Little kids haven't thrown rocks at me for a long time now. At least since last year, when the Arab Spring happened.
But about thirty minutes ago, as I was riding my bike back from the supermarket, two kids about ten years old, with their faces wrapped with those Arab scarf things, popped up over the wall of a nearby apartment complex and chucked a few small stones at me.
They missed me by a mile; the stones were more like big pebbles, anyway.
I started laughing and pointing at them. "HA HA! YOU THROW LIKE A GIRL! YOU COULDN'T HIT A BARN DOOR!"
They redoubled their efforts, throwing handfuls of pebbles from the garden that mostly clattered on the sidewalk at my feet; a few bounced off the rims of my bike. "HA HA! GIRLY BOYS! LITTLE GIRLY BOYS CAN'T THROW! TOO BUSY FUCKING EACH OTHER UP THE BUTT!"
I rode my bike up the street out of range a bit and got out my phone, acting like I was calling the police or the US Army Special Forces, craning my neck theatrically to check the name on the street sign, and they jumped off the wall and scurried for cover.
This was all about a block from the Applebee's. Even if we lose, we won.