Damn, ogged, that was one great live chat. As a journalist myself, I know how often you feel like responding to people that way. The only time I ever did it was in a bar in Massachusetts' answer to Appalachia, where another patron accosted me and started condemning a story I'd written for that morning's paper.
He had his head up his ass, which made him even less coherent than he'd normally be, something I politely -- or, in retrospect, maybe not -- pointed out to him.
His face black with bilious rage, he was about to take a swing at me when the bar's owner, a woman who wore the most frightful wigs, appeared miraculously from the backroom and told him to leave. Good thing, too, because the guy would have killed me.
In the immortal words of a certain accused pedophile and bona-fide freak, "I'm a lover, not a fighter."
