Editorial: Tae'd Up and Whipped

By Rob Reuter

Commanding Officer, USS Samuel Adams

Nothing prepares you for a workout like caffienated cola and cheez-filled snack crackers.
Note to self: apparently there is a reason you have not been laid since 1996.

As you may have been able to glean from this crappy little rag, I like to drink. I like to drink a lot, and I don’t care who knows it. In fact, I like to tell people about how much I drink because my attorney has advised me that I can’t be held responsible when I warn people ahead of time that I’m probably gonna get wrecked and destroy their houses. There’s nothing like the feeling of being invited into someone’s home knowing full well that you’re going to drink everything alcoholic in the house down including the Aqua Velva, piss in the dog dish, and show their children bondage porno tapes, knowing that you can’t be held legally liable.

In this age of twelve steps, a lot of people say to me: "Well, as long as you don’t drink alone…" Well, my favorite things are getting blasted while sitting in my underpants, scratching my unmentionables and watching bad kung fu flicks, all at the same time. If someone can suggest how I can do this in public in a Massachusetts jurisdiction, please e-mail me. At least I’m not hiding my booze; I’m usually so damn drunk, I’d never find it again.

I staggered to the local video joint in my usual haze last week looking for ninety minutes of Asian people stomping other Asian people using kicks that, should I try them, would cause me to shit myself while my hip simultaneously erupted from my body. I picked up something thinking it was the latest Jackie Chan Oscar contender.

I wound up watching a bunch of halfwit hardbodies spending an hour kicking and punching nothing at all. Not trying to hit someone and missing, but trying to teach the empty air a lesson. There was a bad dance beat and a lot of vacant smiles; I thought I had accidentally rented some seventies porn by accident. "What the fuck is Tae-Bo?" I muttered just before ralphing on my VCR.

I discovered that "Tae-Bo" comes from the Japanese words "Tae," meaning "Large bald black man," and "Bo," meaning "With sock stuffed in spandex unitard."

Intrigued (And trying to figure out what the hell I was looking at), I started searching for Tae-Bo on the Web, thinking that it might offer the Death Grip that I was unable to learn while watching The Karate Kid and waxing off. After a couple of hours of perusing the bondage sites you get by searching for "Tie Bo" on Altavista, I found out that Tae-Bo is an aerobic exercise workout created by some guy named Billy Blanks in Los Angeles. This guy Blanks claims that he has a black belt in Ju Jitsu, but then again, he also claims his real name is Billy Blanks. I haven't heard a more obvious alias since "John Smith" called me to tell me I'd won $5,000, but he needed my credit card number to verify my identity.

I discovered that "Tae-Bo" comes from the Japanese words "Tae," meaning "Large bald black man," and "Bo," meaning "With sock stuffed in spandex unitard." Tae-Bo is nothing but an aerobic workout; it's no more related to real hand-to-hand combat than the World Wrestling Federation.

Apparently, people are confusing this amusing little heartrate booster with actual combat skills, proving once again that P.T. Barnum was right when he said: "Hey, it burns when I pee. And what's this red bump?"

The next morning, in a more sober mood, I rented the other videotapes that Blanks (If that is his real name) sells. It's painful to watch this group of people doing half-assed roundhouse kicks with these self-delusional mean looks on their faces, obviously imagining that they're taking out their boss/husband/mother-in-law, without ever realizing that the people they're imagining beating up will (gasp!) probably try to hit them back.

Act two of "The Ballad of John-John."

I can't wait to see the news interviews with victims who get savagely beaten by trying to defend themselves with Tae-Bo: "The guy came out of shadows, so I advised him I knew Tae-Bo. When he laughed and slapped me in the throat I realized that Sensei Blanks hadn't taught me how to block. I tried to escape on my stationary bike, and that's when things really went to hell..."

I'm sorry, but I don't think this guy Blanks has anything to do with martial arts. The martial arts are a serious discipline, focused not on attack, but on self-defense. Ol' Billy obviously doesn't give a damn about protecting himself; the bulge in that silly blue unitard is damn near an invitation to give him a shot to the choans. Real martial arts masters wear a jock, for Christ's sake. Or at least underpants.

It's a tough old world, folks; counting on Billy Blanks to protect you is probably not the brightest idea. You'd be better off counting on Billy Beroo; Ted Knight's golf club from Caddyshack. It hits harder, and inspires more fear than any spandex-wearing, bulge-faking guy living under an assumed name.

Not as much fear as inviting me to your house for a couple of drinks usually inspires, however… By the way, my workout videotape, Tae One On, is on sale at Woolworth, Kresge and K-Mart.

Main Archive Table of Contents

September, 1999 Issue Table of Contents

Tae'd Up   Legend of Ken MacDonald   Carving up Celebrities

Month in Pictures   Squinty the Monkey

Blair Jerk Project   WAVing Our Dicks   Virus Warning

The American Jerk™ and all contents © 1999 - 2005 by Rob Reuter and Paul St. Fakename, Esq., © 2006 by Rob Reuter.