Hello, I’m Viking Cronholm. Think Of Me As A Swedish Jack LaLanne That Can Kick Your Sorry Ass
Viking Cronholm might not be the Most Interesting Man In The World. But if I were the MIMITW, I wouldn’t take Viking’s seat at the bar when he goes to the bathroom, or talk to one of the several girlfriends he brought with him, because when he gets back, there’s going to be… trouble.
Not trouble for him, of course. Trouble for you. His name is Viking, for crissakes. You don’t want to get into scrapes with men named Viking, do you? It’s like sending diplomats to talk to Vlad The Impaler. Your chance of success is right there in the name, isn’t it?
Viking was a troublesome youth. Born in 1874, he was too adventurous for his staid upbringing, so his father took him out of school and sent him off as a sort of merchant seaman to teach him a lesson about being a tough guy. It didn’t dissuade him. Sure, when he got back, he went to school to study physiotherapy, but apparently only so he’d know more ways to pull your arms out of their sockets and beat you over the head with them. After that, he went to the US, learned to box, and won a championship or two. Then he moved to South Africa, probably hoping to wrestle cape buffalo or something, and it’s there that he learned jiu jitsu, the original martial art –no doubt just so he could kick everyone’s ass without bothering to take off his coat.
He wrote the book on Jiu Jitsu, literally, and it’s gone through 34 editions. He died in 1961, no doubt from boredom.