I like pink. I blog in pink and I have a pair of pink dress shirts that I wear with a blue blazer. I also have a set of 'parrothead camo' BDUs that I wear to Camp Perry.
I also have a bright pink hooded sweat shirt that I sort of got stuck buying because I needed a fast, warm layer and pink was the only color thay had that was in my size. Pink isn't generally my choice for something like a sweat shirt.
I bought it because it is warm and handy, coupled with the fact that I was freezing my ass off.
I had to get some hardware the other day and was in somewhat of a hurry. The sweatshirt was handy so I carelessly threw it on and drove on down to the hardware store. While I was crossing through the lot, a father and son were behind me and the father made a pretty nasty comment to his son about the color of the shirt I was wearing.
There was something about the comment that irked me. Normally I don't sweat the small stuff and if somebody says something about my appearance or whatever, I generally couldn't care less. However, there was something about this guy that I simply didn't like at all. He was one of those guys that clearly needed a serious ass-kicking, and I was in somewhat of a mood to perform a public service.
OK, so I wasn't going to do the right thing and beat him senseless, but I figured I would give him a good humiliation. People like this are a part of the problem with life in this country. The system lets them run their mouths with irresponsibley with no consequences. During what is sometimes referred to as the era of good manners, a period in US history when most men carried pocket revolvers it was considered good form to be polite as there could be grave consequences to mouthing off.
While I really don't think this guy should have been shot for running his mouth, I certainly do think that a black eye or a bloody nose would have been in order, but in the pussified society we have today it would be considered unacceptable.
I turned and let them take a couple of steps to catch up to me and walk into my little trap. I stood in the pretty basic 'ready for action' position and spoke first.
"Either you are trying to teach your son a lesson in manners or you like your women to be flatchested because you have a fetish for small boys," I said.
The kid, a pretty squared away looking young man in his mid teens looked truly embarrassed and I could tell right off the bat that the kid had been embarrassed by his father before and that he would be no trouble at all. I felt sorry for him at once.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded in a snotty tone.
"I mean that either you are trying to teach your son by example when to keep his mouth shut or you don't like a good, healthy bosom on a woman," I answered. "I wear this pink sweat shirt to show awareness for breast cancer."
He flushed and my body language told him he wasn't getting out of this vry easily. His son was now in a dilemma. He didn't know if he should cringe at watching his old man get a beat down or laugh at what promised to be a pretty good humiliation. It was now clear to me that I was doing exactly the right thing not letting this excuse for a man's comment slide. This wasn't the first time his father had run his mouth irresponsibly.
I also realized that to a certain extent that the kid was actually on my side. The man's son was actually looking forward to see what his father was made of. I also knew I could get away with just about anything short of murder and the lad would pose me no problems. The boy actually wanted to see his father get the holy hell beat out of him.
"I like a good set of breasts," answered the man.
In the tone of a parent patiently answering the question of a small recaltricant child, I asked him with good, practical irrefutable logic, "Then why are you not wearing any pink?"
The man blushed. He turned beet red. This was not going the way he planned and I shifted my weight subtly to let him know he was not dismissed yet.
"You owe me either an apology or a trip to the alley," I said. He grew redder.
"What would we do there?" he stammered.
"Perhaps we could exchange knives," I suggested in a very wry tone of vioce.
"I don't have one," he replied. "I don't carry a weapon." He sounded pretty shaken.
"If you plan on continuing to wander around insulting people, you ought to start. Here, I'll loan you mine. You don't know how to use it, anyway so I won't have any problem taking it away from you."
With that he mumbled a quick apology and I stepped aside,letting him pass. It was over now and it was time to get with our business. I had humiliated him enough and I knew better than putting him completely in a corner where he felt he had no choice but to fight. This was a successful encounter, really. Nobody had gotten hurt and I knew I would never have to listen to the man's crap ever again. I felt I had performed a minor public service and maybe he would think twice before running his mouth again, but then again, maybe not.
He started off toward the store and I quietly followed up to the door and then abruptly turned a 180 and went back to my truck and left.
Guys like that are pretty chickenshit and are apt to call the police and tell one side of the story. In short, they are generally out and out liars. I didn't need the hassle of dealing with the police. I got my parts down the street and went home.
A couple of days later I was out shopping and of all people, the man's son saw me and approached me.
"Mister," he asked, thoughtfully. "Would you have hurt my father?"
"I just thought he needed to be brought up short, " I replied. "I didn't think he needed to be beaten up or anything like that, just reminded to show a few basic manners." I looked at the kid, and decided he was damned close to becoming a pretty good man. I decided to treat him as such. He seemed to deserve my respect.
"Who are you, what do you do?" he asked.
"I am a simple sailor," I said. "I didn't listen to my mother and go to school and went off to sea when I wasn't much older than you. I've commercial fished, worked tugs, barges and ships for nearly the past half-century."
"Is it fun?" he asked.
I looked at the young man thoughtfully. "You don't want to do that for a living," I said. "Finish school. If you find you want to go to sea, get into a maritime academy. Besides, you don't want the life. It's a rough one. Even though it has been pretty satisfying for me, it is not for you. You see, I was born with the umbilical cord around my neck."
The kid looked a little confused.
I grinned at him. 'It's an old sailor thing. Guys born with an umbilical cord around their neck seldom drown," I said.
"How come?" he asked.
"Because we were born to hang," I replied.
my other blog is: http://officerpiccolo.blogspot.com/ http://piccolosbutler.blogspot.com/