Alistair Cooke
I had to crush the arrogant s.o.b.'s knees.
During intermission at the Metropolitan Opera, I get up to head for the head. Cooke looks up at me; I look down at him, waiting for him to retract his long, bony legs. I get no reaction. Annoyed,I squeeze by him gently, gingerly.
Now intermission is over, and I come back. Approaching the still seated Cooke, I now plow ahead full force to my seat. Cooke winces in pain. I am a little sore myself, but gratified.
