Oh, Mae West. Everything about you is the greatest thing about you.

So my roommate picked up a copy of Mae West's autobiography, Goodness Had Nothing to Do With It, today. Now we're big Mae West fan's in our home, ever since we first saw Sextette. I've seen it about twenty times now. I won't go into the amazing salad that is Sextette right now, but I think I owe the internet a massive review one of these days. For now, allow this little ditty to tide you over:




At this point, anyone previously unaware of Miss West's ability to turn anything anyone has ever said ever into an innuendo should be caught up. That's why the information she divulges about her father is even more awesome. Because you can really see the hereditary badassery at work.


His name was John West. But he went by Battlin' Jack West, the Champion of Brooklyn. BATTLIN' JACK WEST, THE CHAMPION OF BROOKLYN. You can't earn a nickname like that these days. There's just no way. He had to have done some astounding shit to get a nickname like that.


Oh, right, he fucking DID.


Battlin' Jack was a street fighter from the age of 11. IN LATE 19TH CENTURY BROOKLYN. I shouldn't have to tell you how tough things were in late 19th century Brooklyn, do I?  


Shit like this happened ALL THE TIME. 





According to Battlin' Jack, there were times when he'd "prefer fighting to eating" because at least that satiated his lust for violence.


One time, Battlin' Jack was at a bar with the woman who would one day be lucky enough to have Mae West chill inside her for nine months. The owner of the bar gave his girl a look he didn't fully appreciate. So he decked the sucker.


That's when allegedly one-hundred patrons of the bar charged at Battlin' Jack. His solution?


B'J grabbed two glass mugs and smashed them together. He then proceeded to slice and dice his way through the crowd and left with his lady in tow. He left a bloody mess in his wake.


But seriously, who else could have produced the seed that became Mae West?