When Madam Weebles wrote about three rude teenagers who insulted her, I was incensed. I wanted to verbally castrate them, but then they have no balls, not even metaphorical ones. But I’ve been thinking about it all day. I’ve never been able to stand people who inflict themselves on others like these girls did to my friend Weebs.
Because for most of my life, I’ve attracted weirdos. People just say strange things to me, often for no reason. Jaw dropingly rude. Sexist. Inappropriate. Some of them are purely mean spirited, like in Weebs’ case. All uncalled for. I’d like to get back at all the people who do that sort of thing.
Do you always think of just the right thing to say if it happens to someone else? Or, when it happens to you, do you think of a clever retort five minutes after the person is gone?
Yeah, me too.
But sometimes I come up with just the right way to get the asshole back. OK, maybe twice I did it. This story was one of those times. And I’m still proud of this moment.
It was long, long ago. So long ago that I was still living with my Mom and Dad. Circa 1975, I’m thinking. And Mom had sent me to Medi-Mart, a drug store, on an errand.
I must have been waiting for something, because I was standing in the aisle with the paperback books when a heavy-set greaser-type guy walked up to me.
Who wouldn’t want HIM?
“Nice tits. I’d like to get my hands on them,” he said to me.
I looked at him, my eyes widening in serious indignation. My retaliatory options quickly ran through my head. In that split second of decision, I knew that could:
- Walk off in a huff;
- Swear at him;
- Hit him with my purse
I also knew that none of those options would be at all satisfying, so I quickly rejected all of the above. Instead, I decided that I would make sure he was never quite so rude to any other young woman ever again. Ever. In fact, I wanted to make sure that the word “tits” would cause his balls to shrivel up and fall off.
So I started flirting with him.
I batted my eyes, laughed. Tipped my head suggestively. Made him think that a guy saying “nice tits” to me was just what I was hoping for in a man.
“Well, how about if I give you a call,” he said after an indecently short time.
“Sure,” I said, I stuck my hand in my purse as if looking for a pen to write down my number. “Why don’t you give me a call, just as soon as …” I looked at him with adoration, “just as soon as your voice changes. OK?”
“OK,” he said, a bit confused right off the bat. And then he realized exactly what I meant.
“Why you BITCH!” he shouted at me as I walked away.
Fortunately, my dog, Kling, a large, protective German Shepherd mix was waiting for me in the car. Because you should never piss off a greaser unless you have backup.