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Philip Spiess
Since Jerry whipped up an anecdote about Justin Milquetoast, I'll add one about his cousin, Caspar Milquetoast:
A quiet little man in heavy spectacles, wearing an old overcoat, a muffler around his neck, a rather unstylish hat, and rubber galoshes on his feet, is seated on one of the chair-stools at the counter of a rather down-at-the-heels diner. He is hunched over a bowl of nondescript soup, soggy crackers floating on the surface. No one pays him the least attention, until --
A big, bluff, burly man with a mean look to him swaggers in and scopes out the clientele. He is obviously a regular, as several patrons nod to him and the short-order chef looks an inquiring "What'll it be?" at him. But he has glommed onto noticing the little man in the glasses, and gives a gloating wink, nudge, and a nod with a snicker to his confreres, gesturing towards the little man. Walking up behind him, the burly bully boy takes the side of his hand and gives the little man a sharp chop in the back of the neck, knocking his glasses and face into his soup, while his hat rolls off across the counter. "HAR! HAR! HAR!" bellows the bully. "That's a RABBIT PUNCH from Northern Australia! HAR! HAR! HAR!"
The little man quietly wipes off his face and glasses, retrieves his hat, and resumes eating his soup. Nobody says a thing. The bully, looking around with a grin on his face in hopeful communal acknowledgement of his deed, proceeds to walk up behind the little man, sticks his foot behind the feet of the chair-stool on which the little man sits, and, with a quick jerk, tips the stool backward and sends it crashing to the floor with a loud bang! -- with the little man still in it. Everybody sits stunned, except for the bully, who yells, "HAR! HAR! HAR! That's the FOLDING STOOL SHUFFLE from Southside Chicago! HAR! HAR! HAR!"
Again, the little man picks himself up with nary a word, dusts himself off, gathers up his umbrella from the coat-rack, and leaves. The bully, highly amused, watches him go. "HAR! HAR! HAR! I guess I showed him what kind of man we allow in this here diner! HAR! HAR! HAR!" He then straddles a chair-stool himself, settles himself in comfortably, and proceeds to order his meal. A minute passes; silence in the diner. Almost no one notices that the door has reopened and the little man has come back in. Quietly but unceremoniously, he walks up behind the bully on his stool and, without notice -- KAWANGGG!! coldcocks him on the skull with a large metal spanner, completely knocking him out. Turning on his heel, he announces in a quiet, if somewhat simpering, voice, "When he comes to, you can tell him that that was a TIRE IRON from Western Auto!"
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