Bite

When I was in kindergarten, I had a habit of biting other kids if I got pissed off at them. After I had bitten several kids, the teacher told me that »Biters wet their pants,« Eager to test her hypothesis, and demonstrate my familiarity with the scientific method, I bit the boy next to me on the arm. I believe his name was Marshall, but that's not important. What was important was the fact that I did not wet my pants. I tried to convey this to her shortly afterwards, but she was too busy smacking my ass with a ping-pong paddle.

Why didn't I bite him? I sure felt like biting him. »We can't approve your loan,« he said. He was all over stripes (regimental, pin-, you know.) »The two of you don't make enough to live in [this town].«

My partner argued. I twisted my feet around in my shoes and scratched a scab on my arm and looked out the window. Thinking back now, I wish I had just bitten him and gotten out of there.

This fascination with things that are tiny. Bite-sized. Small cookies and small candy bars. Things that you bite. But are baby polar bears bite-sized, too? Except the other way around – tiny things that will bite you?

Maybe the worst thing you can do to someone physically is to bite them. It's just as violent as a punch or a kick, but it seems so much more brutal to me. It must be all the teeth--and the saliva.

Okay then. No rabbit punching, no low blows, no hitting after the bell. And you, Tyson, no biting. Shakes hands and come out fighting....