Amber Alert

Yesterday I went to work out at the Y. I pulled up near the entrance, and noticed a child molester smoking a cigarette and leaning against a pole in front of the door. How am I sure he was a child molester? Telltale signs: it’s the smirk, the way he smoked down to the filter, and the candy stains seeping through the pockets of his sweatpants. My NYC experience has taught me to avoid a seedy by looking down and walking straight ahead with purpose. If the seedy guy says anything to you, a quick, “Fuck You” is the best way to say, “I would prefer if my day and subsequent life never has anything to do with you. Please feel free to find the nearest steaming pile of dung, open your eyes and mouth wide, and put your head in it.”

As passed my local pedophile on my way to the door, he opened his mouth and vomited out, “You look like you really don’t want to be here, heh heh heh!” Fifteen great retorts immediately ran through my head, fighting to get out, but “Fuck you” was at the forefront. It’s a loyal standby that can be said quickly with its entire meaning intact. As my mouth was forming the “efff” sound, the stupidly logical part of my brain remembered that I was in the Hudson Valley, and not around the corner from Penn Station, and it’s possible he was actually trying to be friendly, not trying to get me to come back to his greasy apartment to dress like a Japanese schoolgirl, fulfilling his child molesting fantasies. His comment on my appearance was unsolicited and unwelcome, but only thing I could muster was a grunt that sounded a lot like “shpmtp,” and I walked into the gym, peeved.

And now, l’esprit d’escalie, or things that thought to tell the guy moments after the moment passed and I was safely in the locker room:

“I’m just unhappy that you molest children!”

“I’d look glad to be here if you weren’t here!”

“Do I look like the kind of girl who would converse with an asshole like you?”

“I don’t go around with a stupid grin on my face all the time, and when I’m thinking about something, it often looks like I’m unhappy, even if I’m not. I have never appreciated anyone who points this out to me, as I am loath to judge people on their looks, and I ask for the same treatment in return. Strangers on the street have made similar comments in the past, and contrary to promoting the smile they look for, it actually puts me in a worse mood. By the way, you look like a child molester.”


“Your Mother.”


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