When were you secretly happy about someone else's misfortune?

I once saw a guy get shot, and I was glad that he got shot.

I was sixteen, working as a dishwasher at a restaurant in Alabama, where I grew up. One of the cooks (I can’t recall his name now) was a hard-drinking, skinny guy of about twenty-five who constantly bragged about all the social undesirables (usually by race and sexual orientation, whom he designated by the standard slurs or by ones he proudly invented) he had beaten up.