The Meatheads Have Spoken, And Apparently I Did Not Sustain A Concussion

In last night's episode of Surviving Barstool, strategy and tact left the building. They were replaced by brute violence. The challenge was as simple as it was likely to result in injury. The key to this challenge was being able to throw haymakers from a position of ill-balanced footing. Bonus points if you know how to take a punch or two. 

Gee, I wonder who would be good at that. If only there were a profession one could pursue for decades that honed the skills of fighting from close range on poor footing…

Look, I'm no street tough. I prefer to hash out my differences through respectful discourse or, if all else fails and we come to blows, I have father's lawyer on my phone's favorite list to ensure swift, one-sided justice. I've also suffered a few concussions in my life, which I've documented at length over my years at Barstool. And I told my teammates right before the challenge of this history, noting my reservations about the challenge, but there was no chance I was not going to participate. For that would have left my teammates high and dry and ensured that they would have voted me out at the next counsel. 

So I strapped on my helmet, put my mouthguard in, and mounted the platform to face former NHL enforcer Biz—who wore no protective headgear and no mouthguard because his thousand+ professional and amateur fist fights have encased his brain in a layer of bubble wrap scar tissue. I mean that thing is not moving at all. It's packed like a pair of Fabergé eggs sold at a Sotheby's auction. 

In the show, I described it as the feeling of facing off against Miss Peaches' stepfather. I shudder to think of the horrors that poor dog faced at the hands of her previous owner. But I'd take a hundred nights cowering from my alcoholic pitbull stepdad over a phone booth whack-a-mole fight against Biz again. It only took one second for him to bash my skull from both sides, and I was done. 

After, I felt the familiar disorientation, headache, and nausea I'd come to know as signs of a concussion. The producers called an EMT who ran some tests and diagnosed me with—you guessed it—a concussion. But our in-house medical experts, as well as countless keyboard MDs, had different opinions:

I feel like I'm taking crazy pills. Did we not JUST celebrate our beloved Biz for fighting SIX (6!!!!!!!!!!!!!) FUCKING CAREER CRIMINALS BY HIMSELF? Are you really going to tell me that there is no chance this physical specimen, adept at unleashing his anvil fists upon the fragile skulls of golf-loving Irishmen, couldn't possibly have knocked my concussion-susceptible brain against my skull with his one-two combo?!!!! 

I dare you to stand in my Reeboks on a wobbly platform, staring down a coiled king cobra in a tucked-in t-shirt, and tell me your brain isn't about to pinball around your skull like neutrons fired in a reactor. 

Those "foam rollers" were PVC pipes covered in a laughably inadequate layer of tampon fluff. Those "helmets" were glorified chemical peels better suited to steam out blackheads than protect from blunt-force trauma. On their team, you randomly had two former NFL players, one former NHL enforcer, and that walking bath salt trip Rico Bosco. Imagine if any one of those guys had faced off against Ria or Moobs? Are we even airing this show right now if that happens? 

I am sorry to hear that Will Compton's father oversaw unlicensed child-fighting rings. Seems like the sort of adversity that would bloom a 10-year NFL career at minimum. 

I am sorry that Taylor Lewan's tattoos magically assembled like tea leaves to render a verdict of no concussion. Taylor, if you're reading this (using your pointer finger to follow the words or else you'll lose your place), I do think you are the strongest person at the company and I genuinely fear you. I know that if I were to hand you a Rubik's Cube, you would simply rip the block apart, swallow the individual colored cubes without water, and shit out a message that reads "Francis is gay" in rainbow coloring to underscore your sentiment. 

And finally, I have to tip my cap to Ryan Whitney, who stood in there like a champion and took his licks against these bruising medical masterminds. In that moment, I'm certain that he would have preferred to be a thousand miles away, standing over a birdie putt on some seaside resort course, knowing his swing is silky and his fighting days are behind him. 

You and me both, brother. Consider this an invitation to next year's member-guest. Where the only bussin' boys are the illegals who refill our waters and whisk our finished dishes off the table.