Last weekend we got in a fight with a Manhattan driver. MrLittlePants has already mentioned this in the context of onion tarts in Eat, but I figured I would give it the ponderous and overwrought City slicking treatment it deserves.

On Sunday we were traipsing around the West Village, minding our own frigid business. While crossing one of the several streets near the intersection of Eleventh Street and Seventh Avenue, with a “walk” signal and a crosswalk, a car turning left accelerated and cut us off. The right of way was ours, and MrLittlePants kicked the side of the car as it went by.

He’s good at that. I’ll smack a trunk lid on occasion but I don’t usually have the nerve to step up to a speeding car and land a kick. I’m confident that we’re on solid ethical grounds delivering these harmless blows to passing machines that nearly kill us in the midst of their law-breaking. It’s a way of reminding drivers that they exist in the same physical space as pedestrians, even as they encase themselves in tons of cheap metal.

Drivers have a hard time seeing things that way. And I bet that the police, being mostly car-commuters themselves, would take a driver’s side if ever involved. But I am an idealist, and it counts for something that the law gives right of way to pedestrians in crosswalks, and more importantly, that mortal danger outweighs danger to an object. (This shouldn’t even be a question to followers of religions that promote respect for life.) We ornery peds are in the right, the might of cars notwithstanding.

The kicked car pulled over and its driver came chasing after us when we were already on the far side of Seventh Avenue. We could have easily kept walking and “gotten away,” which I intended to do, but the ever-brave MrLittlePants trotted back across the avenue to face this despicable specimen of humanity.

After arguing back and forth over whether or not the driver even lived here, he stated his case: the kick was “inappropriate.” That’s it. We pointed out that he had nearly killed us, to which he replied that it was an accident. Yes, that’s what he said. (There is no such thing as accidentally accelerating and cutting off people.) At that point we had won the argument as far as we were concerned, but then things took an interesting turn.

He called us “faggots,” and not in the friendly way. Yes, at Seventh Avenue and Eleventh Street, the center of one of this hemisphere’s gayest neighborhoods, we were called faggots. And more! “If you ever kick my car again,” he said, “I will ram my cock down your throat.” Quite pleased with himself, he then turned and left.

MrLittlePants followed the dirty driver back to his A4 to record its HNY-660 license number, which provoked the man to announce that his name was “Silverstein” and he lived on Fifteenth Street. (At this point, we declined to channel Mel Gibson as revenge for Silverstein’s channeling of Isaiah Washington. At technically.us we pride ourselves on having ethical standards far above those of middle-aged celebrities. Also, we can’t afford a crisis P.R. firm to bury such incidents under five tons of bullshit.) And that was that.

I’m not inclined to whine about name-calling. I don’t believe that “hate speech” is a concept worth trying to define, let alone prosecute. And there’s no sense in kicking offending cars if you don’t have a thick enough skin for a potential street argument. Even though Mr. Silverstein’s threat was pretty much the grossest thing ever, it is not going to force us into therapy.

But like anyone in the history of argument (or at least in the days since the scripted perfection of movie and television drama-fests), I wish I’d had a better comeback ready. Disgusting and surprising as Mr. Silverstein’s insult was, it is hardly unassailable.

For starters, there’s the absurdity of making plans for a “next time,” which is astronomically unlikely to occur. Would-be tough guys around the world go on and on about a “next time” to complete strangers they will never see again. This deserves ridicule. But there’s even lower-hanging fruit here. (That’s right, fruit.) It is very, very gay to propose putting your penis in another man’s mouth.

The retort is so easy, you won’t even need to memorize a line for it. Just remember these two words: gay rape. From that wellspring the lines will flow when you need them. Such as, “So what you’re saying is you want to gay rape me.” Or, if you’re into pop culture criticism, “Ever since those ‘design’ reality shows became popular, it seems like everyone wants to be a gay rapist.” And, when applicable, “I heard that raping other men is the new SUV driving!”

I’m so excited about this new line of argument that I’m looking for ways to use it ASAP. Perhaps I’ll intentionally start somethin’ with some macho asshole, and then bombard him with lots of limp wrists, lisping, and obscure references to Katharine Hepburn. Once he picks up on me being gay (with these types you have to lay it on thick), he’ll fall right into my trap by suggesting something vile, and then…

“When Kurt Cobain sang, ‘everyone is gay,’ and later, ‘rape me,’ I guess you felt like he was really speaking to you, right? I miss him too, dude.”