Sometimes the old man felt like Yosemite Sam. God help you.
And duck anyway. Somebody might get hit. Sometimes he felt like Yosemite Sam. Only taller.
Sometimes the old man felt like Yosemite Sam. Commonly depicted as an extremely aggressive gunslinging outlaw, bushily bearded with a hair-trigger temper and an intense hatred of rabbits. The old man had nothing against rabbits. That’s a difference. Although he could eat himself some Hasenpfeffer about now. And a good beer.
He remembered a bar fight at Jake’s in Hof, Germany. Late Sixties. Cold Warriors, young and drunk, blowing off steam. What could go wrong?
Yosemite Sam would’ve jumped up on the bar started swinging. The old man had delicate hands even back then, so he grabbed a huge bottle of cognac and dove under the table. Where he and the bottle cuddled. As chairs flew overhead. And glasses and anger and bottles and soldiers. He scurried even further back and hugged the bottle closer. Much shouting and dirty words.
Until the MPs arrive. And depart with some supposed miscreants. Usually the first two who threw punches and anybody hurt. Less people to share the cognac.
Yosemite Sam retired to Florida where he now gets in fights at the fruit stand at the Saturday Market. The old man was still under the table.
That’s a difference.
Cognac? Did somebody say cognac?