Fight Nice

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Speaking of poor mothers.

My poor mother must've really taken a beating when all of us were young and loud and fighting and arguing and throwing things and breaking windows and swearing and driving fast and then drinking and fighting and laughing and swearing.

She had her hands full.

And if there was a real battle between us as siblings she'd go to my Dad for help and he'd enter the room and yell:

"Fight Nice!"

So...

...we were allowed to fight, but we had to keep it nice.

I thought of that when I saw that the GOP is thinking about suing Obama.

Just crazy crap, really.

And perhaps a true slippery slope where we finally, once and for all, try to diminish the office of the presidency.

Don't worry...

...it's not a political discussion.

It's more about fighting nice.

A few years ago I had to go to a job site where a specific member of the operating engineer's union was fighting, non-stop with a specific member of the iron workers.

It was a huge job at Cornell. The trades were being paid a high-rate. They were both members of their union. They were actually really good guys if they weren't talking to one another.

I got called in when the fight got out of control.

The crane operator actually watched his nemesis enter the port-a-lav.

Uh, yeah.

In his words, he 'just tapped' the side of the unsecured port-a-lav.

"I had shit all over me!" The iron worker seethed. "I'm going to kill him!"

At that point I was speaking to each guy separately. The iron worker was not blame-free either as he had done something a bit shady to the sandwich that the operator was eating.

Then I tried to bring the two grown men together.

They sat there with their arms folded to their chests. I had the power to dismiss both of them from their high-paying jobs. I had to tread lightly, however, as I didn't want them screaming for their union reps.

We sat there for over an hour.

Finally I yelled it out:

"FIGHT NICE!"

The impasse continued until I told them that I was hungry and that they had exactly 15 minutes to either shake hands and walk out of the trailer with their arms around one another, or pack their shit and get the hell out.

Do you know that they took it right down to the very last minute?

Finally the impasse was broken however and as the iron worker left the trailer he shook my hand and laughed:

"Fight nice," he said. "You gave us permission to keep fighting but to do it nicer. I like that."

Thanks, Dad.

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