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Here is one story retold, albeit with a pithier ending:
Go On My Son
What happened: I was running, dressed in my tight running t-shirt and a pair of running tights.
I felt someone pass me by on a bmx bicycle. He was shouting at me. He was wearing a tracksuit. A shellsuit. He had a baseball cap on.
I took off my headphones and managed to gasp out a "What?"
He was leaning back off his bike, puffing out his cheeks and holding his hand away from his tummy to indicate my massive fatness. Then he started shouting...
"Go on my son, go on, you could do with losing a few calories you fat f***, go on pal, go on my son..."
What I said: Nice One.
What I SHOULD have said: Thanks for the reminder my juvenile friend. For a moment I forgot why exactly I was punishing myself in the bastard rain and screaming wind, but you have reminded me of my enormous and offensive obeseness, so hats off to you, youth, a wonderful future awaits.
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!