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So I asked him “Are you talking about the Taylor’s in La Canada?” And he snaps back with “No! I’m talking about the fucking Taylor’s in Koreatown, all right?”
And in the sudden awkward silence that immediately enclosed the entire table like a body bag that got me thinking no, it wasn’t all right. What would make it all right — I mean what would make it entirely one-hundred-percent A-OK in my book — is if I stood, picked up my chair and smashed it across this asshole’s face for taking such a tone with me.
Who’s this punkdouche think he is talking to me that way? Only met the sonofabitch today when he was assigned to complete our foursome and here he is bitchslapping me on the clubhouse patio — and for what? Because I hear Mr. Hollywood Hotshot who can’t play golf worth shit over there talking about Taylor’s and so I ask for a simple clarification as to which location and he deems it necessary to rip me a new one asking about La Canada like it’s somehow insulting to him that I address him directly instead of going through his publicist or some shit. Well excuse the fuck outta me, bitch.
But when I start to stand because the mental picture of this turd taking a seat through the head is just to pleasurable not to turn into reality, my good friend Billy, who just shot an 87 on the Harding course not even a year after taking group lessons at the Griffith Park driving range, puts his hand on my shoulder and makes sure I don’t.
Instead he leans across the table to this blowhard and offers him the sagest fucking advice I’d head all day.
He says, “Excuse me, Dan. But with as much respect as that outburst deserves, I have a sincere question for you.”
“And what would that question be?” says the shitbag
“It’s actually a two-parter,” Billy says all calm and top-notch lawyer like, “and I’d appreciate if you’d refrain from answering until you’ve heard both.”
Danny boy over there’s eyes dart from me to Billy to Jay who’s busy trying to catch the attention of the cool Asian gals at the only other occupied table on the patio. “Whatever,” he says.
Firstly, I just want to know if the manner in which you just addressed to my friend Clay here is something you have control over — and by that I mean was it a voluntary action or perhaps the result of some sort of mental deficiency or perhaps symptomatic of a past trauma.
Dan sits up straight and yells “The fuck you talking about!” and I try to get up but Billy just puts a little more pressure on my shoulder with his right hand while he holds up his left almost nonchalantly and says please. And damn if fuckstick actually sits back and shuts up.
“I ask that because secondly, whether or not it is something you can or can’t control I want to know if you’re still sitting with us because you’re a A) a fucking retard or B) if you’re some sort of freak who for some reason wants the beat down that Clay’s going to give you when I take my hand off of him in five seconds?”
That got Jay’s attention and wrapped the table in another body bag while Dan Dan The Shitcan Man fluttered his eyelids trying to sort through the shock and comprehend what he’d just heard.
“What? No one talks to me that —!”
“Four,” says Billy.
Silence.
“You can’t poss –.”
“Three.” I may have started growling. And grinning.
“Look, I –.”
“Two.”
It’s at this point Jay turns to me and says “I’m thinking retard.” I nod.
“One.”
And Jay leans in to Dan and lightly smacks him on the cheek telling him he’d go if he were him, but he’s glad he isn’t.
Then Billy says “Zero” and his hand come off me and in the jump to my feet my chair goes skidding to a crash into the empty table behind us and damn if candyass Dan isn’t up and running away the fastest I’ve ever seen a man run other then the summer games. And screaming too, which if that were an Olympic sport, he’d deserve the gold medal.
And the three of us, Billy, me and Jay just busted up laughing.
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