So.
I was on a date.
With my son.
It's all I can get at this point.
Don't judge me.
Well, judge me if you must, but I think you're an idiot, that's what I think of your judging, Judgey McJudgerson.
We're at this little Italian restaurant by our house.
My son is blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
And I'm, uh-huh.
Yeah.
Sure.
Maybe tomorrow.
We'll see.
I don't know.
What.
Maybe.
Okay.
And then midway through the conversation, I realize I've said yes to moving to the Galapagos to study moths. Which, by the way, I was driving the other night, minding my own business, and this HUGE moth starts fluttering around my head, and I'm like what the ... you son of a ... how did you get in this car, I don't turn on my interior lights at night FOR THIS VERY REASON ... and I roll down the window and I'm like trying to scoop him out, but he's all flutter, flutter, flutter, I'm over here, now I'm down by your legs, now I'm over by the other seat, and I slam on my breaks, pull off my flip flop and beat that mother humper until he was dust. Moths are Satan's creation. I'm convinced of it.
Now go back and read that paragraph you just skipped.
It's imperative.
So.
The big screen TV is on, showing Delonte West's stepson and Jar Jar Binks (google Chris Bosh) and Dwayne somebody with their Heat jerseys on, and fireworks shooting out of their eyeballs, and then back to the Cleveland sports guy with the horse face looking like he's about to squirt some.
What a puss.
y.
So.
I feel like throwing my glass of water at the screen, because I have no food to throw, because eating is for the weak-minded.
Try and keep up.
I don't normally eaves drop on people's conversations, but all I got is my kid, blah blah blah and the TV program poking me with hot sticks, and so my eyes fall to the table catty corner from us.
It's a group of about six or seven.
But half the group leave and then it's a guy, in his 40s, portly, not attractive, gross, a little greasy.
The wife, the eyes are too close together, the hair is lank, this poor girl ... time has not been her friend.
And then the thousand year old grandma, aunt ... some old broad.
The gnarled hands, white hair, quivering mouth, drooping eyelids, Beltones in both ears.
She's old.
What should I remember about her, Kelly? She's freaking old. That's what.
So I hear the guy say to grandma,
You should see the thongs she wears, in *extra* small (referring to close-eye lank hair wife)
huh?
I tell the son to zip it so I can zero in on the gems dropping from this guy's mouth, because, this has just got to keep getting better and by better I mean worse.
He goes on to tell Aunt Bea,
Oh yeah. She's got little whips she hits me with.
Beg your pardon?
She begs me all the time to tie her up.
Excuse me, you just said what?
I am thinking to myself,
Donotstare Donotstare Donotstare Donotstare Donotstare Donotstare Donotstare
But I have to.
I have got to see the wife's reaction.
AND Grandma's reaction.
So the grandma, prim as a peach, wipes her mouth ...
I swear to GOD if my @$%###$ dog does not stop barking at the mowing guys, I am going to skin her and make mittens for the poor with her fur.
and smiles at him.
She must be deaf.
Or dumb.
Or both.
Or as shocked as I am.
The wife?
She just half-ass swats him on the arm,
Oh Jim. He tells such crazy stories.
I've done it.
I have done it.
I have transported myself to an alternate universe, where a husband can tell the crypt keeper that his chubby wife wears an extra small thong and whips him and no one blinks an eye.
No one.
And now I am off to skin my dog.
Suck it PETA.
You don't have to live with this mental case barking spazz GOD I just wanna ... they HEAR YOU.
The mowing guys HEAR YOU.
And they probably hate you too.
Well, wait.
Clearly, the old lady is deaf.
She had Beltones in both her ears.
Oh wait.
Now I get it.
They were messing with her saying crazy stuff because she's deaf and wouldn't hear it.
What an ahole.
That's just not something a normal person would do.