I don’t remember where Medusa and the kids were, that evening. Maybe they were at church, or her mom’s, or wherethefuckever; it doesn’t matter. They were headed home and this story is about me and that’s what matters. Oh, look, I’m an arrogant prick, today. Big surprise.
Anyway, I had to let the dog out. When you live in the country, you pretty much let your dog run off and do doggy shit. You know, stuff like visiting their little doggy friends, tear up some trash, chase smaller animals, piss off the neighbors, get a little doggy action, poop; whatever the hell it is that dogs do when people aren’t looking. Our Cleo was a sweet and happy girl that just loved to run through the forest and never missed a chance to go outside and play.

I opened up the front door and There It Was. It, in this instance, was a ginormous black snake that was trying to slither its way up the front door so that it could snack on some baby robins. It had to be at least fifteen feet long (Ladies, any time a man tells you length, be sure to divide by 3). The head of this monstrosity (it was as big as my fat ass and it had eyes the size of dinner plates) was hovering around the height of my crotch. No bueno.

We locked eyes. Fuck me. In that moment, as I looked into those bottomless black depths, I felt my asshole crank up to Pucker Factor 10. A cold shiver of fear ran down my spine. Cleo, upon seeing the snake, turned tail and ran like hell, her nails skittering across the hallway tiles, leaving me to face the, cue Samuel L. Jackson, “Motherfucking snake,” alone. Pffft… man’s best friend, my ass. And that’s when IT happened. That mutant monstrosity of a snake dropped its gaze to my crotch and opened its mouth, exposing row upon row of razor sharp teeth. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking that black snakes don’t grow to fifteen feet long and have row upon row of razor sharp teeth, but you didn’t see this mutant ninja motherfucker with its x-ray vision and I just fucking knew that bastard could see my balls through my pants and was now thinking of starting off with an egg appetizer. Holy Mother of God! It was going to bite my fucking balls! And so I did what any rational human being would do, I shrieked like a twelve year old girl and I slammed the door shut. All safe and sound, right? End of story, right? Not exactly. Remember, Medusa and the kids were due home, any second. You may also remember that I mentioned  that whole “Oh shit, I guess I’ve got to do something,” shit. Unfortunately, this was one of those moments. I couldn’t take the chance that the snake would be gone, by the time that my (ex)wife and kids returned. Hell, it could eat the ex, get food poisoning and die, for all I cared, but the boys were a different story; I mostly liked them.
I set off in search of a weapon, for this, the death match of the century. Looking around, I saw nothing handy and decided to check the laundry room. As I passed by the living room, I noticed Cleo cowering in the corner.
Jealous and wishing I could do the same, I told her, “Thanks, for all the help.”
She whimpered. Coward that she was, it’s still painfully obvious that she was the smarter one in the house that day.
I ransacked the laundry room, finding all sorts of useless things. Laundry detergent and lint weren’t going to be very useful. That was when I noticed my very own Excalibur. Okay, maybe it was just one of those aluminum rods that hold ceiling tiles in place, but in my mind, it was a mighty sword. I should have made myself a tinfoil helmet and shield to protect me, too. Steeling myself as best as I could, I strode forth to do battle with the venomous viper, hoping all the while that it had slithered off, but no, when I opened the door, that greedy bastard was still there. Say it again, Sammy, “Motherfucker!”
Well, I told that sonofabitch to get the hell off of my porch, but did he listen? Noooo.
I tried to be all nice and shit and does he show any appreciation? Nope. Instead he tries to strike me. Motherfucker! That bitch just tried to bite me. Oh no, you didn’t!
I took a swing with the rod and connected with the snake; the rod bent and part of the snake went flying. After a second, the snake struck again, this time biting the rod. Oh, hell no. It was on like Donkey Kong and probably looked every bit as farcical, but I now had a wild snake up my ass (so to speak) and with a battle cry of, “No balls for you!” I charged the snake, smacking the shit out of it. It tried to strike back, biting the rod, every time, but thankfully, it didn’t bite my rod, if you know what I mean. I chased that fucker all around the porch and let me tell you, it wasn’t a very big porch and I’m very, very clumsy. I probably did more damage to myself and the porch than I did to the snake. I was as relentless as a fucking honey badger, though and just as crazy. Honey Badger don’t fucking care.
`
The snake retreated and began to look for a way out. I smacked it a few more times, but then it finally found a hole in the porch and escaped. My ego swelled, with my extreme manliness and I patted myself on the back, for a duel well fought and like a triumphant gladiator returning victorious after a match, I entered the house to the imaginary roar of the imaginary crowd in my head.
After Medusa got home, I told her the story of my battle with the ginormous rattlesnake. That’s right, I said rattlesnake. Look, it could have been a rattlesnake and by saying that it was, it took some of the sting out of admitting to the shrieking like a twelve year old girl part of the story. I don’t know why, but for some reason, she didn’t believe that it was a rattlesnake, or that it was fifteen feet long, or that it had row upon row of razor sharp teeth, dripping venom and how it tried to eat my balls. You’d think she’d at least be grateful that I had saved their lives, but nope, not even a beej, much less a thank you. Ungrateful bitch.

If you enjoyed this story, or if you hated it, please leave me a comment and let me know. Comments, suggestions and criticism are always welcome. Thanks! - Steve

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