Men Can Be Karens Too
In the interest of healthy relations between the sexes, I feel compelled to share the following story illustrating that men (although I use the term lightly in this instance) can be Karens too.
When I was a younger man and more willing to engage in violence with strangers over small matters, I was in a cinema multiplex. At the ice cream counter, there are two people in front of me. The prick at the front insists on trying seemingly every kind of ice cream out of the sixty or so varieties on offer. The server's expression could not more clearly convey, ‘Trying ice cream is so parents don't waste a whole cone that their kid won't eat, or for people who really need a tie breaker to decide between A and B. Not for cocksuckers like you to eat half their body weight in samples, free of charge’. But above this, like a flimsy mask, he wears the paper-thin veneer of a smile and keeps serving him, the exemplar of professionalism. I infer from the atmosphere that this fiasco has already been ongoing for at least a minute, prior to my arrival.
Six ice cream samples later and having made a few polite coughs to remind him that, ‘Hello dip-shit, other people exist and are waiting on you’, Guy #2 in the queue has finally had enough and asks, ‘Excuse me, would you mind just choosing one, only there is a queue of people behind you [by this stage, queue is about ten deep] and my film is about to start?’
Rather than being shamed into making a snap purchase, Guy #1 replies, in an ‘I know my rights’ tone, ‘Well, I might, if I find one I like, but I might just try some more’ and turns back to the counter, before pondering aloud in a theatrically drawn-out way, ‘Hmm, shall I try the raspberry ripple, or hazelnut next?’ Guy #2 shakes his head, looks at his watch and mutters, ‘I just wish you’d hurry up’.
At this point, I lean forwards and in a stage whisper, say to guy #2 over his shoulder, ‘Don't worry mate, he'll make his decision in the next 30 seconds; otherwise his head will be bouncing off that counter.’ The following things all happen in perfect unison:
Guy #2 turns around absolutely delighted, beaming and giggling like a happy infant. Server looks heavenward, making no attempt to stifle belly laughing and is so delighted that he drops the scoop of whatever ice cream he is currently digging out, to put his hands together in a ‘Thank you, Lord!’ gesture. Guy #1 takes a sharp intake of breath, as he whips round 180 degrees, no doubt to declare me rude, or that he won’t be intimidated. He opens his mouth, about to speak, as he looks me in the eye. Deep inside Guy #1, some atavistic survival instinct claws its way to the surface, rampaging upwards through the forest of consequence-less rudeness, grown of a cossetted existence spanning decades. You can literally see the split second it dawns on him this isn’t bravado, or empty threat on my part. You can practically hear the gears click in his mind, in that exact moment of cognition: ‘Either I buy something now and walk away, or my skull will be broken against the marble counter top.’
He turns back round, orders two scoops of raspberry ripple, instanter. Server having regained his composure, asks, completely deadpan, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try Hazelnut first, Sir?’ Guy #2 starts pissing himself laughing and is bent double. Inwardly, I’m crying with laughter, but outwardly, I’m staring into the back of guy #1’s head like an absolute psychopath, hoping that Rupert Sheldrake is correct about telepathy in prey animals. Guy #1 declines and walks away with the raspberry ripple, utterly dejected and looking like he’s going to sob. His evening and possibly lifelong sense of self-worth, ripped to tatters.
My civic-mindedness got me a fudge finger on the house (usual value 25p) in my coffee and mint chocolate chip cone.
