Take it from Snee: This ‘Fight Club’ sucks

OK, so you may have noticed a few digs against fight clubs in this space recently.

It’s not that I dislike the book or the movie. Far from it, actually. The book is a fascinating yarn about young males in a non-violent society’s quest for manhood. The movie is, in some ways, superior to the book … until the ending.

Whatever.

My problem with Fight Club is that same one I have with anal sex: practical application. You see, I was invited to attend a “real” one.

Here’s what happened:

I’m in the stock room of a Best Buy, surrounded by mostly Geek Squad and, surprisingly, a couple of Apple Store Geniuses. One guy in the corner is already peeling off his Applebee’s polo shirt, revealing an assortment of stretch marks and grease burn scars.

The stock room is well-lit and not really dingy, but dusty. An 8-foot-by-8-foot area has been cleared for a ring that has been demarcated by stacked HD-DVD boxes that never sold.

One of the guys, older, probably a floor manager, points to his watch. An announcement over the PA announces that the store is closed.

As if on cue, a tall skinny guy with his hair spiked up like Brad Pitt steps into the clearing.

“Well, gentlemen, welcome to Fight Club. The rules are simple. Number One: you do not talk about Fight Club. Number two: you do not talk about Fight Club.”

It’s pretty obvious that he’s the leader because he can recite the movie the most like Brad Pitt, though he’s starting to drawl more like Aldo Rainne. I wonder if he’ll throw in an Ocean’s line, but I can’t think of any I’d recognize if he did.

“If someone says ‘stop’ or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Only two guys to a fight. No shirts, no shoes.”

It’s at this point that the rest start laying their shirts across boxes so they won’t be wrinkled tomorrow afternoon.

“Fights will go on as long as they have to. And, if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.”

Everyone is standing around the ring, fluorescent lights reflecting off their pale bird chests and bellies. Maybe the skinny ones have cancer? Or is it the fat ones with tits? They all look like they at least have asthma.

“… So, who’s up?”

Nobody says a word.

“… Anybody? Who wants to fight?”

One guy coughs in the back.

“Any new guys tonight?”

I hear a distinct fart and hope it’s not the Applebee’s guy.

“No new members at all? What kind of club has no new members?”

One of the Mac Geniuses shouts, “The first rule of Fight Club is that you do not talk about Fight Club!”

The leader lights a cigarette. “Well, yeah, you don’t talk to, like, special forces commandos or football players about Fight Club. They could really hurt somebody. But, you could tell your friends, Genius.”

Everyone looks around at each other. Apparently this is all their friends.

“Alright, well, who’s gonna fight? It’s not much of a fight club if nobody fights.”

The Applebee’s guy says, “OK, I’ll fight.” I can smell the fart from earlier and it’s definitely a jalapeño popper.

“There we go. Phil’s first up! Who’s gonna fight him?”

The crowd goes flush against their Toshiba boxes.

He points at one of the Geek Squad … geeks, who’s wearing his tie as Rambo headband. “Steve, how about you?”

“Uh, I fought last week?”

Tyler Perry or whatever snaps his fingers. “That’s right.” He points to another: “What about you, Kevin?”

“Lumbago’s acting up. Had to move a box today.”

“Yeesh. Well, take it easy on that and don’t forget your multi-vitamins. They’ll help your body disperse nutrients more efficiently.”

Apparently Brad S#&t works at GNC.

“Anybody …? Aw, c’mon!”

Phil, who’s just sent another wave of evaporated cheese fries my way, suggests that maybe the leader could fight him.

“Oh, yeah. I could do that.” He grinds his cigarette butt out on a case of Zunes. Then he puts his fists out in front of him with the grace of a guy who went to both free trial karate lessons.

Phil inches towards him and flinches at him.

Meet Joe Black flinches back, raising a hand like he was going to block the semi-punch, mostly with his face. Now he does a little kick towards Phil’s bekhakied shin, followed by a jab that ends two inches short.

Phil pushes him back into a Monster Cable Box.

“Are you OK?”

The leader scrambles out of the box. “Yeah, fine. C’mon!”

At that point, they grab each other, trying to throw the other one down.

I ask the guy next to me why they aren’t just punching each other.

“You kidding, man? Hitting people hurts!”

So, these two shirtless guys are wrestling around, kicking each others shins and apologizing under their breath until–finally–Phil throws his weight into Skyler Durden and takes him to the ground.

The other guys around me are shouting: “You got him now, Phil! Kick his ass!”

Phil clearly has no idea what he’s doing. After fumbling around for an armbar or something, he finally settles for choking Fake Brad with his hands like a strangler out of a Hitchcock movie.

The crowd goes part-cautionary, part crazy. “He didn’t say stop!” “Are you gonna kill him?” “Turning blue doesn’t count as limp!” “What’s his penis got to do with this?”

Two minutes pass.

Kevin tries to start the “His name is Robert Paulson” chant.

Fortunately, the one time Phil lands a punch, it’s into Jack’s chest, which wakes him back up and gets him breathing. He coughs and wheezes while tapping out.

They hug, each thanking each other and declaring what an awesome fight it was. Of course, Legends of the Fall is doing so between gasps and tears.

Everyone congratulates each other: “Man, that was a great fight!” “I love this club!” “Who wants to go next?”

And the whole long selection process starts all over again, only the rest of the night is spent talking about whether Ed Norton really kills himself at the end or if he really survived shooting the Project Mayhem out of himself.

I, of course, did not fight.

What? Punching people really hurts.