The Joys of Strangulation
“Why are you here?”
“Here. I mean, right here. Why did you come over here?”
As usual, I have no understanding of their lack of appreciation for spacing. Bad things happen because of an inexplicable disregard for proper spacing, which is a shame because bad things are all so very avoidable when you try hard enough to have some modicum of regard for someone other than yourself.
People need to keep their distance from one another. This is something they mostly don’t realize until it’s too late and things have gotten out of hand. It’s too late when they’ve worked themselves close enough, for long enough, to irritate the shit out of someone to the point where that someone feels an uncontrollable compulsion to do something in retaliation for this perceived loss of personal space.
In other words, Guy Who Sat Next To Us And Ended Up Getting Choked For His Troubles, it would’ve been best, last Saturday night, if you’d simply sat down on the opposite end of the sidewalk, as opposed to plopping yourself down, unsolicited, in the midst of a group of unwinding bouncers who’d just finished working a rather tense shift at a rather tense club.
In other words, have some awareness of your fucking surroundings and stop being an irritating little fuck for once in your miserable fucking life.
See, some conversations aren’t meant for strangers to blunder into and comment on. Some conversations happen to be carried on between people who know each other. These conversations are called private conversations. When you happen upon a private conversation, especially one involving a group of dangerous men, it’s probably best not to object to the content you overhear. Most times, it’s even more judicious to simply move on.
I’ll make this very simple.
This unfortunate young fellow wandered into our conversation at a point where a black bouncer was using the “N” word to relate a story. The fellow in question told said black bouncer – who is also a professional fighter - not to use the “N” word. He was then – very magnanimously, I might add - given every opportunity to go away (see above) - a series of opportunities on which he failed to capitalize. He promptly informed us that we were all “fucked” because he was “half Puerto Rican,” and “nice with his hands.”
For my part, I asked his girlfriend why she’d want to be seen in public with a young man who’d say things like, “I’m nice with my hands.” This seems as though it’d be more embarrassing than anything else.
This, evidently, caused him to spit at me. As a result, he was given an introduction to the virtues of proper public spacing.
As usual, this didn’t need to happen.