There used to be a reoccurring skit on Mad TV that had a white trash couple and the male would frequently (and mistakenly) accuse other men of checking out his “ole lady” and subsequently attack the accused only to reveal his own ineptness at fighting. I once knew a couple like that, the only difference being that they were Hispanic, and the guy could fight. He had fucked up a number of guys prior to this story. I’m guessing that it spiced up their sex life, but that’s purely conjecture. He might have just been an idiot, or she might have been his poisonous fuck bunny (a term coined by Marc "The Animal MacYoung" meaning a woman that enjoys getting you into fights. I highly recommend him as an author), or both.
I worked second shift at work and hit the bar at 11pm and it was one of those nights where everyone kept buying everyone else a shot and I woke up in my work clothes, including steel toe boots, on my couch, with my outdoor dogs walking around the house confused (they had never been in the house until that point), the air conditioner going full blast and the front and back doors open. I was at the odd point between still drunk and hungover, never a good feeling and so I headed to the corner store for some aspirin and Perrier (which is really good for rehydrating yourself) and guess who I ran into. You guessed it. Side note: if you drink if you drink regularly, don’t use Advil, or Tylenol. They will fuck your liver up and you need that liver for that drinking!
She was in their 1970s era station wagon and he came out of the store, in swim trunks and sandals, carrying beer. He set the beer down and asked, “Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to my woman?” I explained that I hadn’t said anything to her, but his retort was, “So you’re calling me a fucking liar? You’re saying I’m just making this shit up?” I saw what was coming but was really hungover and was absolutely not interested in fighting, so I decided to try to reason with him. I told him that I had a girlfriend and I wasn’t interested in his. This served to further enrage him. He had almost worked himself up to the necessary tizzy to attack. He angrily asked, “WHAT?! SHE’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU?” There were no two ways about it, he was about to attack. I stomped the arch of his left foot with my right foot and broke it, went in, got my aspirin, Perrier, and upon retrospect some beer for later that day. He was writhing in pain and she’d gotten out to comfort him. She screamed a couple of obscenities at me, but I felt they’d both been punished enough and so I went home.
They avoided me from then on and a year or so later moved to another part of town. I ran into him years later and he had a limp. I’m not sure if it was from that day, but it likely was, as he quit with his knight in shining armor bullshit after that experience from what I hear. The primary lesson to be learned here is that the arch of the foot, by my best estimates is about as strong as a walnut and will quickly, and likely permanently, end a fight when stomped. The secondary lesson is that there are some fucked up people out there, but you probably knew that.