Hotheads are hot.  You got a hothead for a pal, and you always know where your next fight is going to come from.  Everybody has got buttons you can push, but a hothead's buttons are never out of reach.

Me, myself, I'm an easy-going guy, cool-headed, patient, willing to shake off an offense with a shrug and a joke, but I do like guys raring for a shouting match or a fight.  Other friends will settle minor disagreements by talking them out over hours, picking every careless word like a scab--or else bury them in passive-aggressive sulks and snide asides--but my hotheaded friends settle even major ruptures in 30 minutes or less--out in the alley or behind the barn, mano a mano.

Look the word up in a dictionary and you'll see that a hothead is a violent and passionate man--a guy with a big dick and a short fuse.  Not so calculating as a sadist.  Not so ham-fisted as a lout.  A hothead is sexier than those two, as a rule, the fire in his eyes, the veins in his forehead, the flex of muscle at his jaw.  It's the difference between, say, Daniel Craig's James Bond (hotheaded, incorrigible, sinewy) and Roger Moore's (coolheaded, unflappable, light).

Wrestler Roderick Strong was only at the periphery of my attention until I saw his hotblooded side in one or two matches.  That sold me on him more than his spoiled frat-boy looks did.  You can thank Scott Finkelstein for these smoldering shots of Strong, taken at an ROH match last month.  Thank me, of course, for the insight to this badass's virile and firecracker allure.

That said, I hope all my American friends had a happy Thanksgiving Day today, with enough turkey-borne tryptophan to make you nice and sleepy tonight.  But it's back to red meat tomorrow, boys, because nice and sleepy simply does not cut it with me.


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