You guys remember that story from the other day about how the drummer for The Black Keys, Patrick Carney, said that fellow rocker Jack White tried to kick his ass when they ran into each other in a bar because Jack White thinks that The Black Keys "stole his sound?" Well, you guys aren’t going to believe this, but Jack White ACTUALLY kicked my ass that night! And it was fucking great!
It all started when I stepped out of this bar to grab some fresh air and to check my phone (I think the bar’s wi-fi was fucking with my reception because my Hinge app was kinda reloading funky) and who do I bump into but present day rock God JACK WHITE!
Now, you gotta know that I am a HUGE Jack White fan. How huge, you ask? How about own-two-copies-of-the-“Cold Mountain”-soundtrack-on-CD huge? I rest my case, your honor.
I know the first thing you’re probably thinking and the answer is “yes!” He really is that pale. I know it’s unfair, but for me it’s always a bummer when a celebrity’s skin don’t look as sickly translucent in real life as it does on TV, but my man Jack White was looking sallow, baby. I always thought that Jack White might be the closest thing we have to what would happen if Wednesday Adams got impregnated by a jellyfish and it turns out that I was spot. on.
My best guess is that running into that Patrick Carney dude earlier in the night had him pretty steamed up and that our little run-in must have sent him right over the edge because he immediately started kicking my ass right then and there. But I gotta say that as a Jack White fan, I loved every fucking second of it.
Sure, it hurt like hell, but it was just how you’d expect Jack White to kick someone’s ass. Jack White whooped me the same way he rocks out, man: straightforward and no frills. Jack White gave me a good old fashioned sluggin’ with none of that la-di-da kung fu bullshit that you see sometimes in fights these days. He didn’t do any fancy bobbing and weaving. He didn’t try to blind me by blowing a handful of dirt in my eyes. He didn’t run up walls and roundhouse me in the chin. Jack White didn’t showboat. Jack White didn’t hot dog. Jack White just threw body shot after solid body shot straight into my goddamn gut.
Sure, every once in awhile he’d add a little flourish by popping me one in the jaw or shooting me a quick kick to the knee cap, but it was never anything over the top. Honestly, it only made me appreciate his simplicity and restraint the rest of the time he was kicking my ass that much more. I mean, it was incredible how bad Jack White could fuck me up using nothing more than big, wide hooks to the gut. He fucked up my stomach. He fucked up my kidneys. He fucked up my ribs and my lungs. It reminded me of Jack White’s love of analog recording equipment: When you give Jack White limits (or rather when Jack White gives himself limits) you really get to see his creativity blossom. And I’ve got the severe internal bleeding to prove it!
After thumping my dumb ass for a little while, Jack White really began to let loose. You know how when Jack White gets going in a concert, he really starts to shred. Like he just totally loses himself in a solo or something and he and the guitar feel like they’re fusing together into a single being of pure sound? It felt like that, but instead of a playing a guitar, Jack White was kicking the shit out of my bloody, broken body.
At one point, Jack White grabs me by the back of the head and starts slamming my face into a brick wall. He wouldn’t stop! He just kept thumping my dome into that wall over and over and over. Thump thump-thump-thump-thump thump thump. “Wait,” I thought to myself as my brain sloshed around inside of my own skull. “I know that tune…” Thump thump-thump-thump-thump thump thump. Thump thump-thump-thump-thump thump thump. It was “Seven Nation Army!” I almost couldn’t believe it because I was pretty severely concussed at this point, but I swear to God that Jack White himself was bashing my head in to the tune of his hit single and beloved sport chant, “Seven Nation Army.” Man, Jack White’s hooks are so catchy, even Jack White can’t get them out of his head! I tried to sing along, but my mouth was too full of blood and teeth.
If I had just gotten to experience Jack White alone whooping my ass, I would have been a very happy camper, but ol’ Jack White still had a couple surprises up his sleeve. In typical Jack White fashion, he had a few very special friends drop in to help him beat me utterly senseless.
First, Jack White’s “The White Stripes” bandmate and ex-wife Meg White shows up. She grabs my arms and Jack White grabs my legs and together they lift me up into the air and then drop me straight onto my back. I could actually hear it when one of my vertebrae cracked and I just think it’s incredible how well they could collaborate on nearly paralyzing me after going through a divorce. I don’t know if it’s “love,” but there was definitely something still there.
Next, Country Legend Loretta Lynn comes out and absolutely goes to town on me. Us “Jack Heads” know that Jack White developed a great working relationship with Loretta Lynn when he produced her last album and it was on full display when she started positively assaulting my nutsack. She’s standing over me, wailing away at my bloated and discolored cock and balls and Jack White is right next to her the entire time, pushing and encouraging and he’s getting some absolutely incredible stuff out of her. She’s grabbing and twisting and yanking the hell out of my dick, sending me into this realm of exquisitely excruciating pain. Needless to say, the old girl has still got! All it takes is a little coaxin’ from ol’ Jack White!
Finally, late night talk show host and a good friend of Jack White’s Conan O’Brien arrives on the scene. Usually, Conan is all about cracking jokes, but tonight he seemed intent on cracking bones because he gets right to work stomping all over my legs and arms. After he tired himself out, Jack White goes “Hey, Conan. Which do you think is the uglier break-up: this guy’s shins or you and NBC?” I physically couldn’t laugh because of a punctured lung, but trust me I was dying on the inside. Because Jack White is such a serious musician, you can forget how funny he is, but I think Conan being around brings out his sense of humor.
Not to get too graphic, but the whole thing ends with Jack White, Meg White, Loretta Lynn, and Conan O’Brien teaming up to shove a traffic cone so far up my ass that the hospital had to cut it up and pull it out of me piece by piece. Now that’s what I call a “jam!”
But this where the story gets really weird. Jack White and his friends leave and I’m just lying on the sidewalk in a puddle of my own piss, blood, and puke, happy as can be that I just got my ass kicked by one of my heroes when “The Black Keys” drummer Patrick Carney comes along and starts beating me up, too! Now, he whooped me pretty good and it definitely hurts like Hell, but if I’m being honest, it felt a little derivative of the way Jack White was kicking my ass earlier. I’m really not trying to stir up this old “rip-off” beef between the two bands. I guess there’s a chance that Patrick Carney just happens to kick ass in the same way that Jack White does. I dunno. I really wanna give Patrick Carney the benefit of the doubt. He seems like he’s a cool dude and he was great at pummeling the shit out out of me, but I couldn’t help but feel Jack White’s influence in the way he beat me half to death. Maybe Patrick Carney wasn’t even aware that he bludgeoning me senseless in the style of Jack White? I don’t know what you do about that. That shit’s always tricky.