Having been in the Sahara Desert of North Africa on a job related to terrorists, refugees, and missionaries, I was looking forward to a few days of R&R (rest and relaxation) in Madrid on my way home. Seems every time I go to Spain, somebody tries to mug me. Perhaps it’s my happy-go-lucky expression. Or perhaps it’s because I’m not very big and because I’m becoming an old, gray-haired man. Whichever, muggers tend to underestimate me as an easy mark.
What they don’t know is that I often posed as a victim when I was a cop; surprised a bunch of bad guys. I’m also a former Army Green Beret soldier, a long-distance runner, had boxed in the Navy, and turned professional as a kickboxer.
Back from the sandbox, I shaved and showered and put on clean jeans and was walking around downtown Madrid gawking like a tourist and waiting to go to the bullfights that evening. It was midday and the streets were crowded when some character dropped on his knees right in front of me and tugged hard and repeatedly on the cuff of my jeans. He was the distraction.
Startled, I glanced down. At the same time, a hand from behind snagged my wallet from my front pocket. Both thieves took off running, darting and dashing through the crowded streets.
I’ll bet you a dime to a thousand pesos these particular thieves had never been chased by an American senior citizen. When the guy clutching my wallet looked back over his shoulder and saw this old man hot on his heels. . . The expression. Priceless!
I snatched him by his shirt collar and jerked him nearly out of his sneakers. I had bought a bottle of wine earlier that I wanted to take home and was carrying it on my wrist in a plastic sack. I broke the bottle over his head. Wine and glass showered everywhere.
By the screaming, you would have thought the thief was the victim.
He tossed my wallet at his partner-in-crime, which left me with the choice of holding onto the bird in hand or recovering my wallet. I reached my wallet a few steps ahead of the second thief, who wanted no part of what was left of my wine bottle.
Together, they hotfooted it down the street like the devil was poking them with pitchforks. I couldn’t help myself. Laughing, I mean. I’ll bet they’ll never forget it.
I also bet they’ll take a closer look at the next old guy they try to mug.
Poor Barbie doll. . . Go figure. Try to please all the various grievance and victim groups in a culture gone mad with political correctness and what you get is a short, fat, dark-skinned lesbian Barbie with thick thighs, pimples, and a gimpy leg. She’ll walk on crutches while living on a street grate and suffering from drug addiction and AIDS. She has two fathers who are priests accused of molesting altar boys and a mother madly in love physical-wise with her Doberman. . .
From Going Bonkers: The Wacky World of Cultural Madness, by Charles W. Sasser. Now on Kindle.