I went to see Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (for the third time) tonight, along with Tabor, Lillis, and Carlson. And we had an interesting encounter outside the theatre.

I had parked my car and we were walking to the theatre when Carlson and I spotted a riced-up Acura Vigor driving by in the parking lot filled to the brim with young punks and thumping with overly loud rap music. We both, of course, immediately doubled over with laughter. We just couldn't help it.

A few minutes later, we're standing outside the front of the theatre waiting for some friends to arrive. I'm talking to Carlson out on the sidewalk, and Lillis and Tabor have wandered off closer to the building. The riced-up, bass-thumping Acura pulls up at the curb about twenty feet away, and one of the four passengers yells, "Hey you, with the hair!"

He's referring to Carlson, who has long hair. We both look at them. Carlson says, "Yeah?"

"Come over here," says the punk.
"Come here."

Carlson and I glance at each other. Neither of us feels like walking over to a car full of punks who we are apparently pissed off about us laughing at their car earlier.

"You got a problem, man?"
"No," responds Carlson, with a completely serious look on his face.

The exchange continues, with the punk asking questions and Carlson smartly avoiding any kind of confrontation. Seeing that his attempts at provocation are going nowhere, the punk shifts his attention to me. During the entire exchange between the punk and Carlson, I've been watching and laughing -- I honestly found it quite amusing.

"What are you laughing at, man?" He says.
"I'm amused,"
"You think something's funny?"

At this point, the punk opens his door and starts to step out. It occurs to me that he's probably got a gun or a knife. If it's a knife, he'll have to get across the twenty feet of space between us before he can attack me. No worries there. If it's a pistol, he'll have to hit a moving target twenty feet away, in the dark, which most people can't do. So I'm not particularly worried.

"Yeah, I think this whole thing's funny," I respond.
"Come over here and tell me what's funny," he says.
"Come here," he persists.
"You won't be laughing if you come over here."
"Do you see me coming over there?"
"What do you think is so funny?" he asks, apparently at a loss for another topic.
"You guys and your loud music."
"You don't like our music?"
"I think it's hilarious."

At this point, still with no more than one foot out of the car, the punk apparently decides it's pointless to try and provoke either of us, because we obviously aren't looking for a fight. He gets back in the car and closes the door. Then they turn up the music and drive off.

A minute or so later, they circle around again, turn the music up some more, we laugh at them, and the passenger leans out his window and raps along with a line from the music. The line was this:

"All you niggas gonna' die."

Carlson and I are both very white. So of course this, combined with the fact that the goofball is hanging out of his window rapping at us, gets us laughing even harder.

The punks give us dirty looks and drive off for good.

People amaze me with their immaturity sometimes. What did those guys hope to start? Were they trying to pick a fight with two skinny white guys? If we'd been more confrontational, they would have been pretty surprised when Carlson pulled the extremely sharp metal rod out of the special holster behind his back and stabbed it through the throat of whoever was closest.

The three remaining guys, if they hadn't been scared off by the sight of their buddy gurgling and choking on his own blood, would have been even more surprised when Carlson punched one of them in the throat, collapsing his esophagus, and kicked another in the balls, rupturing one or more testicles. The remaining punk could have been dealt with any of a number of ways. And all of this before I could ever even think about reacting, seeing as how I don't have the training Carlson has.

In any case, they would have been four very unhappy and possibly dead punks. I have to wonder if it ever even crossed their minds that one or both of us might have known how to fight.

Why do people seek out confrontation?