So here's me looking at this guy in the store selecting Christmas lights. He's got a little kid with him - shorts and tank top and skin covered top to bottom with graffiti like a subway car from the 60's. Looked like Bible quotes.
"What the fuck you looking at? You like my legs, huh?" It's one of those "shoulda said" in retrospect moments, but I didn't say "if you didn't want anyone to read it you should have tattooed it on your ass," discretion being very much the better part of valor particularly for someone who's left his Colt .380 at home since the Zimmerman incident.
So again, a bit later, I'm about to pull into a parking space at the post office, sunny day, top down, feeling merry -- but there's a guy there - old dude about my age about to step in front on his way to the other side. I stop and wave for him to go ahead because I'm polite to other geezers and good looking women.
"What the fuck does that mean, asshole? What the fuck you wavin' at you cocksucker? I'm tryina walk, dooya fuckin' mind?"
"Merry fucking Christmas to you too, you crazy bastard" I said with a grin and getting out of the car. Not worried about this one. The postal employee emptying the outside box pretended he saw and heard nothing, going postal being a metaphor for good reason. Ran inside, grabbed the flat rate box I came for and saw Mr. Nice guy rummaging in his late model Mustang convertible for something in the console.
Now here's that better part of valor again. I didn't wait -- and once again, didn't have weaponry in the car like so many other Floridians. If I had, it would have been a felony just to have it there much less to take it out and show it, whether standing my ground or not, concealed weapon permit or not.
Sometimes it's nice to have 400+ horsepower. So here's the old man in white beard, red sled with presents in the trunk pulling out on to Old Dixie Highway with Christmas spirit and lotsa tire smoke -- and he looks over his shoulder as he steps on the gas:
Merry Christmas to all and y'all kiss my ass!
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