Yes, the politically fiery, but generally mellow BEEz had that opening phrase literally spit in his face by an angry Irishman, and I came very close blows with the old cat. No he was not Wilford Brimley, but I think he sure does look like him. Yes, even a Speedo-clad peace lover like myself can rile the ire of the... uh... Irish (and I love the Irish, unless one is being an asshole).
Well, I assume he is Irish, but it was the first time I'd heard this guy say more than 2 words. He always seemed like a nice enough guy, but I only knew him as the short, barrel-chested, mustachioed dude with a wet cigar hanging off his bottom lip that looked like Wilford Brimley (who I hear is pro cockfighting... he he). In fact, if his portraiture was interpreted as part walrus or part seal (or part sea lion, for that matter), he would look a lot like this:
(no, I didn't paint that one, it was from here... and know, I don't know why someone did this... goo goo g'joob)
Here's the story (from my view). I walk into George's for my once-every-couple-of-weeks break from the wife and home to find some friends and/or a poker game. For some history to the story, the games at George's are social games, with small antes and LOTS of side conversations. In fact, part of playing in this game is having to remind those engaged in conversations (or be reminded by those who aren't) to ante or deal or call or... I've been in many games where I wanted scream out "yo everybody, shut the hell up and play poker" but I wouldn't do this because a) I respect that the game is social first, money/competition second and b) you can run up the coffers pretty quickly when you are one of the few people paying attention to the game. That said, I found such a table of friends and poker and so I and some others that had just arrived pulled up an additional table. I was quickly drawn into a game of hold'em that dominated the tables in the middle of the group.
A few antes into my tenure, the subject of concert venues around the Midwest entered into conversation. Scotty and I had folded our crappy hands and he was inquiring about outdoor arenas in Missouri (my former state). In the midst of our exchange we were interrupted by the pissed off Irish dude.
"Allret, its all gret that yew boys er talkin' bout concerts, but we're here to play poker" (okay, it was more like "pecker", but my spelling of his pronunciations will be variable as to keep the phrases legible... and like everybody, I like an Irish accent, so no disrespect intended)
My reply, "We're both are out of this round, we both folded"
His growingly anxious reply was, "This bleddy game is outta control, nobody knows what's gaing on"
Now, that wasn't true. I knew exactly what was going on and I knew that what was going on was typical. Now, I had not been there long enough to know if this gent was winning or losing, but he was clearly upset (so I suspect the latter). I, on the other hand, thought he was just whining, so I continually let him know that this was the way things work. He got more and more insistent, so I politely told him to f#ck off and I (and Scotty) informed him again as to the normalcy of the situation.
Now, the folks at this table that I do know well regularly tell each other to f#ck off. In fact, a certain dude named Roger regularly calls me (and others) a "F#ck." But several more "f#ck off" answers led to an in-your-face, "Feck yew yah fecking wenka!" complete with copious cigar-saturated slobber being propelled onto my face.
I was now genuinely paying attention to the old fart and I was quite pissed, so I impolitely told him that "If you spit in my f#cking face again, I'll f#cking kill you."
He immediately jumped up from his chair and stuck his chest in my face and said something to the effect of "don't threaten me ya feckin' wenka!"
I stood up to a) remind him that I wasn't going to take his shit and b) remind him that I'm about a foot taller and 100 lbs bigger than he is, hoping that he would sit his dumb ass back in his chair, but he appeared ready to scrap. Now, while I get angry easily, I'm (a lover) not a fighter, but at this moment, I seriously wanted to punch his face so hard that that bespittled cigar would fly out of his ass and land in his beer. Despite this newly-born rage, though, I was relatively calm (on the inside) and was seriously weighing what to do next. Do I pop this guy in the nose? stomach? (a gut punch ends any fight between fat guys really quickly)
But wait... I'm in the midst of thick crowd of my friends and they could get drawn into this, plus, who wants to talk to the cops? (coppers are always called when a bar fight starts up in our town) We're standing face to face (or face to chest, if you will), him saying I threatened him and me reminding him that he spit in my (f#cking) face. But I could tell that he was not going to budge and so I thought to myself, how can I diffuse this?
I could apologize, but I've never been good at apologizing when I feel I haven't done anything wrong (which makes marriage fun, let me tell you). Since he appeared determined to make me back off, which I didn't see as his right, I blurted out "I'm going to go talk to the manager," which was a bit stupid, but when your other option is punching an old man into a bunch of your friends, your mind doesn't always pick the best options.
He replied "Geh talk to the feckin' managa" (I can't recall if he ended it with a "feckin wenka" this time). People were starting to intervene at that point, apologizing for each of us to each of us and such. It then became clear to me that the only way to diffuse this was to leave. We were in between rounds of poker and I had just finished my beer, so I said, "I'll just take off."
Some folks tried to stop me from leaving, but I knew that I couldn't sit back down with this angry dude and go on playing, and I'd already figured out that fighting this old cat was not smart on several levels. First off, the whole police thing... second, he is an old man that tops out at my chest. If I'd beaten him up, I'd have looked like a mean old-man-beating asshole. If he'd beaten me up, I'd have been beaten up... and by an old man that was half my size. So, I just grabbed my money and coat and headed home. Although my heart was racing a little on my way to the car, I was surprisingly at peace with the decision.
It was only later when I started thinking about what had went down. One thought was "I can't believe I let that slobbering old SOB get the better of me" but then I also thought "you know, despite his rudeness, I shouldn't have been so dismissive of his concerns." Perhaps I should've stopped my conversation, or at least not told him to f#ck off. I probably should have garnered support for my cause from the table and let him get pissed at everyone, but that assumes that I would've gotten support. Perhaps I should have punched the old fart and let the chips fall. What do you think? Oh well, ho hum...
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