“Youfuckholevaginashiner,” Tom said, to the unsuspecting bloke who sat where we were sitting. We had just left our seats to check out the menu that was scribbled on the wall behind the coffee counter.

“What did you just say?” the guy at the receiving said, still calm and just making sure he’d heard it right.

“Youshitlickingtithead,” Tom bawled yet again. I pulled him back with all my might. The guy he was dissing at was huge. He stood up on his six foot frame and looked down on Tom.

“You got a problem mate?” He drawled in an Australian accent, which makes everything they say look like a question.  

“Relax Tom. Let’s sit over there. It’s ok,” I said. 

“I am sorry, youholesniffingfartface,” Tom said, totally unaware of the damage the tattooed guy was capable of doing. The guy had a bloody looking grim reaper on his right arm.   

“You and me outside. Now,” he said, leaning into Tom, his hot angry breath on my shoulder as I try to tear Tom away from a possibly volatile situation.

“No sir. That won’t be necessary. I apologize on his behalf,” I said, trying to look at him and at the same time trying to push Tom back.

“Tell him to shut up or he will have a problem,” the guy replied.

“I didn’t mean to say that youdogwitdumpmaster,” Tom said. He always swore like he had to catch a train. He spoke normally, but when he swore, he raised his pitch a notch. He would say it in one breath and through clenched teeth. He would jerk his head and his lips would move violently towards left like someone is pulling a string attached to his face. 

“Sir, sir please. Ignore him. Go back to your seat. I will take care of this,” I said, trying my level best to diffuse the heat.

“Please forgive me, youarsesmellingfarthole?” Tom scowled.

“Mate this is going too far now,” the guy said looking at me with raised eyebrows that almost touched his forehead.

The other customers, including an old couple who were completely scandalized, a young Asian couple who were appalled, a bunch of college kids, half of them laughing their asses off and half of them making notes, adding new words to their vocabulary, were all looking at us and may be each one of them was placing a bet on whether the Aussie bloke will knock the living daylights out of Tom.

“I don’t really want to say this dickheaddildo,” Tom said innocently.

“Tom puhlease, puhlease stop talking,” I pleaded.

“I can’t Harry. I can’t!” He replied, before adding, “you buttwipinggroaper.”

“Why are you so mean to me?” the guy said, his voice suddenly quivering, now on the verge of breaking down.

“I don’t mean to youchugnuts,” Tom said. Words came out even though he tried to cover his mouth.

“Oh my god! Everyone hates me,” the guy said and started weeping. I handed a tissue to him.  

“Tom, not one more word alright? None,” I said in all seriousness.

“Sure. Sure. I shouldn’t have done that pumpkinfuckingdickswab.”

“I hate you,” the guy said and ran out of the café before I could tell him about Tom’s Tourette's.

“Titdirtfuckingshitassholebitchshitshit!”

 “Tom enough, ” I said and stuffed a banana slice before he could say anything else.