“Look over there,” Steph sez, jabbing me in the ribs. The same couch that scared Kemp out of any form of sexuality now was home to a forty-some guy–in full on schmooze–with his arm wrapped around an obviously sub-eighteen girl. Her look was contained terror. My first instinct was to go over and tell the guy to fuck off; that wouldn’t have been right. Like the kid that falls off the jungle-gym, you’re not always going to be there to pick them up, dust them off. She needed to learn how to deal with these kinds of situations. I was maybe four seconds away and I had my eye trained on them, so this was a safe environment for a nice little life-lesson. She didn’t do so well; her problem was that she was trying to use obvious body language to communicate with this guy: looking away, looking at her cell-phone when this guy really needed a jab in the ribs.

Eventually they part. The girl comes to the bar. “I didn’t know what to do… I mean, I told him I just turned sixteen.”

“The irony is,” I say, “your whole life you are taught to be polite but a lot of situations call for a solid ‘fuck you.’”

Later Steph elbows me again. “The guy at the water-cooler; that’s the guy!”

It sure was. This guy needed to know he was a disgusting fuck-tard and I felt it should be me, not Steph the polite, bookish XYC DJ, to impart this to him. It got heated pretty quickly because here’s the thing: fuck-tards don’t like having it called to the attention of their severely stunted fore-brain that they are fuck-tards. He was thrown out, but not before offering up a reason for his actions. “Dude, let me explain… I’m from Raleigh.”