It’s story time, children. Everybody gather ‘round by the campfire glow of your computer monitors.

About a week ago I started a residence spinning at a local lounge here in Manhattan. The place was packed, as the scene was a combination of the lounge regulars, a few birthday parties going on and those who heard of the opening night. The smell of weed wafted through the air, and there was all the red velvet birthday cake you can eat.

Sounds like the perfect urban family reunion.

The good times went on until the wee hours of the morning crept up. After it finished I hopped in one of the few cabs that didn’t illegally drive past me because I’m black (if Danny Glover can’t catch a cab...) where, no less than two blocks after picking up the cab, I looked across the street at another club that was emptying out and saw what looked like a one-sided world championship match for the WWF Intercontinental Title between two guys, or rather, one guy and one human punching bag.

In the human punching bag guy’s defense, he was about a quarter of his opponent’s size, who looked like he bench-presses 18-wheelers for fun. But still.

That fight was unfair from the get-go, and the unlucky skinny guy had his face bashed in not unlike the way Kratos bashed in Hercules’ face in God Of War 3 (spoiler alert!), his white t-shirt painted with his own blood. The fight eventually stopped, though, when cops (and quite possibly, the amber lamps) pulled up to the scene. Or at least I hope it did.

To think, all of this took place in the five minutes it took for the traffic light to turn green.

It’s 2010, people; there’s really no need to duke it out in a social setting like this was the Tunnel in the late 90s anymore. Unfortunately, there are still some folks who go out looking for trouble like they’re members of The Rogues. There’s really no “winner” in fights regardless: all parties look like idiots that embarrass their female company, and when the cops come they force all that were unfortunate to get caught to share cells with Fleece Johnson for a night. I don’t know about you, but I’d never want to put my sphincter at risk all because I stepped on somebody’s shoes in a club.

Think about it: is it worth paying money – or even logical, for that matter – to go out and get your ass beat? Times is much too tough to spend money on hospital bills like homeboy who got the crimson mask installed on his face last week. And to said guy who was the unfortunate recipient of that mollywhopping clinic last week: was it really worth it in the end?