Cindy was out at a bar with a group of her girlfriends, when a guy she described as “looking like a burnt cowboy,” entered, having spoken in friendly wise to numerous of these girls before. He had become facebook friends with these younger girls and had been inquiring into them sending him “nude selfies.”

“He had then threatened one of the girls on social media and the rest of us piled a whole bunch of shit on him online and then he threatened two of us. So here he is in the bar, throwing the C-word around, calling the girls bitches and ϲunts and threatening to call the police on us for threatening him online.

“Then I called him on the C-word and he tried to say he didn’t mean anything by it, that he was British. I’m like, ‘Fuck no, dude. You aren’t British and you don’t get to use that word on me.’

So he comes up to me in my face saying, ‘Cunt, ϲunt, ϲunt, ϲunt ϲunt.’

“Then I told him, “Dude, you look like a fucking melted cowboy and you don’t get to use that word on me and if you keep it up you aren’t going to be happy with the way this shit works out.”

“Then he really gets in my face and starts pushing it, so I pulled my glass back, ready to toss my drink in his face and then go for my knife and some of the girls intervene and let him know that he can’t be taking me lightly, that I just nearly shanked some other motherfucker that couldn’t keep his hands to himself and he backed off—still making noise about calling the police on us. What, a, piece, of, shit!”

The author then informed Cindy, that she should use her big clog heals and her stupendous thighs and buttocks that would have earned her a rank of Captain at least in the personal body guard of the King of Dahomey, and break the feet of the next faɡɡot that touches her, as every man in this town looking for women seems to be wearing 1975 Jack Percel cotton sneakers, and to set it up by giving the rancid faɡɡot a sweet hug as an opener.