How to Handle Insults

May 14, 2012

“Darn, I forgot to get the eggs.” I thought I said it nicely to the young man at the checkout station in King Soopers.
“That doesn’t surprise me, gramps. You’re old.”
I’m hoping that angry young man, barely old enough to sport a whisker, will call someone to help. He merely holds out a hand towards the back of the store. “Better go get it, grandpa.”
What do you do now?
Behind door #1: I rush back and find the extra large Eggland, the most expensive, and jog back to the nice young man in his oil-speckled shirt with his sarcastic eyes.

I stand there. He finally stops texting.
He sips his Monster energy drink and eyes my eggs. “Wow. You should really stop eating those. Next thing, you’ll be having a stroke and lose more of your pathetic memory. Good thing for you we have an AED on the wall to shock your worthless old butt back to life so you can spend the next year in rehab spending the rest of my Medicare benefits.”
I open the package and smash the eggs on his head.
He pours his drink on my head. I must admit, I feel energized.
I get out my Rohrbauh r9 pistol and aim it at him. Not great for long range, but at five feet, I will have no problem etching two eyes and a smile on his forehead, à la Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Of course this hairless, skinny-assed sixth grader only knows Mel Gibson as a priest on Signs, or a wannabe priest in real life. This little tadpole missed the good stuff, the long-haired crazy-assed Mel. And he’s going to miss a lot more.
He reaches under the counter and pulls out his Berretta 92FS. Nice gun. A bit heavy and hard to conceal, but it will do the job.

And it does.
There’s lots of blood mixing with eggs and Monster drink. The AED won’t work for either of us. Damn. He died an angry young man. I died an angry old man. Billy Joel was right.

Behind Door #2: Instead of smashing the eggs on his head, I shout, “I want the manager.” And the older woman behind me says,”Damn right. Get the manager over here for this sad excuse of a checker.”
The manager comes over, and I say, “This is the third time this month one of your checkers insulted me. I will no longer be coming to your establishment.”
All the other “time-challenged” wise people in other lines yell, “Yeah. We’re not going to take it any more!” Us old guys can be grumpy.
The manager’s eyes resemble Eggland extra-larges. “I am so sorry. How about this. For the next ten minutes all Diet Coke will be one dollar per twelve-pack. No limit.”
There’s a big crowd at the DC. Go figure. On the way back, a rather sexy brunette with a few too many wrinkles to warrant that beautiful black hair says, “This store has gone downhill with that new manager. I don’t care if he gives us free sirloin steaks, I’m not coming back.”
The crowd huddling around the manager agrees. “We’re still not coming back. You can shove your store.”
These guys are even grumpier old men. Okay, here’s the sex–Well at least inuendo.

Next week I see that poor little boy downtown, on the street by The Mission, smoking and looking pretty scraggly, along with half the other King Soopers checkers. I pull over (a bit brazen for an old fart, I admit, but I have my gun) and ask him, “How come your not checking, wise ass.”
“Oh, Grandpa Moses. You’re the one got us all fired. No health insurance. Got a few dollars?”
Guess he learned a lesson. Don’t mess with us wise old coons.

Choice #1=direct armed conflict: You pick it: Colombia, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, Syria, etc. There are twelve major conflicts (they don’t like to call them wars) in the world right now. Major=1000 deaths a year. Okay, so that’s not so bad. Hiroshima was 150,000, give or take 10,000. That only took a month.

Choice #2=Embargo. Rememeber Iraq. Only problem, 300,000 children perished in those years.

Okay, so wars and embargoes cost a lot of lives.

There’s got to be a simple solution to handling an insult that prevents loss of lives and suffering. Any ideas?

Come on people. There are over 7 billion of us now. We need to learn to live together. So give me some suggestions. Please.

Milt

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