Why be cotton, when you can be leather?

I got another cryptic text from a friend last Friday afternoon: “Fight Club in Union Square. GET HERE. 

For those who don’t live in New York, Union Square has historically been a giant meeting place for political protesters, social activists, and merchants of all sizes. In the days following September 11th, it was a meeting place for rescuers and mourners alike. Now it’s home to a multiplex, Ann Taylor Loft, a Whole Foods, and a Diesel store.

So really, it makes perfect sense that in the inner chamber of Manhattan’s consumer culture, right there in Union Square, there would be a massive, public fight club. I was off the subway and taking the stairs two at once, faster than you can spell-check Palahniuk. Hundreds of people stood in a big ring right there by the Shoe Mania, cheering and chanting. All kinds of people: old people, moms with strollers, skateboarding teens, foreign tourists throwing Euros around.

They could have been watching some awesome breakdancing group or an unusually good street magician. But instead, two shirtless guys were flopping around on the ground, grunting and grating one another’s faces across the cobblestones. One guy pinned the other and a shirtless ref called the match. Both fighters leapt up, gave each other the universally-approved one-armed bro-hug and left the ring together, laughing.

A number of shirtless, scraped-up men paced the perimeter of the circle, alternately refereeing and answering questions. The rules were simple: find a partner, get in the ring. No face shots, tapping out ends the fight. No settling scores, just fighting for the fun of fighting. No experience or discernible skill required.

A couple of emo-hipsters in matching floppy sideways haircuts and matching white belts got into the act, proving that one does not inherit martial arts skill by simply being Asian.

I only sits and shits on the finest porcelain. Thats the most ballin’ shit ever! Get yours today from Target.

Thanks Maurice for the giggles!

Hillary-ty!