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Here is one story retold, albeit with a pithier ending:
What happened: So theres this girl at school who is a bit of a slut and she thinks her shit doesn't stink. She gets into fist fights like every week and has been charged several times for harassement. One day i walked by her and happened to catch a glimpse of her face. She was looking at me and she said "Don't look at me you fucking anerxic bitch" (I'm not anerexic, i just play a lot of sports and am tiny)
What I said: Nothing, i walked away.
What I SHOULD have said: Well I'm sorry that i don't go home every night and eat 10 kg of ice cream to sooth my pregnant cravings that i get from being knocked up every 9 months ya fucking whore.
The French call it l'esprit d'escalier, "the wit of the staircase," those biting ripostes that are thought of just seconds too late, on the way out of the room-or even, to tell the truth, days later. It's happened to you: you've suddenly thought of just what would put your foe in his or her place, but past the time when the arrow could sting its victim. You've stewed in your own juice ever since, and the chance for singeing repartee is gone forever.
Or is it?
Dorothy Parker or Oscar Wilde may have had the rapier wit to tweak their tormentors on the spot, but for the rest of us, we offer the Internet's only L'esprit d'escalier web site!