We TOLD you the express lane was for people with fewer than 10 items. Now we have to kill you.
Lately I’ve been pondering exactly how many professions are based solely on behavior modification for kids.
There’s the cognitive therapist, the behaviorist, the OT, the PT the Psychiatrist, the developmental pediatrician and the good old-fashioned nun with a wooden paddle.
What if there were a team of experts who could swoop down every time a grownup got out of line?
Just the other day some guy called me a fucking moron while I was waiting patiently for a parking spot at my local grocery store. My immediate reaction was to attempt a retaliatory middle finger and a nasty sneer but I actually stopped myself and envisioned a world where armed soldiers fell from the sky to deal with malcontents like this.
With weapons drawn and lifeless eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses they would dispose of this impatient seething driver grabbing him up with stealth and precision never to be heard from again. When I envisioned the agony that was his as a result of his mistake, a crooked smile lit up my face.
Then I pictured legions of do good enforcers shouldering high-capacity fire arms in a variety of everyday case scenarios. The tailgater, the unresponsive customer service representative, the bill collector who can’t pronounce my fairly simple name, the parent whose kid threatened to kill my kid with a home fashioned crossbow but thinks my kid needs therapy.
Grabbed up quietly without any fuss.
There would also be a special intervention for Sting, Stewart Copeland and Andy Summers. A team of large persuasive men could help them move past the hurdles that have put The Police on permanent hiatus without proper explanation and re-do the 07-08 reunion tour for those of us who had to miss it.
But then, as always, the joy began to fade.
I got an unnerving visual of me being sent a warning note as I tried to swig milk directly out of the carton while standing in front of the fridge.
Then I remembered that brief period of time I spent selling knock off perfumes door to door. If that wasn’t annoying enough our pyramid scheme supervising adult decided that we should be sent into the red-eye district to pimp bad product to strippers and drug dealers. There would certainly have been some sort of repercussions for those dark days.
What about the time I left my boyfriend for the cuter, taller guy that could grow a beard? Disemboweled? Firing squad?
How about when I ask my husband “what’s that?” every time he says something from the other room even if I can really hear him most of the time?
I would most certainly get a talking to about the blog post I just put up five minutes ago where I whined like a thankless jerk about my “too small” house and my happy active kids. God, I’m an asshole. I hope they fucking waterboard me for that one.
So look at that. In what appears to be a recurring theme I start out talking about how other people suck and then realize that I am far worse than those I complain about. I need to get a new shtick.