Bobby Lightfoot's Real-Life Non-Celebrity Asshole Fights #1: April 1999

Yes, my friends and Romans, it shames and amuses me to confess I worked a fucker pretty good back in the good ol' 20th century. I reckon by the end of this little saga you'll see why it was inevitable. I can walk away from a confrontation as well as th' next polesmoker, especially when cars and freeways are involved, but this one had to go down.

This was when Sal th' Feist was just a little grunter of about 8 months, just starting to feel her oats. I used to take her up to Feist Hill in Pacific Beach where dogs could run free until th' Law would show up and hand out tickets. She would race around like a little dickens and meet other feists and regular dogs and there was never any static. People generally have enough sense to keep the more vicious of the dogs on their leads or preferably in little veal pens where they fucking belong.

One day this shit heel pitbull breeder shows up in a van with pit bulls painted on the side. No, I'm not lying. I see this shit and figure it's time to throw Sal the Feist in the car and head home. Before I can scoop her up this asshole gets out with three pitbulls on leashes and sure enough, one busts its leash and comes snarling after Sal. Poor Sal is crying and running circles around my car and I'm tryin' to grab her but this fucking pit bull catches her sure enough and I was sure it was curtains for Th' Feist.

Fucking dog has Sal in its jaws, trying to get a good grip on her neck and I have no choice but to pick up the whole god damn bundle and try to separate them before it's too late. I grab the fucking pit bull by the scruff of the neck and a handful of skin in the genital vicinity and just shake as hard as I can. I get lucky and the fucking thing lets go. I have it by the scruff until I get poor Sal safely into my car.

Can you imagine what an asshole this fucking pitbull breeder is? He looks sort of like that idiot Danny Bonaduce but with less hair and when he gets his fucking dog in th' chest from three feet he almost goes over. Fucking bastard. I'm completely livid. He corrals his filthy, murdering beasts back in his shitty van and comes over to smooth things over with me. I've got Sal and I'm looking her over. A couple of cuts but she's O.K. She's really pissed now, just like a terrier, squirming and barking like she wants a second chance. He takes a look at her and tells me he's a vet and he can fix her up which you can imagine goes down real good with me.

Quite a crowd has gathered by now, of course. They're not sympathetic to him. He gives me his card and gets in his van. I look at his card. He's a fucking plastic surgeon! A plastic surgeon!

I'm sure very few of you will think less of me when I tell you that I walked over to his van, opened his driver's side door and hauled him out by his collar. He was real surprised and that worked in my favor as I chucked him up against the side of his van and popped a hard left right in his ugly face.

Real fights aren't like you think. Never are. The adrenalin lasts about five seconds and then you start realizing what a drag it is to pop someone in the face. It takes some real fury to work up to that. Hurts your hand too. The fact that he actually started to come at me gave me all the fuel I needed and the next one was a right to his cocksuckin' eye. Then I just went three more good ones, two lefts to the nose and eye and one last right to th' teeth. Pop pop pop. Fucking asshole. Fucking bleeding his shitty plastic surgeon pitbull-breeding blood on me. Bleugh.

Um, he was down after that. Huffing against his van. And boy, were my fists all fucked up and bleeding. His pulse was fine. Fast but fine. The crowd was shocked but firmly on my side. No one was writing down plate numbers.

I took Sal The Feist to the vet and they hooked her up. I cleaned up my hands and did a recording session.

Fuck with people's children you can pretty much expect this sort of thing. Anybody can understand that. My regrets have been few.

Um, there's only #1. I haven't ever hit anyone else besides bandmates since I was 16. I consider bandmate fisticuffs just part of the writing process. Karate doesn't count either. Mostly I just got hit much to the joy of dentists down th' line.