Fighting has never suited me. Normally, if a gentleman expresses interest in brawling, I attempt to save time by offering my hand and saying, “You win.” Then, I buy the brute a beverage of his choice, and bore him with lengthy jokes. Kind of like I’m doing right now.

The kerfuffle in Cheifland, however, had nothing to do with me at all.

I sat at the bar with my buddy, when all of a sudden, the elderly gentleman seated on the other side of my friend yelled, “You sumbitch!”

The next thing I remember was my friend getting his cheeks polished by a sweet old man in a plaid shirt. When I tried to pull the man off my pal, he turned his artillery onto me. He didn’t throw any full-blown punches, only slaps to my face. I’ve been slapped that way before.

Usually, right after I sassed my mother.

When my buddy and I limped to the car I asked him what on earth he’d said to incite such a beating?

“Nothing,” my friend said. “The old man started it. He called me condescending,” my friend paused. “That means that I talk down to people.”