A passerby recently told me that my pipe smoke was objectionable.
Seeing as I was standing outside the building where I live, at ten thirty in the evening, on a nearly empty sidewalk on a deserted street, my response was probably not conducive to his mental health. And it was not meant to be a positive experience for him in any case.
If, well after dark, I am standing in front of an apartment building, please assume that I've had a long day, I am out here as a politeness to at least one person inside, I do not care for your opinion, and I would far rather be inside with the wife, kids, and precisely two and a half gold fish that make the ideal family, watching Mash or the Bionic Woman on the telly.
Do not bother me. This tobacco is more important.
And I have pissed-off tunnel vision.
Still, I shouldn't have fat-shamed him for the shape and size of his head. That was ungentlemanly. Instead, I could have sincerely offered to correct that for him pronto. Surgery, not diet, might have cured him.
A blubberectomy right about where his ears were.
I am truly sorry he's such a fathead.
But it can be helped.
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