BILLINGSGATE POST: Most men know a mumser or two. Even though they may not know what a mumser is, they will immediately be able to identify one, once they understand the characteristics framing them. Especially if they ever sold women’s shoes.
But for an impish shoe salesman named Chick O’Connor, the word might still be in limbo, never reaching English vernacular status. Chick was in his sixty’s and had long tired of dealing with women who couldn’t make a decision. He would bring out stacks of stylish pumps with hourglass heels; brown, blue and red flats with almost no heel; even alligator shoes made in France. The boxes were piled one on top of each other, until you could barely see his bald head as he sat on his stool. He suffered their indecision with a grunt of indignation. After they walked out of the Buck’s Bootery without a purchase, he would pick up the shoes, put them back into their respective boxes, and shove them back into their place on the shelf.
Then he would unload on the mumsers. Peering over his owlish glasses, he would describe how, when he asked them which shoe fit their fancy, the little ladies would mutter some umbrageous mumble-jumbo, that what they really wanted was that he buy them a drink and give them a quick poke after he got off work.
Not that you could believe everything he said. But Chick claimed most of his old customers did not wear underwear. From his vantage point, sitting on his stool while slipping shoes on their delicate feet, it was beaver shooting paradise.
He died unexpectedly of an apparent heart attack at the age of 67 after being attacked by a mutant beaver.
Slim: “The poor bastard never had a chance.”
Dirty: “Yo, Dude. Mumsers the word.”