January 10, 2007
Originally published May 3, 2002
YOU GOTTA LOVE THIS! I'll admit that I like pretty feet on a woman. I have many fetishes, and that is one of them. I wonder if this bellicose BAREFOOT WOMAN [Ed. Link borked.] wore red toenail polish, which is my favorite. Kick off your shoes and GO, girl!
Can you imagine this professional thug explaining his arrest to his fellow thugs in the hoosegow? "Well, I stole the gold chain, made a run for it, and that little twat chased me down, tackled me and kept me pinned until the law arrived."
All the true felons would play a scene from ALICE'S RESTAURANT and move far away from him, so he has lots of space all by himself on the "Group W" bench. If I were the thief, I would never tell THAT story to anybody.
But I remain amazed that a 95-pound woman, screaming for help at the top of her lungs, can chase a thief through a crowd in New York City and have the crowd simply watch the show and applaud when she grabs the bad guy. Nobody offered any assistance. Nobody felt the absolute, spiritual obligation to DO SOMETHING to help. They simply watched, and if the bad guy had pulled a knife out of his pocket and slashed her throat, they probably would have watched that, too, and done NOTHING.
Call us ignorant, slack-jawed, mouth-breathing, racist Bubbas down South, but that disgusting display of apathy would never happen where I live. Chivalry is NOT DEAD in southeast Georgia. The thief would be tackled by the first man who had a shot at him (or SHOT by the first man who had a tackle at him), the nearest bystanders would join in to thoroughly rough him up, and he would be held immobile, in a very uncomfortable position, until the local law enforcement authorities arrived to cart his sorry ass off to jail. In the meantime, more than one Southern Gentleman would ask the woman, "Ma'am, are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?"
This story really makes me feel badly for the bloggers from New York, who made a great deal of grieving, tumultious noise about how 9/11 changed that city. I have unfortunate news for them: IT DIDN'T! As soon as the cleanup was done, you went right back to that self-centered, navel-gazing unmannered style of behavior you've perfected over many years. You live in a busy city, with a diverse population, with every individual convinced that eye contact, let alone involvement, with a stranger (unless you're trying to get laid) is a sin against nature. I suppose a spark of instinctual humanity is difficult to maintain in such a setting.
That's why I have no desire EVER to live there. I like Effingham County, in rural southeast Georgia, where I lock my doors when I think of it, but sometimes don't. I like having a sweaty newspaper reporter knock on my door and having no fear when I invite him into my house. I like owning lots of guns. I like my garden in the back yard. I like having all the kids in the neighborhood stomp my grass crop into oblivion when they play their games in my yard. I like knowing that if I ask one of my neighbors for a favor, I'll probably get it. And if they ask me, they will, too.
I like knowing that if a barefoot woman screaming for help chases a thief down the street where I live, she will get more help than she needs. I like knowing the THIEVES know it,
All content © Rob Smith