We all know and admire someone who’s badass. Really BADASS. Besides my very badass mother (who is, let me state for the record, 4 foot ten and made of the badest badass material known to humankind), I happen to know several BadAsses. Miss Kylie Scott battles zombies and swears like a salty sailor. Ainslie Paton does rock chick bitch and ballroom dancing. Vassiliki, librarian, fellow faker, and Shallowreader will take you down and put you in a sleeperhold with one withering look. It is easy to recognise badass in another, but how does one ascertain if you yourself are badass?
If you are barely over 5 feet tall and prone to sailor-speak, wish you were a rock chick bitch and know how to apply a sleeperhold, does that make you badass?
Or is it knowing other badasses simply makes you Badass by association?
Or is it that you sat through A Good Day to Die Hard for your husband’s birthday and you did not weep for the atrocities you witnessed onscreen because you were so utterly gobsmacked by what you saw that you dissociated from the faux John McClane onscreen, the one that looked like John McClane but was not John McClane. That you put yourself in a happy place, like the Nakatomi Towers filled by Eurotrash terrorists who were actually thieves, and a guy who made fists with his toes and just wanted to see if he could get back together with his estranged wife & kids for Christmas?
Hans, bubby, I ask you. Does sitting though a movie where the shark is jumped in the first nine minutes of the film because the plot was blow lots of shit up and jump through lots of windows and have a few lines of tacked-on a dialogue, more explosions, a really long car chase where we destroy fifteen billion dollars worth of Mercedes, and a freeze frame, happy family ending ending that totally ruined a fantastic movie franchise that started back in 1988 make you badass?
Yes. I think it does. I am the baddest badass you will ever know.
At least for today I am.