You ever felt like you were meant to do something different? Like maybe somewhere the wires got crossed and forces beyond your control mixed up your destiny and left you in a bad spot? Well, that’s me.
The name’s Bob, although I’ve been called many things. I may not have limbs but I do have ears, you know? Of course you do, you punch them constantly. Let’s see, I’ve been called simply, the bag, or, the punching bag. Occasionally I’ve been referred to as the punching dummy. It’s fine. Dummy I can deal with, I am, after all, filled with sand. But, BOB—the Body Opponent Bag. Excuse me, but why am I, the arm-less guy, the opponent?
What did I do? I was made this way, constructed from sand and poly stitched together and set on a stand. I thought, this is nice. And then someone slugged me in the face. How’s that for a first day at work.
Back to that destiny thing. See, I was meant to give people hugs, only, I have no arms. So instead I get a fist to the face. All day long, well into the evening. It’s true. I’m kicked, punched, kneed and elbowed from groin to skull, otherwise beaten senseless for reasons unknown to me. I receive harsh glares, flared nostrils, lowered brows, gritted teeth as the blows keep coming. Have a bad day at the office? Let off some steam at the gym. And guess who’s paying the price?
Me, that’s who. I sit in a gym with meatheads. Scorned women out to inflict pain. Cops in training. I’m dragged out to a mat where little kids are taught roundhouse kicks to the face. And all day long, I just sit there, absorbing the impact of whatever happened to them, wondering how it all went so wrong.
No one asks me what I want—which is arms, for starters. Legs would be nice, too, but I don’t want to sound greedy. It’s all I think about. I dream about it at night, when the gym is silent, my body throbbing, aching from all the violence. Oh how I’d just love to pull someone in for a big old bear hug, just wrap them up and keep them tight. A good hug would be like medicine. I think that might make them feel better. Make them stop hitting me for a minute, at least until the next taekwondo class, anyway.
I’m told things could be worse. I’ve got a cousin in Medina, she’s got arms and limbs but she was bought by a man who dresses her up and, well, anyway, gives me the jeevies just to think about.
Today I was punched three thousand times. I counted. Each one hurt, and if polyethylene could bruise I’d look like a Smurf. Ha, what you don’t like jokes? Pound sand, then. Ha, that’s two. I’m on a roll!
I blame the whole MMA craze. I mean, Rocky Balboa punched meat. Maybe it’s the news, or the harried climate of things. Everyone’s in a rush, running around angry. How else would you explain beating up a limbless man? It seems there’s a lot aggression these days, a lot more people looking to take a shot at me. I’m always the bad guy, the perp looking to snatch a purse, kidnap a baby, assault women or rob a bank. And what do I get for my troubles but the heal of a foot to my nose. Over and over again.
Well, here they come. The gym’s open and they’re cracking knuckles and rolling their necks. Looks like another long day at the office.
Wish me luck!