The other day, when the editorial department was out for a 6-mile run, we were heading back to the hotel.
As the sidewalks are no longer (replaced by slanted drainage ditches) we came upon an elderly fellow strolling up to the main road for a morning smoke.
At the same time, there was a small pooch that was crossing the road (the right rear leg tucked up underneath it) and the runner and the smoker both stopped as the dog crossed the road.
That was when things went askew. The runner nodded to the man (which was ignored) and the pooch came across the road. The smoker stopped, pivoted, and tried to kick the pooch. Never having seen the old fart before, the runner stopped (and was gassed--out of shape, not ready for a longer run) and let the bugger have it, though sadly in English--which was undoubtedly lost on the geezer; the words, probably not the inference.
When the runner got back to the hotel and was talking with other folks, it turns out the wanna-be kicker is a sour, old man, that lives off of the main road.
He also happens to be a black-belt in karate.
Long story short, the runner will probably get his tuckus knocked around the next time he passes through that neighborhod.
2 comments:
Pendejo! Hijueputa!
mucho gracias, senor. . . debo, neccesita mas malo palabras por los cucarrochas en la molesta los perros!
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