Could be Don Rickles in disguise.

Guess I was being insulted. By an Italian. In Rome. And I didn't even know it. Because I understand very little Italian. Later, my Italian true love told me that not all Italians are gentlemen. Which is all right. Because I know my share of jerks. In America. My guess is that a jerk is a jerk is a jerk. Doesn't matter whether he's Italian or American or any other nationality. Fact is I don't mind being insulted. By almost anyone. I expect it. I'm used to it. And I have over the years grown a thick skin. Very thick. Almost as thick as my head. I also have a sense of humor. About most everything. Insults included. I like insult humor. The kind practiced by comedian Don Rickles. Anyway, I was seated atop a three-foot high wall. Resting. And the guy on my left begins talking to me. In Italian. And I tell him in my limited Italian that I don't speak Italian. And that I'm an American. And that I'm stupid and lazy and happy. Because those are Italian words I know. And I'm trying to be funny. So I tell my true love that it could be that the guy wasn't really insulting me. He was merely returning good insult humor with equally good insult humor. He might even be a professional comedian. And this was our way of connecting and being nice to each other. But my true love doesn't think so. She says she knows insults when she hears insults. And she was within earshot of me at the time. And heard everything. And so did other Italians seated nearby. My true love said she motioned for me to move away. And wonders why I didn't. Anyway, I'm glad I didn't. Because I wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. He may have been Don Rickles. In disguise. I should have asked for his autograph. --Jim Broede