Our suggestions for snappy comebacks to the whiners and obnoxious, self-appointed fresh air polizia.

Situation: Then there's the seemingly endless parade of pseudo intellectuals that walk around squinty-eyed as though desperately searching for land in a sea of humanity, muttering to themselves although obviously meant for you, "What stinks in here?" What would you do?

Solution: This is a tough one. The easier one would be if they told you that you stink. Then you can quote one of the wisest men in history, Mr. Winston Churchill. When accosted by a female member of London's aristocracy with the comment "You're smoking a cigar. You smell bad" my boy Winston took a long, leisurely draw, slowly exhaled and stated in his best Winston Churchill, "I do small bad. But tomorrow I shall smell much better. On the other hand, you my dear lady will still be ugly."

But this twist of insulting the air quality rather than the individual throws a wrench into the works to a degree. Our suggestion would be something like, "Yeah I was wondering that too until you got closer. It's called soap... you should try getting some and using it." or possibly one of my personal favorite quotes from my dear old sainted virgin mother. "I think the wind shifted and you smelt your upper lip." 

Situation: Although similar to the previous situation, this one has a few subtle modifications. For the sake of illustration we will assume that the perpetrator is female. As in the above circumstances, you're relaxing and lovingly smoking the best cubaño you can afford and the unwelcome intruder comes out with this gem: "Who's smoking the stinky, awful cigar?" What would you do?

Solution: Our suggestion would go something like this... "This is a casino and the last bastion of personal freedom. You people have everywhere else in the world to enjoy the smoke-free air. But... you're probably right. What kind of DICK would light a cigar in a casino?”

At this point, if the cigar has been enjoyed to a sufficient level and you were close to letting it go out anyway, we suggest dropping it gracefully and with full flourish into her drink. If your irritation is not sated yet, we suggest adding with as ominous of a voice as you can muster (accompanied by your best glower), “There’s a nickel poker game with your name on it at CVS, Gramma. Why don’t you go back to the drugstore where you belong and play where the clean air is while you wait for your anti-psychotic meds like every other weekend, you grotesque Nazi hag?”

That typically initiates a coughing jag. Do NOT look back to see if she is clutching her chest. To this moment we are not certain whether it is the expression “Grotesque”, “Nazi”, or “Hag” that elicits the desired response, but from our experience it's a practically fool-proof solution. Additionally, along the same note, we suggest practicing your glower in a mirror for maximum effect.

We use a female aggressor in this illustration as most men seem have the social skills to deal with someone irritating them directly. Typically with a comment like "Hey! Dick-wad! Put that thing out!"

And now an amusing real-life experience from the editor. (We do not suggest this tactic if you are less then 6'-3" tall and less than 325 lbs.):

A 65-ish diminutive creep in a burgundy plaid sportcoat and burgundy slacks was sitting at this bank of 6 keno machines at Sunset Station that has 30 year-old embossed plastic placards with the gold paint all worn off and the glue just about 12 minutes from letting go for the last time that state “This machine reserved for our non-smoking friends” tenuously adhered to them. They also have no less than EIGHT clean ashtrays stacked on top of them. Could anyone tell which was management’s current policy? Not this ornery old fellow. Then again, he is obviously awkward and socially enept enough to wear that ridiculous costume in public... So I pull out my cigarette (not even a cigar fer the Chrissakes) and am reaching for my lighter and he wags his finger at me and then taps the ancient little worn out plastic sign with his rice paper-textured finger and say’s, “uh, uh , uh… non-smoking here!”

So, being the civilized and diplomatic individual that I used to be for a few seconds, I reach up over his head, obviously at that point towering over him, and tap the ashtrays on top of his machine and say “realistically, my little friend, which do you think is the more recent decision?” and the cocky little fellow say’s “It’s clearly marked no smoking and I wouldn’t light that if I were you.”

Upon this comment I forgive myself for my actions, as if the finger-wagging weren’t enough impetus for wholesale carnage, and, as fast as I can, gather up the eight ashtrays and SLAM them down in front of him narrowly missing his “deal/draw” button, admittedly making much more noise than I had envisioned, and state, calmly, “Well then here you go. You’re obviously in charge here, you sanctimonious little prick.” And promptly turn and start to walk away.

Time for Marty Feldman eyes.

Then, after taking a beat to calm down and make certain he’s not going to have another heart attack, and as I am maybe 7 or 8 feet away, he comes out with, of all the ludicrous concepts, “It’s not my fault that it’s marked ‘no smoking’…” which compelled me to return, in slow motion, to the more than likely future crime scene, bend over with my hands on my knees putting my admittedly huge head roughly 6 inches from his and, in my very best, most sinister growl, whisper “But it IS your fault that you’re a sanctimonious little prick.”

Then as I straightened up again (no mean feat at my age and bulk) and once again attempted to leave with the final word (why, oh why, is it that the Napoleon complex-ridden miniature masses INSIST on having it?) he has the backbone, albeit undersized by any rational standard, to ask “did you just curse at me? I can call the manager over you know…”

OK, by now I am most definitely determined to have the last word. “I didn’t curse at you by calling you a sanctimonious little PRICK, you sanctimonious little prick, I was merely making an observation which has proven to be an indisputable fact.” Then took maybe three more steps, knowing full well that he was watching to see if I was coming back for a third time, and turned my head in a roughly 45 degree rotation and cupped my ear, making an obvious display of waiting for his next comment, which was not forthcoming. To my disappointment if the truth were to be told.

Staff note: Our editor is a little grumpy.