On Saturday, while Rachelle and I were waiting in the line-up to have brunch at Lady Marmalade, I was lucky enough to encounter a heretofore undiscovered prejudice of mine. It turns out that I’m completely bigoted against women who wear Stars and Stripes tights. This instinctive antipathy is horribly exacerbated if they’re wearing sunglasses, tossing their mangy Friday night-sex head of hair about like they were in a shampoo commercial for sluts, and are ahead of me in line.
I would bomb a country full of these people in an instant.
Still smelling faintly of the dude from the previous night’s Axe body spray– the guy with whom she likely made a sex tape– this woman was speaking some glamorous language I couldn’t understand and was doing so in such a way as to call as much attention to herself as possible. You know, waving her arms about, jumping up and down, stretching, that sort of thing. And further, she was constantly moving from her spot at the front of the line through our jumbled mass behind her and out onto the street so she could have a few drags of a cigarette, before flicking it away and pushing back through us to see if her table was ready.
I hated many things about this, but decided to focus on her rudeness. She never apologized or even bothered to make eye contact when she jostled through us, but just continued in her excited conversation.
On what must have been her fourth pass, I put my hand on my hip and stuck my elbow out as a kind roadblock. She had at least five seconds to see it, but as she wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to the world around her, a little collision took place.
“That’s the way we do it in Canada, bitch,” I said.
At this point Rachelle bent down, said something to the girl that I couldn’t quite make out, and then left the restaurant, obviously sick of the long wait.
After the Stars and Stripes woman caught her breath and worked her way off the ground, she shouted, “You vile squirt of a man!”
“Wow, your english is pretty good for an orange-complected porn face!” I returned.
At this point she slapped me.
It startled me, this, and I had to take a knee for about a minute. But I got up, and when I did and pretended I was going to punch her, she flinched and yelled, covering her head with her arms.
“Not so tough now, are you, Snooki?” I said.
I expected I was going to get some rousing support from the other people in the line-up at this point, but this did not materialize. Instead of being hailed at the brunch hero I so clearly was, I was chopped in the throat by a broad-shouldered woman in a Boston Bruins baseball hat, whereupon the situation escalated to the point where it necessitated me having to brunch at the Joy Bistro a little farther down the street, where I discovered I could no longer swallow.