atehrani
01-24-2002, 10:24 PM
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<FONT FACE="Arial" SIZE="-2">A Little Respect</FONT><br>
<FONT FACE="Arial" SIZE="-2">By <a href="mailto:scotto@mcmullenargus.com" TITLE="Scott Oldham <scott@mcmullenargus.com>">Scott Oldham</a></FONT><br>
<br>
<FONT FACE="Arial" SIZE="-1">
<b>Two Sundays ago I woke leisurely, brushed my chompers and
headed to breakfast in our Project Toyota Celica. The car was
filthy, which isn't exactly relevant to the story, but I can't
help but think the guy I'm about to tell you about would've
been more respectful if the car were clean.</b><br>
<br>
Anyway, I drive myself and the wife to this little breakfast
hole about a mile down the road. Although the place doesn't
take credit cards, which usually keeps me away, we're regulars.
It's the only joint in L.A. with decent bagels. We grab a table
by the window, I order up the breakfast burrito and a toasted
bagel and start thumbing through the L.A. Times.<br>
<br>
Halfway through the burrito, I look out the window to check
on the car. <br>
It's a habit, like putting my left sock on first. What I see
sends a shockwave of anger through my soul. There's some guy
leaning on my car. He's actually got his ass planted on the
Celica's quarter panel.<br>
<br>
Now I can't eat. My fists are clenched. My jaw locked. I look
out the window again. He's still on the car. On my car.<br>
<br>
My wife thinks I'm overreacting. "Just relax," she
says. "It isn't even your car."<br>
"That's not the point," I say. "The point is,
it isn't his car."<br>
<br>
Then he does the unbelievable. He lifts his right foot and plants
his Nike, his filthy stinking Nike, on the paint. What's the
guy going to do next, spit on my mother? I freak. No jury would
convict me under the circumstances. <br>
<br>
"Scott don't," calls my wife as I rush the door. <br>
<br>
"Don't what?" I say. "Teach this piece of ****
some manners?"<br>
<br>
I go outside. I walk up to this, this, this animal that has
his shoe on my car and I ask him, "Is this your car?"<br>
<br>
He's slightly puzzled. "No," he says.<br>
<br>
"Well, it's mine," I say through clenched teeth. "Do
you mind getting your ****ing foot off it?"<br>
<br>
The way I figure it, the guy has two choices. He can fight me,
or apologize. He does neither. Instead he denies it. He actually
denies it. The gall. Now he's calling me a liar. I begin to
vibrate like a tuning fork.<br>
<br>
Standing there shaking, staring down this monkey, I wonder how
someone can be so disrespectful. So stupid. Without a word,
he motions to his friends and walks away. The look on his face
is enough to tell me he still doesn't get it. He's wondering
what asylum I've escaped from instead of realizing he's the
one with the problem.<br>
<br>
I deflate, return to my breakfast and my now unhappy wife. "Feel
better?" she asks in <I>the</I> tone. <br>
<br>
Yup.</FONT><br>
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<FONT FACE="Arial" SIZE="-2">A Little Respect</FONT><br>
<FONT FACE="Arial" SIZE="-2">By <a href="mailto:scotto@mcmullenargus.com" TITLE="Scott Oldham <scott@mcmullenargus.com>">Scott Oldham</a></FONT><br>
<br>
<FONT FACE="Arial" SIZE="-1">
<b>Two Sundays ago I woke leisurely, brushed my chompers and
headed to breakfast in our Project Toyota Celica. The car was
filthy, which isn't exactly relevant to the story, but I can't
help but think the guy I'm about to tell you about would've
been more respectful if the car were clean.</b><br>
<br>
Anyway, I drive myself and the wife to this little breakfast
hole about a mile down the road. Although the place doesn't
take credit cards, which usually keeps me away, we're regulars.
It's the only joint in L.A. with decent bagels. We grab a table
by the window, I order up the breakfast burrito and a toasted
bagel and start thumbing through the L.A. Times.<br>
<br>
Halfway through the burrito, I look out the window to check
on the car. <br>
It's a habit, like putting my left sock on first. What I see
sends a shockwave of anger through my soul. There's some guy
leaning on my car. He's actually got his ass planted on the
Celica's quarter panel.<br>
<br>
Now I can't eat. My fists are clenched. My jaw locked. I look
out the window again. He's still on the car. On my car.<br>
<br>
My wife thinks I'm overreacting. "Just relax," she
says. "It isn't even your car."<br>
"That's not the point," I say. "The point is,
it isn't his car."<br>
<br>
Then he does the unbelievable. He lifts his right foot and plants
his Nike, his filthy stinking Nike, on the paint. What's the
guy going to do next, spit on my mother? I freak. No jury would
convict me under the circumstances. <br>
<br>
"Scott don't," calls my wife as I rush the door. <br>
<br>
"Don't what?" I say. "Teach this piece of ****
some manners?"<br>
<br>
I go outside. I walk up to this, this, this animal that has
his shoe on my car and I ask him, "Is this your car?"<br>
<br>
He's slightly puzzled. "No," he says.<br>
<br>
"Well, it's mine," I say through clenched teeth. "Do
you mind getting your ****ing foot off it?"<br>
<br>
The way I figure it, the guy has two choices. He can fight me,
or apologize. He does neither. Instead he denies it. He actually
denies it. The gall. Now he's calling me a liar. I begin to
vibrate like a tuning fork.<br>
<br>
Standing there shaking, staring down this monkey, I wonder how
someone can be so disrespectful. So stupid. Without a word,
he motions to his friends and walks away. The look on his face
is enough to tell me he still doesn't get it. He's wondering
what asylum I've escaped from instead of realizing he's the
one with the problem.<br>
<br>
I deflate, return to my breakfast and my now unhappy wife. "Feel
better?" she asks in <I>the</I> tone. <br>
<br>
Yup.</FONT><br>