Twitter fights and bar brawls: A tale of friends and elections

Two very dear, very close and very intelligent friends of mine have apparently started internet warfare with celebrities of the 1980s… and it’s getting ugly.  I’m talking big hair, mullet-sporting, parachute pants kind of ugly.

In our current state of global crisis, I recently predicted that the upcoming presidential election (assuming there is one) will be the ugliest in American history.  To be clear, I’m neither 400 years old nor a student of electoral history so I can’t say for certain how ugly things may have gotten in our presidential past.  We’ve fought and debated wars, amended constitutions, freed slaves and even, God help us, granted each and every citizen the right to vote…  but this 2020 election should take the inaugural cake.  It stands to be the worst (or best, depending upon your standards) reality television show ever.  Two old, rapey white dudes taking to their keyboards to duke it out wild, wild west-style with proof-readers and spell-checkers being told to eff the hell off in heated moments of self-congratulated creativity (small ‘c’).  Prepare yourselves for the most uncivil and far too superlative Twitter spat of them all, #BidenvsTrump2020.

A relatively non-confrontational guy, I’ve only been involved in heated Twitter warfare once before.  Years ago, a reader took umbrage with the fact that I implied Ken Griffey, Jr. may have taken steroids.  Despite the man’s squeaky-clean image, it only seemed logical, considering he played in an era when steroids were rampant, that such a thing was at least plausible.  This implication sent one reader into a tizzy, accusing me of saying such a thing only to direct internet traffic to my website.  In the end, the joke was on her since my website attracts as much traffic as your local interstate in the midst of a global pandemic.

I had even dedicated a post recalling the banter between the two of us but so much time has passed, I decided to let bygones be bygones.

The same cannot be said, however, for the grueling cases of Dr. Milhouse vs. Kirk Gibson and Partykiller vs. Richard Marx and yes, I’m using their stage names to protect them from any further guilt or embarrassment. 

The other night after, perhaps, no definitely, drinking too much whiskey, Dr. Milhouse boldly proclaimed that Kirk Gibson once smashed him in the face with a beer bottle AND that he had witnesses.  He even gathered together his internet posse to prove Gibson’s guilt.  They swore up and down that they all saw it happen.

As it turns out, his tall tale WAS true… except for one minor detail.  Milhouse got smashed in the face alright.  It just happened to be by some drunken loon wearing a Kirk Gibson jersey and not by the actual Kirk Gibson himself.

I don’t know which part of his story I found more surprising: that Kirk Gibson, a national treasure, would smash a bottle in a good friend’s face or that he would be out in a Detroit bar wearing his own jersey… or that I believed any of this story in the first place.

I later told Milhouse that if his friends didn’t go full Jack Buck after the incident by shouting “I don’t believe what I just saw” as the Gibson impersonator walked off into the sunset with a sawed-off beer bottle in his hands, then he clearly needed new friends.

My other vicarious, internet encounter with the stars was Partykiller vs. Richard Marx.  For those of you 24 or younger (which pretty much eliminates my entire reading base), Richard Marx was a late-80s, early-90s pop icon (small ‘i’).

It would be wrong (yet oh, so right) to dismiss Marx’s impact on pop music.  Fucker did have three Billboard #1 hits.  That’s far more than Partykiller and I can say for ourselves, despite writing a number of yet-to-be-released classics.  Check Amazon music for more details.

An educated, and most certainly opinionated, man in his own right, Partykiller has never been one to hold his tongue when it comes to political debate.  It might have something to do with his Irish-Italian bloodline and his affinity for the occasional cocktail but apparently, he and the mullet-sporting pop icon once got into a heated political debate.  It didn’t involve a beer smashed in one’s face outside a Detroit bar but it’s equally as juicy.

I do believe Marx, a liberal of the same name, was upset that President Trump was trying to “sensor” the media.  Partykiller, who leans right, was quick to point out that in that particular instance, the president was not doing anything illegal.

It was shortly thereafter that Marx, he of 1990s love ballad fame, blocked Partykiller from any further communication.

You see, Marx’s first ever pop hit was entitled “Don’t Mean Nothing.”  “Don’t Mean Nothing” also happened to be Partykiller’s response to Marx in their debate.  It was to be the last thing Partykiller would ever say to Marx.  He had been excommunicated. 

When reached for comment on the matter, Partykiller said simply this…

So, his Twitter feed is a non-stop barrage of anti-Trump and anti-Republican posts, with an occasional pic of Daisy Fuentes.

He was railing about the FCC and something to do with broadcast licensing where he believed Trump was trying to get radio stations thrown off the air that spoke poorly of him.

I engaged him thoughtfully, and then came back with a zinger of one of his song lyrics after he further railed against Trump.

I was then immediately blocked.

I guess Richard Marx doesn’t have a sense of humor to go along with his Tweeted political opinions.  And shame on him for bringing poor Daisy Fuentes into all of this.

This is the shape of things to come: online warfare.  #BidenVsTrump2020 should provide us with Tweets which will make Partykiller vs. Richard Marx appear civil by comparison. 

To quote the ever media present Terrell Owens, get your popcorn ready!

4 thoughts on “Twitter fights and bar brawls: A tale of friends and elections

  1. We know Richard Marx is a pussy. If you don’t know, now you know.

  2. This is why I don’t tweet,twitter,or twerk. I did an about face on facebook and I’d rather send a telegram than an instagram. There really is no point to this rant except to say in the long run it don’t mean nothing. Thanks for being there for me in this sad time Rev. I needed a grin. Cheers my friend.

  3. Any time, Deac.

    And I’m sure the rest of us are equally glad that you retired the Twerk.

    Although, it’s never bad to break it out for special occasions.

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