Dorchester men are the pillars upon which Boston is held high. They make attractive mates not just for their good looks but for their virtuous dispositions.
So I was at the Harp and Bard this evening when some pie-eyed rake who had a few too many Bud Lights under his belt leered at one of his fellow patrons and commented, as a kind of introduction, "You have nice breasts." His Hyde Park accent was unmistakable. If you closed your eyes, you would picture a young man who may grow up to be mayor of this city once he learns his manners.
The TVs didn't suddenly switch to static, but the conversation around the bar did come to a standstill. In the sudden hush, one of the old timers at the corner by the lottery ticket machine spoke up. "Stop right there, chum," he commanded. "There are ladies present, as you obviously know. We expect you to behave accordingly." The rake glared and the other older gents at the corner stood up and shifted on the balls of their feet. "Apologize," the old timer commanded, "Apologize and make your way home. We don't cotton to tomfoolery or tom catting around Savin Hill."
The malefactor mumbled his apology and stumbled out onto Dot Ave, presumably to hail a cab. A delegation from the corner made their way to the young woman's bar stool. Tom doffed his cap and said, "On behalf of all of us, ma'am and the reputation of good men in Dorchester and Hyde Park, heck the reputation of all the good men in Boston, I offer my most sincere apologies and I promise such a rude compliment will never again be heard here in this room. It is plain to all who can see that your beauty comes from your eyes."
Thoroughly embarrassed by all the attention, the young woman thanked the dignitaries and asked them to return to their seats.
A tip of the fedora to Percy Trout for today's illustration.