“I. Didn’t. Do. Any. Thing. Wrong!”
The way they're acting, you'd think
I was a fuckin’ criminal or something.
I mean, if you want to blame
somebody, blame the mambo – forgive me, I guess it would be more respectful to say
"Spanish dude". Anyway, this mambo on roller blades came up to me a
few months back at the park where I normally do my walking, called me a
miserable old fuck, and claimed I didn't get out of his girlfriend's way fast
enough when she came skating by me. Forget that his girlfriend couldn't skate a
lick; she rolls around with her arms flailing like Helen Keller looking for her
car keys. If the path at the park had been as wide as I-95, she still wouldn't
have had enough room to get by me. So, I tell Mr. Mambo, "Fuck you and
your fuckin' girlfriend," after which he informs me that if I don't get
out of his way next time he comes around he's going to knock me on my fuckin'
ass. Well, considering the guy had me by at least a hundred pounds and 40
years, I don't think it was the least bit unreasonable for me to go online that
very day and buy for my protection a heat treated Smith and Wesson collapsible
21 inch baton. I mean, a bona fide threat had been made upon my person by a
certifiably hot-headed spick, I mean mambo, I mean Spanish dude. What was I
supposed to do, roll over and play muerto? Anyway, I've felt a hell of a lot
safer since I started packin’ my heat treated S&W skull buster.
Besides, it isn't like the skater's
the only asshole I've had to deal with - the park is a haven for all kinds of
creeps and losers. Like the homeless people who spend their nights sleeping on
picnic tables and benches and wake up hungry and feeling like the people
walking through the park owe them some kind of breakfast. Yeah, sure. "Get
lost," is how I usually respond which isn't exactly what they want to
hear. And, the dogs. Their dumb-assed owners, openly disrespect all the park
rules about keeping their dogs under control, letting their mutts prance around
unleashed whenever and wherever they like. It isn't hard to envision several
scenarios which end up with me wielding my baton and bashing both bowwow and
owner.
And,
just because several months went by without me once feeling the necessity to
deploy my heat treated baton, I wasn't about to fall into the trap of thinking
the threats had disappeared. I stayed on my toes, always on the lookout for fat
spicks, angry vagrants and attack Chihuahuas
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