One time I was parking my car before a Tragically Hip concert in downtown Hamilton. The lot attendant was directing me into my spot and clearly had orders to cram as many cars in as possible. I got far closer to the neighbouring vehicles than my Mother would have liked to see her Topaz get and as I left the car, I looked back to admire my parking job and grumbled about having to put so much effort into it. The attendant said something back, probably along the lines of, “I’ve seen better,” and I loudly returned, “FUCK YOU!” Now let’s realize that I was probably about 18 with very little desire to live. Also, there were 3 or 4 guys with me. Had I been solo and had a more positive outlook on life, I likely would’ve walked down the road to get the guy a coffee before taking him home, blowing him and then driving his sister to the airport.
If you’re ever walking in Montreal and a street beggar asks for change in French and your reply is, “Um, yeah, I don’t even speak French!”, don’t expect him to become a good friend.
During college I had somehow tracked down a baseball cap that actually (kind of) fit my head. It was a Red Wings hat (they’re my favourite football team). As I exited class one day, a hilarious classmate removed it from my head, frolicked briefly, then ran away. Not only did I still have ketchup on my face from the previous night’s dinner, but I certainly didn’t wash my hair. I power walked after him down the hall and slammed him into a locker. After threatening to kill him and everyone he loved, he returned the hat to me. Were I not unbelievably intelligent, I think I’d most benefit the World as a bully. A bully who can’t take a punch, drinks cream like it’s water and who once pushed his 2nd Grade teacher to the floor because she was blocking the door. Yes, because she was blocking the door.
Day or two after the Montreal beggar encounter, we went to Sainte Anne de Beaupré about 30 kilometres East of Quebec City. I’m not a religious man, but went along for the ride. As we walked through the chapel, I hit my shin on a church pew. In about a 20:80 mix of muttering under my breath to thinking it in my head, I let out a “FUCK” to indicate my injury. For a solid 10 minutes, I was seriously concerned that I’d just done something guaranteeing a hasty departure to hell. Somehow a burger and few handfuls of onion rings later and my concern had passed.