He rides into town on a mule and the local heavies start poking fun at him. He asks them to be nice, but they start shooting. So he puts them right. He’s dining out when a bunch of hoodlums burst in to the restaurant and start demanding money. He offers some polite advice about their futures, but they don’t want to know. So he puts them right. He’s taking a shower in jail when a bad-shave the size of a phone booth tells him he’s looking for some action. He says he hopes he finds what he’s looking for, but the phone booth says no, you don’t understand, and moves in for a clinch. So he puts him right – washing his mouth out with a bar of soap.
What is it with all these guys? Don’t they know who they’re dealing with? How can they keep on underestimating him? Then again, don’t we do the same? No matter Clint Eastwood’s myriad achievements – starring in fifty-plus movies; directing more than thirty; taking four Oscars (and sundry