I almost got into a fistfight with a high school thug at 7eleven!

Holy fuck, you won’t believe what just happened.

So I’m supposed to write a play for class, so I figured I’d grab a cup of coffee and muse a little as I drove aimlessly around the suburbs. Well, at 7eleven, I got a surprise.

Normally, my transactions at 7eleven are smooth and nondescript. I walk in. I pour myself a cup of coffee. I pay. I leave. Sometimes I’ll make some small talk with cashier. Sometimes.

Well, tonight, I’m mid-coffee pour when this red-headed thug comes tramping through the door, barking into his cell phone about how “drunk he’s gonna be tonight, bro.” I hate these kids. Seriously, I hate a lot of things; in fact, I hate almost everything. But I especially hate these fuckers. I hate them almost as much as I hate babies. Almost.

Immediately I start shaking my head in condescending disgust. (This was a reflex by the way, like seeing a hot chick and getting a boner). As my head is shaking, uncontrollably, Professor Gangbanger starts pulling beer bottles out of the refrigerator, inspecting the back label.

As he’s still screaming into his Nextel with a flapping open mouth, I notice a mouthful of braces on said thug. Nice, I think to myself, Real nice, I wonder what ya mother would think of you talking like that in public.

He starts instructing whoever is on the other line that he wants “mad fly bitches out tonight, yo. I want doz hos wasted, boy!” Upon hearing this comment, I chuckle a bit too loud. Said thug cranes his head, faces me and clenches his teeth in subdued outrage. A little glare shines off the bottom row of his braces.

Yeah I just laughed at you, I think to myself, then add to myself, Ya little shit. However, realizing the sport of “thug watching” will not assist in writing my play, I decide to just pay and leave.

As I’m walking out, Sir Thug-a-lot apparently got a case of the pussies, neglecting to purchase the alcohol required to be “mad drunk, bro” and to aid in “[getting] doz hos wasted.” Hence, as he’s following me out, I don’t hold the door for him.

A quick timeout. Before you go ahead and start criticizing for being an “asshole” for not “holding the door” I’m gonna set the record straight. Even if this kid wasn’t a deplorable piece of shit, I still wouldn’t have held the door for him. The fact is, I think it’s retarded I’m expected to ascribe to social folkways such saying “god-bless-you” after someone sneezes or holding the door for someone. It’s retarded because it’s pointless. Why can’t you open a fucking door your-fucking-self? Why can’t you ask God to bless you your-goddamn-self? Why should I feel obliged to do something just because every other fucking person thinks it’s “the right think to do.” Fuck that, and, if you don’t agree with me, I’ll slam a fucking door in your fucking ungrateful face.

Okay, thanks, time in.

Anyway, this upsets the thug to the point where he’s huffing. His chest is rising and falling, his hair, catching the last rays of the late afternoon sun, looks like heated barbed wire. I am standing, clutching my coffee in front of me with two hands, sporting a grin that’s practically jumping off my face.

“Son,” he begins, “You can’t hold a fuckin’ door?”

Interesting inquiry, I think to myself, stare at him, then retort lazily, “No…No, I suppose not.”

“You suppose not?” he repeats.

“Yeah, that’s basically what I just said,” I say.

“Yo, fuck you,” he snaps.

“Oh, fuck me?” I ask, my voice rising with agitation, “No, how about FUCK you.”

“No,” he corrects me, “FUCK you.”

“Yeah?” I ask, and throw up The Bird. First, only with one hand, then, putting my coffee on the roof of my car, throw up the other hand. Two hands, two middle fingers in one thug’s flabbergasted face. I start dancing the fingers in front of his face. The dance is fairly simple, more like a variation on a circular motion.

“You like that?” I ask, ironically, because I know he doesn’t.

“Son,” the thug says, his voice now taking a jumping a pitch, almost laughing, “Son, you wanna throw?”

“Do I want to ‘throw’?” I repeat but this time I make sure he hears the irony, he hears the way I emphasize the word “throw” as if I’m patronizing not only his choice of language, but his whole being.

Awkwardly we look at each other for a few moments. No one really makes any power moves so I climb into my car. Once in the car, I realize something. When I went into 7eleven, I was playing the radio, loud. I had on a classic rock station. I realize that, now, with thug at the window still inviting me to “throw”, I have GOT to roll out to a badass song. But, since I had on the radio, this is completely in realm of chance as the spectrum of classic rock ranges everywhere from Led Zeppelin to Genesis. I could go out to in a blaze of glory to “Kashmir” or I could look like a penis-biter to “Walk like a Man.”

Well, I took a deep breath and turned the key. The car sparked up and immediately I recognized Pink Floyd. Yesssssss, I thought to myself. Some Floyd is always great when setting a badass precedent. I turned my head towards the window, towards the thug, and the mocking smile returned to my face. But then, suddenly, I realized I was mistaken. Not mistaken it was Pink Floyd on the radio (my classic rock ear is like 99.9 percent accurate), not that the song on the radio wasn’t badass, but, rather, the part of the song playing made me look, well, bizarre.

You see, the song that belted from my radio was “Welcome to the Machine” which, don’t get me wrong, has some serious badassness to it, but, however, also has some straight up gay moments in it as well. This was one of those moments. It came right on right at the part where all those strange-ass space noises are interjecting (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, listen to the song and you’ll see).

Awesome.