What do you call a 55 year-old man who weighs a buck fifty and takes a pickup basketball game so seriously he yells at his teammates when they don’t perform up to his expectations. What do you call the same guy when he gets in the face of a 230 pound 36 year-old man who is trying to blow off steam in a positive fashion and is being prevented from doing so by said bleeping idiot.
You could call him a white man in dire need of a blow job. You could call him a man with a death wish who has suffered a psychotic break or you could call him George the bleeping idiot.
Myself, I have a couple of special names for George, most of which begin with a colorful and descriptive list of his attributes.
The hardest part about dealing with George the bleeping idiot is that he has a special knack for sucking the fun out of something that I love to do. Most of the time I am able to push aside and ignore his antics, but tonight was a little bit harder.
If I had to look for a silver lining it would be that this showed me yet again that as I age I am more tolerant and patient than I was in my younger days. But I must admit that there was a part of me that considered hanging George on the hook on the back of the stall door in the men’s room.