When I was about 7 years old (or whatever age kids are in the second grade), I remember not being able to think before I spoke, a problem I still haven't solved. Nevertheless, I can’t forget that fateful day that I called out the bullies.

It all started as I was eating my bologna sandwich in the "lunch area," which consisted of a whole bunch of concrete benches and steel tables (they now have a cafeteria, those spoiled pricks). I was sitting there with my two best friends, Carlos (a Cuban kid who was only my friend because he was a fat outcast and didn't know any better) and Thanh (a Vietnamese kid who was only my friend because he knew very little English and didn't know any better) and we were arguing about which was better, the Nintendo Entertainment System or the Sega Master System.

Thanh stayed quiet, of course, since he didn’t own either.

Anyway, I was right in the middle of my brilliant “Mario would rape Alex Kidd if they were both in video game prison” argument when I saw the two horsemen of the elementary school apocalypse… Darren and Quwame. Sixth graders. Darren was a white kid with a severe Napoleon complex, a youngster who undoubtedly had suffered at the fists of a horribly abusive father (at least I hope he did), and he holds the title of “the first kid I ever saw bleeding profusely from the nose that didn’t seem all that bothered by it.” And Quwame? He was a black kid who… well, he liked to beat up white kids. Anyway, they reigned supreme over our elementary school like Hitler in Paris.

So there I was, eating my bologna sandwich (and yes, asshole, bo-lo-knee is spelled “bologna”) with Carlos and Thanh, discussing the many differences between the N.E.S. and the Sega Master System, when I saw Darren and Quwame walking down the aisle. Darren was laughing at the top of his 12-year-old lungs with an over-the-top “yes, in case you had any doubt, I am the bad guy in this story” cackle. Quwame had this self-satisfied look on his face that screamed “I’m only 12 and I’ve already nailed more white women than you ever will, Freeman,” but I didn’t notice that until… well, until I started to write this. Yeah, I’m a loser, rub salt in the wound. Where was I? Oh yeah, so anyway, Darren and Quwame were walking slowly down the aisle, making sure their every Reebok-Pump step produced flinches from the younger kids they were surrounded by, and they started to walk past me and my motley crew.

“So that’s what I said to the bitch,” Quwame said with a grin. “I told her, get the fuck up outta my house, slut!”

(The first time in my life I had heard the words “bitch,” “fuck,” and “slut.” At least in that combination.)

Darren, of course, found Quwame’s words to be hilarious. “HA HA HA, Quwame,” he guffawed. “That’s the funniest shit I ever heard! HA HA HA HA HA!”

Now, had I been a reasonable seven-year-old, I would have just let the ignorant demon-children pass me. But reasonability has never been my strong point (neither has muscle tone, I.Q., or sexual prowess, but SHHHHHH!). Unfortunately, I wasn’t a reasonable seven-year-old, and I couldn’t just sit there while two jackasses walked past thinking they were kings of the world. So I spoke… without thinking.

“Ha, ha, ha,” I said to Darren in the most condescending tone that a seven-year-old is capable of making. “What’s so damn funny, stupid?”

A moment of glory! The little guy finally stood up to the overly aggressive warlords of the schoolyard! Good triumphed over evil, right?

Right?

Nope. Try again, stupid.

Before I could comprehend what was happening, both Darren and Quwame had shoved me to the ground. I remember seeing a flash of white for a second as my head slammed against the cement, and my next comprehensible thought was that of Carlos and Thanh standing over me, asking if I was alright.

“I’m okay,” I remember answering.

I laid on the ground for quite some time as Carlos and Thanh stared at me. I remember both of them gawking down at me for quite some time, with a mixture of instinctual superiority and sympathy. Hell, I felt like a leper masseuse at a “happy ending” parlor in Chinatown. But still they stared at me, until finally Carlos’ fat Cuban vocal chords broke the silence…

“Why the hell did you say that to them?”

I remember trying to find the words. I couldn’t, so I just did what I usually do. I spoke without thinking.

“Because they’re morons and they weren’t laughing at anything funny.”

Then I got up and finished my bologna sandwich.