- Paul Davidson
Hit Me in the Stomach as Hard as You Can Because I Can Take It
Go ahead. Punch me in the stomach as hard as you can.
All I have to do, as long as you give me a three second warning, is flex my burly stomach muscles as hard as I can so when you punch me in the stomach with all your might — I won’t feel a damn thing.
In fact, I don’t even have to flex my burly stomach muscles hard at all. I can cause them to flex very lightly as if I was laughing at a mildly funny joke and even at that level of flexing, when your fist comes in contact with my abdomen — I won’t feel pain, discomfort or shed a tear.
Sure, you’ll stop me and tell me that as long as my shirt is covering my stomach muscles that because it’s made of 100% cotton it will obviously lessen the blow. You’ll remind me of that scene two weeks ago on The Sopranos where someone tried to kill someone else by shooting a bullet through a telephone book and into their stomach and how the bullet only went through the book halfway and how my cotton t-shirt is just like that so why don’t I lift up my shirt so you can really punch me in the stomach as hard as you can.
And I would so do that.
Even then, with my bare burly stomach muscles and my “subtle-six pack” smiling out at you, even then as you wind up and throw your five-finger flat iron at my abs… Even then I won’t feel a thing. I’ll probably just laugh at you and say something smarmy like, “Is that the best you can do?”
You might tell me, after doing no damage whatsoever, that you weren’t really ready. That you need another try. That you weren’t lined up exactly and that you hit my ribs instead of my stomach muscles. That if I’m confident in my stomach muscles at all, I would let you try and hit me in the stomach one again, as hard as you can.
And I would so let you do it, for a second time, as well. Because you can’t hurt me. Not at all.
And so there you go again, winding up your “hammer ‘o hate” and thrusting it wildly at my stomach. You will pound and pound three or four times and realize that there’s no getting past my great gate of stomach muscles. You will stand down and look into my eyes and say, disappointed… “I guess you really do have the strongest stomach muscles in the whole damn office.” You might also say, “Kudos to you, buddy!” But if you did, I’d think you were gay.
Then you’ll walk away from the scene of the crime and I would head on back to my office where I’d shut the door and lower the shades for some privacy.
That’s about when I’d start crying hysterically from all the pain.