By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
I'm the guy who was minding his own business talking to two girls outside Ralphs in Laguna Beach after buying milk and water at 1 a.m. You're the red-haired meth-head prick that decided he wanted to fight with me because I'm English. You stood there with your five friends and your tough tattoos mouthing off about your Irish heritage. Then you took your shirt off and stood there flexing your muscles in the middle of the parking lot shouting, "I'm Irish!" while I walked away, wanting no trouble.
You followed me, shouting abuse, then produced a knife and said, "I'm going to cut you, bitch," and started running after me with two of your friends. Why did you feel the need to hassle me again and again? Why did you have to produce a weapon and threaten me with it? Why didn't you realize that in England, when we get threatened with knives, we go into an automatic state of self-defense? So now I'm the guy who passed three kids skateboarding in the street and asked for a go on their skateboard. All three of them were expecting me to do a trick. I ran at you and smacked you upside your stupid Irish head while your friends ran off. You ran away, and the next day walked around Laguna Beach telling everyone that four English guys jumped you in a bar because you had Irish tattoos. Your tale got around town. When I heard it, I couldn't stop laughing.
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