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Saturday, August 26, 2006

Better Get Your Coat, Dear. It Looks Like Rain.

So, on the way home from work yesterday, I got the idea that I might not have enough Diet Coke to last me the weekend, and this caused the panic.

So I had Roommate stop at a package store out on Packard. This is a package store I have not been to, but is now my favorite store, even though they charged me an arm and a leg for two 12-packs.

Anyway, I get in there and I grab my Coke and mosey up to the counter. There are two dudes behind the counter. They appear to be stoned. Lynyrd Skynyrd is playing on a little radio. I bob my head to "Free Bird" while the guy rings me up.

"I'm gonna need to see some ID," says the guy.

"Okay..." I get my ID out, thinking he wants to check my name against my card's name or something. Fine.

The guy squints at the ID and then at my cases of Coke.

"Y'know...because...Coke's alcoholic. And stuff. I just carded you for Diet Coke. Shit," says the guy.

I start laughing. "Oh. I thought you were checking my name against my card's name."

"Oh! Yeah. That's...that's what I was doing!" says the guy.

Hah. I got carded for Diet Coke. That rocks.

I will go back there next week and see if the guy cards me for some Slim Jims or something. I don't like Slim Jims, but it would be funny to get carded for Slim Jims.


The power is back on, all is well. So here is late hate from EB, called El Bastardo on Busybody Parents Who Think They Have the Right to Tell You How to Deal With Your Kid

So, a few months ago, on the way to the store, my kid is being a shit.

I mean, a real little asshole.

We get to the store parking lot, and she is still acting up.

I tell her, "Shut your trap, or I will leave you in the car with the windows SHUT! And make you a statistic!!"

Some old hag is there, overhearing me, and chimes in, "You should not talk to your kid like that."

"Excuse me?"

"You should not talk to your kid like that. Children are precious. My son died not long ago, and you will regret every bad moment you had with them."

Now, usually, my first reaction to this invasion into my personal life from a stranger, is to to say "Fuck you very much," but I decided, out of respect for her dead son, to not be

So I say, "Well, ma'am, first let me say, my condolences for the loss of your child. But this is my child, not yours. And to be honest, I do not regret any bad moments with my kid. I am glad I have any moment. Good or bad. But when my kid acts like an extra from The Omen and I choose to chastise her, I will. Thanks."

"Well, you did not have to be so mean to her."

"Ma'am, 'mean' would have been me actually leaving her in a hot car with the windows closed, grabbing a beer, sitting on that bench, and watching her fry. Watching her scratching at the window like a Jew at a Nazi cookout. But I did not. So please, once more, mind your own business."

This, of course, left her...speechless. Which was good, as I did not want to smack her around further.

I then turned to my kid and said, "Come, my little-result-of-me-coming-home-drunk-from-a-football-game-one-night. Let us go in."

Another example:

My kid is a picky eater.

And she also has my metabolism.

So, one day, we are waiting in line at the grocery store. She is sitting in the cart.

Two women are behind me. One whispers to the other, "Oh my god, that child is so skinny. Doesn't he feed her?" Other one responds with, "Doesn't look like it. My goodness."

Now, of course, they are like, two feet behind me. So they KNOW I can hear them.

And realizing that they want me to hear what they had to say, I, of course, also assumed they wanted me to respond. In my usual, oh-so-diplomatic way.

Now, my first thought is to reply, "Excuse me, but you are wrong. I do feed her. Whatever the dog does not finish, I toss into her cage. Sometimes, I even put her in there with a hungry rat to watch them fight over the left-overs."

Instead, I am just annoyed, so I tell them, "Look, it is my kid. She eats whenever she wants. If you have a problem with that, call the police. Otherwise, fuck off and mind your own business."

This, of course, leaves them speechless (I love it when that happens, by the way). So we continue to check out and watch them leer at me.

Fuck, people are annoying.

So, the lesson here, boys and girls, is that when it is someone else's kid, it is none of your fucking business. Period. Unless you see parents beating their kid half to death, stay out of it.

How many parents out there have had to deal with the unruly offspring of their loins? Answer: Every fucking one of us.

So, empathize. Understand. Hell, even pity them as you recall what little fucking SHITS your kids were in public, and how you wanted to rip their little arms off and beat them with them.

In fact, if you know the kid is being a real little fucker, walk up to the parent and kindly say, "Hey, I have some bungee cords in my car. Want to tie the kid to the roof?"

We parents need to stick together. Not criticize.

Because it is us or them, baby.


And, to wrap this up, I bring you two wonderful videos. Feel the love.

I'm gonna betchslap you, shetbag!


Israeli-Palestinian Conflict Muffins!

Man, that's the shit. Those are done by a guy named Liam and he is damned funny. EB and I have been quoting the "Shoes" song back and forth at each other for several days now. Mainly because he thinks I am like that about shoes. And I am. Because I am a girl. And that is what girls do.

Those shoes are mine, betch!

I found the muffin video last night and it made me laugh so hard, I hurt myself. The "blood" bit kills me.

So, yeah. Good stuff. Pass them around.


link | posted by Zombie at 7:06 PM |


Anonymous tokenblogger commented at 7:47 AM~  

Okay, I loved that post (the boths of yous) but who is El Bastardo?

Anonymous Anonymous commented at 12:56 PM~  

Much like: Roswell, Bigfoot and the Bermuda Triangle, I am one of life's great mysteries. But I do enjoy playing Roman Centurian and slave girl with Zombie. If that gives you any clue.



Anonymous greeny commented at 1:15 PM~  

I knew it!

You're Marcus Agrippa!

Ha. Thought so.

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