The 10-Year-Old's Guide to Fighting

Awesomeness = Power

Any jackass can just punch a dude, but even the most powerful, expertly executed straight is nothing next to even the most half-hearted of jump-kicks. But if you add the words "spinning," "leaping" or "sweet-ass backflipping" before that straight, it inexplicably adds untold dimensions of power and damage to the move. Just try it yourself: Give that evil cyborg that replaced your stupid math teacher a quick jab, and it will laugh in your face before flunking you out ...

"Ha. Ha. Ha. If. Only. You. Had. Spun. First. Your. Family. Might. Still. Be. Alive."

Oh, but if you spin around first, duck down and then jump in the air while jabbing, he'll probably explode into a fine, red-tinged mist of former asshole-teacher-robot-that's-probably-pretty-sorry-he-wasn't-nicer-to-you-now. This is why I spent a good part of my childhood dizzily spin-kicking at water-filled milk-jugs that I had suspended from the roof of my back porch, well before I'd even learned how to make a proper fist. Awesomeness always adds power.

Build Your Arsenal

Every little boy loves his parents, and we were fully prepared at all times to murder an entire regiment of rogue samurai in order to avenge their tragic deaths. That's why we needed that extensive weapon collection we had stashed somewhere -- under the bed, at the bottom of the closet beneath the toy chest or just wrapped in an old blanket down by the creek. If you were rich and, consequently, your affluent parents were too busy making money to love or supervise you, those weapons may have even been manufactured: illicit ninja stars forged in the darkest heart of those touristy areas in Mexico, a pocket knife ordered from the back of a comic book or possibly even the dreaded butterfly knife (by the properties of Lesson #1, the wimpiest butterfly knife was always more dangerous than the wickedest hunting knife, by virtue of that spinny shit looking really cool.)

On rare occasion, you may have even known that one lucky child who possessed the ultimate weapon: a pair of red, hard-plastic nunchucks purchased from Ancient Chen, the revered weapons master who ran the convenience store across the street from the arcade, and stored them in their sacred place: a glass case next to some bongs.

"This case? No, young one, this case possesses a power you are not yet prepared for. Stick to ninja star."

When in Doubt, Bluff

On the playground, there was one weapon that if used, it was guaranteed to either drastically accelerate every conflict or else shut it down entirely. It was the atomic bomb of childhood. It was not a strike, nor a weapon or even a strategy. It was a phrase. Three little words: "I know karate." Speaking them was a risky gambit. Sure, your attackers know you're probably lying ... but what if you're not? Movies are full of unlikely, malnourished children spin-kicking the holy shit out of entire groups of confident bullies, thus embarrassing the attackers for life and possibly also stealing their girlfriends in the process.

This is how you get dates. This is the only way.

But the gambit had a downside, too. If you've spoken the words falsely and they attack anyway, you can never use the tactic again; all the other kids will know for a fact that the only "karate" you know is Crying Windmill Style. There were a number of factors that decided whether or not the bluff was believed -- from the number of mysterious Asian-looking patches on your backpack to the time of day (night time, especially with the presence of a full moon, adds 50 percent credibility to any claims of martial arts proficiency.) If the statement was accepted, the fight was defused with a simple "Whatever, fag." If denied, the fight most likely terminated in a series of humiliating (but ultimately not very effective) shoves.

Do Not Use the Death Touch

There are many, many versions of the death touch. At last count, roughly one in five fourth graders alive today knows how to kill a man with a single blow. The exact method -- whether that's by use of a pattern of ancient Chinese pressure points, the secret Special Forces maneuver that forces one knuckle through the temple or the infamous Steven Seagal flat palmed nose-into-the-brain strike -- will vary from child to child. So, why isn't every fourth grade graduating class made up of one solitary, triumphantly screaming, blood-soaked child who has bested all comers?

"I AM VICTORIOUS! THE BLOOD OF MY ENEMIES STAINS MY OSH KOSH! I AM READY FOR THE FIFTH GRAAAAAADE!"

It's because we all promised our masters -- be they fathers, Senseis or governments -- that we would never, ever use the forbidden blow. It was only for honor's sake that we restrained ourselves and that Jeremy, the big kid with the bowl cut who took our lunch money, wasn't dead and in the ground faster than he could say "I never knew my father."

Practice, Practice, Practice

If something looks like, feels like or could theoretically be used as a weapon, you should probably take advantage of the opportunity to get your practice in. There was nothing better in life than a good, weighty stick -- to this day I cannot walk by a fine, sword-shaped branch without grabbing it and practice-swinging for a block or so before ultimately feeling foolish and tossing it away. But there are many other every day items that can double as deadly weapons in a pinch. And you must get your practice in. You must stay sharp. You must be ready for the day that fateful call comes. The one that says, "This is the president. The worst has come to pass: The robots have arisen. Yes, yes I'm afraid they