Oh, dear. Since everyone already knows who you are because you're probably too old to understand how the Internet works, let's just bite the bullet and break down your unique brand of racially-charged publicly-intoxicated combat. I'm going to call you Trail Mix because it fuses a little bit of everything into an ultimately unsatisfying experience.
You are strong out of the blocks. After a few slurred racial slurs, you approach your foe and solemnly remove your jacket for business, just like a championship boxer. Your foe follows suit. Then you immediately lose any sort of momentum you may have had by comically barking "NOW..NOW" in the manner of a barnyard goose.
Critical mass has been reached. The tension is no longer dissolvable and you place your hands on your opponent's shoulders, pausing for dramatic effect before giving him the official shove that will begin the festivities.
"Whoa, that guy was fast!" you think to yourself. You are thinking this because you are already on the ground. Your foe has shoved you, causing you to stumble and befuddling your already severely impaired motor reactions. As you try to regain balance, you shift directions and fall. Somehow, some corner of your brain sends a desperate signal to your arm and it makes it part of the way up before you get FULLY KICKED IN YOUR FLAT HEAD, CHUMP. But still, you know, you did get partially kicked in the head, which still counts as getting kicked in the head.
This is my absolute favorite. You are taking evasive action although your opponent is just standing there. You're like a marionette bantam rooster attempting to defy the laws of physics underwater. It's like you've been studying reruns of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers for years waiting for this exact moment to be captured on film and made famous. You may lose your day job, but you can always apply to be a stuntman when they begin to re-make Walker, Texas Ranger with Kevin Sorbo.
Sirens begin to blare and Airport Security Agent GOB begins his mesmerizingly slow approach on his Segway. Your opponent has been restrained, but you continue to provoke him. You are waving your arms in the manner of an Indian God or Goddess, just enticing him to step back in the ring for another chance to defeat a much larger man. The first round was just a trap; you'll get him this time.
Agent GOB arrives, much to your relief. Now you won't have to try to fight anymore! Since you have been through the drill before, probably a number of times, you immediately put your hands behind your back and await handcuffs. But the Agent just wants to talk to you. He takes you aside for questioning near a snack bar. The food smells delicious. You are distracted by the food. So hungry. You probably mess up on a few questions because of the delicious aroma of cellophane-encased soggy bread and processed cheesestuffs. You are detained. You miss your flight.
You fail at life because you're a racist jerk. Never wear that ring or t-shirt again.