I tend bar a few nights a week at a private members-only military pub. Most of the patrons are combat veterans from various conflicts. Most all are perfectly nice people...until they get a few (dozen) pints down their throats. Tonight, a particularly portly gentleman (we'll call him Billy) was in the pub having his usual combination of Jameson Black Barrel and endless pints of draught. Billy is about 400 pounds (180 Kg for you lot) and walks with a cane. I pull up with the Repsol wearing full leathers. I have a change of clothes in the back of the pub for just these occasions. The security cameras show the parking lot and all the entrances so he saw me coming. As soon as I walk in, helmet in hand, he tells me how dangerous it is to ride a motorcycle. Now, keep in mind, I teach people to ride these things for a living, it is what I do. Billy is going on and on about dangerous drivers and the instability of motorbikes and the lack of protection, blah blah blah. I let him finish...and then I asked him, "Billy, didn't you have a heart attack at 45 due to your weight?" He just stared at me. I then walked my 74Kg ass to the back and got dressed. Everyone has a mate who is an utter bastard at times..and if you say you don't, then guess what? You're that mate to everyone else.
Excellent comeback. The world is full of criticisers who won't care to look at themself first. (except me - I am the original 'nice guy'!)
