"Pops" goes the weasel

I was walking back to my office from lunch the other day, minding my own and feeling pretty good about myself--despite the fact that I had just consumed a hot dog, "one with" everything but onions, a BLT (I had skipped breakfast; I was hungry; so shoot me), and a Diet Coke (because I appreciate irony) at Ernie's Texas Wieners on Chambersburg Street in Gettysburg.

I have been walking a lot more lately and exercising fairly regularly as well. Could it be that with the increased cardio and addition of weights to my exercise routine, I might have just managed to lose a pound or two, even with factoring in the excessive, conspicuous consumption?

Well, no matter. I was still feeling good about myself. Best not to think about it too much and just enjoy the moment.

But there's always someone just around the corner--say, a Gavrilo Princip with a derringer--to assassinate your ego--an overly confident Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary--with some armor-piercing bullets of reality whenever you're feeling too good or too proud.

In this case, our assassin was riding shotgun in a moving vehicle on Washington Street.

As the vehicle approached, I made eye contact with a handsome, young man from the passenger side of the vehicle. "Woo boy! I am doing alright if the 20-somethings are paying attention to me!" I thought to myself. Still, I'm enough of a realist to know that the light shining off my head and the too-colorful shirts I sometimes favor are often enough to get the attention of the inordinately curious, the less socially sensitive, and the loud and drunken. So I felt grounded but flirtatious, offering up a timid smile to the youngin'--and to the heavens.

At this moment, the young man leaned his head further out of the passenger-side window and shared this helpful tidbit of reportage, in a loud voice for all in the vicinity to hear:

"YOU LOOK JUST LIKE MY FATHER!"

Ah well, so much for nurturing my rich fantasy life.

I mustered a weak, bitter smile and murmured out of earshot, "Well, thanks for that, dude."

Why guys think that yelling out the window at strangers is an effective form of communication, I'll never understand. Over the years, I've had everything yelled at me from "WOO HOO! PAR-TAY!" to "HEY FAGGOT, I'M GONNA KILL YOU" to "HI! YOU'RE CUTE! WANNA GO FOR A RIDE?" I've rejected or evaded each offering. I have to wonder if anyone ever has accepted any such offering, but, come on, "Wanna go for a ride?" Who among us is strong enough to resist the mating call of the Serial Killer Casanova of the Wal-Mart Parking Lot?

Why anyone thinks that pointing out your age status is a conversation-starter either is a bit beyond my grasp as well. My interlude with the wry, observational stylings of the Henny Youngman of Gettysburg ranks right up there with the time an order-taker at Roy Rogers in Thurmont, Maryland--aged 65 if she was a day--asked me, "I don't suppose you qualify for the senior discount, do you?"

"No, bitch, I don't," I replied to her. Except, gracious (and chicken-shit) Southern gentleman that I am, I left out the bitch part. Just call me Foghorn Leghorn in a tutu.

Similarly, what I wanted to say to the father-fixated young man was this:

"WOW! WHO KNEW YOUR DAD LOOKED LIKE A MIDDLE-AGED C--KSUCKER!?"

Consider it my homage to the "I'm older and have more insurance" line from the movie version of Fried Green Tomatoes.

I kept that thought to myself, though, as well as another rude reference to "daddy's little boy" being in need of a spanking. Both declaratives are better left unsaid in public, I suspect, as once uttered, they would just further add to the ugliness of the world--much like Sonny did by sharing with me.

Besides, I can't run from the scene of a queer-bashing with a stomach full of hot dogs and bacon. And while I'm feeling so full and bloated, why not skip today's trudge on the elliptical as well . . . ?

There we go. Pow. Right between the eyes. Sniper attacked by reality once again.