Le Bro Brawl: You are sipping on a tall, cool glass of cognac and soda when, behind you, there is a disturbance. Ahah, you whisper to your neighbor, a bob haired brunette with a serpent of fire coiled on her lower back: It is un bro brawl! This is of the première importance, to make an ally at the onset of this fight, for, as that magnificent whore Byron once penned, “the two bros’ bellows / oft calls his fellows.” This quick touch of mutual understanding may help save your skin if you are swept up in its turmoil for, as you may have surmised, bros travel like cats in heat, and it may be necessary to retire to some refuge. If more than one set of blows is exchanged take a step and a leap and oui, you shall be behind the bar, an opera box extraordinaire from which to laugh and take your ease and spout witticisms so that later the young dames of the bar may bashfully remark upon your cool head and quick tongue.
Le Hood Rat Fight: Truly, the Madame Butterfly of fights; when done correctly, it is an emotional tour de force. However, very few of us mortals are lucky enough to witness such magic outside of L’Youtube – therefore, as a citizen of the world, you must immediately draw upon your iPhone like a Bravo in in the streets of Montpellier, for the likelihood of the spectacular occurring is énorme. As my father once told me, nothing is impossible, mon petit garçon. Therefore, be cautious, like a hunter capturing a rare butterfly. Expect the unexpected, for the hood rat who is now on the ground may yet run to her Oldsmobile and drive screaming into the gathered crowd. But remember, there shall be no intervention in this combat because, One, les bitches are running wild, and Two, the Homeric struggle should be drawn out to its natural, passionate crescendo.
Le Mismatch: Le mismatch is a Shakespearean play, une tragédie ou un comédie (and someone is history. A joke!). If done in a tasteful manner, l’mismatch may be recounted with fond remembrance for many years. For instance, if some impetuous youth, intoxicated from his first dozen Keystones, barks a ill-thought racial slur at the voluminous breasts of some demoiselle, we may unreservedly catch our breath in eager anticipation as her hulking Samoan drifts out of the shadows, the crack of a single knuckle reverberating in the hushed silence of the sun’s last rays. Magnifique. However, and I regret this extremely, some intrusion may be needed if un combat appears to be resolving in permanent damage. In such a case, tip your hat to the largest, least morally ambiguous neighbor, take up you canes, and wade in with much esprit – you shall be a hero, loved and caressed.
Lover’s Quarrel: Words are often more delicious than blows. A true lover’s spate is a vision to behold, a couple dissolving their bonds before the gaping public. Ah, it is the reality show originale, and we might hope for secrets of both partners’ anatomy, accusations of infidelity, ruined finances, and perhaps a glass of ice water and a slap. Sensationnel.
Oh, but I digress- you wanted advice? You desire to go beyond a mere smiling face in the crowd? Well, well, mon cher, use your best inadequate judgment for what I describe next: If the trees are turning in the brilliance of fall, and the red-faced brute has stalked off to his steel imitation of manhood, and she weeps gently under the falling leaves… go to her. I say again: go to her. Yes, perhaps she will strike you, and then you will retreat, but perhaps you will hold her delicately curved frame as it trembles with sobs, the beautiful flower caught in the ugly breeze of life, and you will whisper, yes, he is a brute, mon petit amour. You will show her that life is beautiful and that love is real. For that, my reader, is how the best fights end.