Well, well, well. Things certainly changed, haven’t they? O, how the mighty are about to beat me up for mocking their choice of facial hair.
Who knew that things would turn out this way? A mere twenty minutes ago, I was sitting here, enjoying a nice meal with my cohort of fellow poets when I spied you, a muscular freak, witting nearby. A satirist at heart, it was within my nature to compare your facial hair to, among other things, a weasel, a gay tumbleweed, and the area around Gimli’s dick. You thought you were so tough, with your muscles and your leather. But look at you now, brandishing a pool cue as you approach the corner where I am cowering.
Hmmm, how droll. Such a strange turn of events. I came here with the intention of relaxing my tired body after an especially long week at the studio, but here I am, offering to give you all the cash in my wallet if you’ll just accept my apology and let me leave in one piece.
Who could have predicted the keenness of your hearing? How could I have known your ears would hear my comparison of the patchiness of your facial hair to an Oklahoma wheat field, ravaged by the 1930s Dust Bowl? And now, somehow, I find myself on the precipice of a glorious beatdown.
It seems sweet Lady Fate has a plan for us all. The circle of life is undeniable and ever-moving. The moon will wax and wane, the tides will ebb and flow. Yes, it’s only natural for the mighty to crack his knuckles, loom menacingly over the repentant poet who is really sorry, really, really sorry.
This dance of ours. Oh Lord, this dance of ours. Perhaps I should have realized this would inevitably be the outcome.
So where does this leave us now? Perhaps the mighty will accept a heartfelt apology or maybe he prefers to kick my ribs the way a lonely 3rd grader kicks an empty can after a long day of school. Until the fickle winds of fate choose to blow again, it seems the choice is yours, my friend.