Just a week ago, I wouldn't have kicked your ass for what you said.

Normally, I'd smoke a cigarette right now. Then I'd forget about you and think about something else.

Maybe I'd have a drink. Maybe I'd take a walk. 

But today is different, so I'll forgo the smoke and commence putting my foot up your ass.  Send you on your way. 

Once that's done, I'll probably need to get lost. Most people don't like witnessing that kind of thing. Most people don't like having my foot up their ass. Most people are uncomfortable with the way I manage conflict. 

 I hear that a lot. 

 'It's not what you say,' I've been told. 'It's how you say it.'

 I've tried to work on that. I try to empathize with the irritating moron in front me. I try to look past the idiocy I hear coming from between his flapping lips, beneath that weak mustache. I try to remember he has - or at least had - a mother. Maybe a father, too. 

'I hear what you're saying,' I've tried to say. 'And I appreciate your point of view.'

But today is different.

My tense right foot lifts from the ground, toes arched back to expose the ball. I lift my knee in a fraction of a second, then snap my lower leg forward, projecting my hardened foot deep into your groin, folding you in two like a paper towel. 

 I next retract my foot, returning it to the ground to support the weight of my body as I repeat the previous action with my left foot, plunging it into your forward-falling face. 

Finally, I will step aside to let your surprised and damaged body fall to the ground. I hope you won't soil my pant leg with blood spatters. If you do, well, that's the cost of doing this business. 

I'd like to apologize, but I really can't. After all, it's not my fault that Big Tobacco has made me into such an animal.