Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I was minding my own business, driving toward the heart of Main Street in Huntington Beach in my modest, mid-1980s station wagon. The A/C is defunct, so my windows were rolled down. You—you handsome devil/wannabe lead singer of STP with your shirt off, riding your beach cruiser with your friends—you declare out loud, so that everyone can hear, that I'm an "old lady."
If I really were an old lady, I would grin and bear it. But I'm not. Reflex took over. I flipped you off.
My Irish parents would have been proud. "The cheek of that young bastard telling a woman she's an 'old lady,'" they might have said. "The gobshite," I'd say. I consoled myself by having a pint of Guinness at Gallagher's.
In the future, watch out for redheads behind the wheel of large, dangerous vehicles; we sometimes swing wildly, uncontrollably, unpredictably out of our lanes. And when the time comes that I am reduced to a walking cane, God help you: watch out for your shins, then, laddie! "Granny" remembers your face!
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