Damn skippy I dinna witness what the Mrs. went through. I surely would be in jail, after giving the nine-fingered beatdown to Mr. Hotwheels and his crashcart routine (I am so not above beating up a gimp. He's a grown man, perfectly handi-capable of saying either "Excuse me" or "I'm sorry" either before hitting a woman with his chair, or after doing so. If he's too fucking retarded--I'm sorry, differently abled--to do that, he should have a sign under his drool-cup saying so. If he's unable to control his buggy, the special Olympian should have a caretaker to wheel his stupid ass around.
If, on the other hand, his gay lover does have to be the one to speak for sir gimp-a-lot, then he could have at least taken the time to do so in a polite manner. Making a woman cry by making baseless accusations is beyond contempt.
The Mrs. informed me that among the crowd there were several men standing idly by. That none had the testicular fortitude to step forward and punch this douchebag in the throat says far more about their character than the asshole who confronted the Mrs.
After we see Mt. Rushmore, I do believe I will break at least one law, one record, and perhaps a few rules of physics, as I motor out of this town at the best possible speed. Rapid city South Dakota, and it's population of homosexual cripple lovers, as well as the gutless wonders who surround them, can kiss my crippled ass.
(I've still got the whole acid and profanity-laced thing down, but use it more judiciously, eh?)