BITTERMAC.COM

Alcohol is a wonderful drug of sorts.

Kind of like that line from the “Dave Chappell” show on Comedy Central.

They show skits recreating the wilder moments in Charlie Murphy’s (Eddie Murphy’s brother) memories of partying with an out of control Rick James in the 80’s.

It shows all sort of vile happenings then they go to Rick James for commentary, he denies it, then a half second later, he admits to it.

And then for an explanation, they go to his quote of “Cocaine is a hell of a drug.”

Alcohol is the same thing sometimes.

Absolutely obscene behavior goes on once the vino starts flowing.

And tequila, and vodka, and jagermeister…etc.

We are at the beach.

I am sober, but have spent the last 30 minutes trying to play badminton in a high wind. (Bad idea, but lots of fun with the right company.)

However, the brightly t-shirted mob making their way down the bike path next to the sand is barely keeping it together.

Its an even mix of men and women, various sizes and ethnicity, but sharing one critical thing.

They are all shit faced drunk.

Not “Tipsy” or “Feeling it”, but one member faceplanting into the ground and the rest laughing their asses off type shit-faced.

Their bright neon yellow shirts proclaim that they are aerospace employees on the annual Defence contractors pub crawl.

For those not in the know, (Like I am), a pub crawl is like a mobile riot that is semi sanctioned by the local businesses. (Mainly bars, but the restaurants hope they will buy food at some point.)

The police do not love these people, but they tolerate them.

Not as much as the cops in Vegas or Reno, but close. (In Vegas and Reno, they will simply remove you from the bad place you are and reinsert back into play back at your home casino. Don’t tell me no, I have had it happen to me.)

The mob has to pee.

I know this because, due to some construction going on at the beach bathrooms, there are 4 port a johns on the sand.

The moment the mob saw them, a howl of sorts went up, like a wolf pack that scented fresh blood.

Several broke into a run for them.

One severly inebriated asian woman was at a high sprint when she contacted the three foot high wall separating the bike path from the sand.

I am not sure what her plans were, hopping over the wall or what, but she did a painful looking full flip over the half wall and landed face first in the sand.

1 down, 9 more to go.

The next victim splatted into the door of the porta while trying to get the door open.

It looked painful, but there was no way to tell as the guy landed on his ass, wedged the door open and crawled in.

The other portas were filled without further casualties.

The asian woman crawled off of the sand and got to her feet, staggering over to a bench with blood and sand staining her ugly neon shirt.

It was then that one of the occupants of a porta, not sure which, began to vomit.

Loudly.

I was 50 feet away and I could hear that poor bastard retching clearly.

It was like watching a man on tv getting kicked in the nuts, you felt sympathy pain for him, self induced though it may be.

The pub crawl mob was heartless.

They surrounded and began pounding on the porta, yelling.

You never want to make any sudden moves that might draw the attention of this type of mob, they can turn on you in a heartbeat.

The bout of vomiting was a short one, thankfully, as the vomiteer exited the porta to the cheers of his coworkers.

And then they set off, presumably to the next bar.

God help us all, these people are building F-16’s.

I seriously thought I was in a hold up at Starbucks this morning.

Let me set the scene for you.

This particular Starbucks is in downtown Manhattan Beach.

The female demographic locally is well monied beauties that fun the gamut from big business alpha females to barely conscious living sex dolls.

And they all take yoga.

A couple of fairly cruel lines, but fairly true.

I watch people, its a little creepy, but its my thing.

So imagine my shock as I watched someone totally out of place for the area, walk into Starbucks.

Its morning primetime, so the line was to the front door, hooked a U turn and was three quarters of the way to the bathroom at the back.

Jeans, not fashionable ones, but more of the no name JC Penny type, stained.
Work boots.

Faded pendelton with the sleeves rolled.

Mullet, slightly greasy.

And the only two clues she is a woman is the lack of facial hair and the swell of breasts beneath the pendleton.

An old school dyke, rare in these parts.

Shouldn’t she be at Lilith Fair?

Ok, enough cheap shots.

But imagine my shock when a second woman, dressed EXACTLY the same, comes in.

As she passes the first woman, the both nod slightly, but pretty much ignore each other.

What the hell?

They are both in line, now.

Its like suddenly realizing that you are in an episode of Twilight Zone.

And then two more women came in, dressed exactly the same.

Same bare nod and then ignoring each other.

Screw Twilight Zone, this just became on of those shitty Quenton Tarantino films.

Like Kill Bill with Dykes instead of ninja’s.

I waited for the guns to come out.

It kind of has to be a robbery, doesn’t it?

Otherwise, this might be final proof that I am some sort of sexist asshole. (Like this is the only thing stopping you from thinking this for the last couple years.)

One by one, each butch got their coffee, meandered around a bit, then left.

And none of them ever acknowledged the other.

Weird? To say the least.

And maybe it is just a product of my vile imagination,

But if there are headlines tomorrow about a bank robbery pulled off by a crew of militant bull dykes?

Bittermac, witness for the prosecution.

(You will all owe me an apology.)

I like horses.

Note the lack of the word “love” in that sentence.

Yeah, I get that, noble majestic creatures and all that jazz.

Bottom line, they are huge, shit in piles and have monster sized penis’s that sometime show up in illegal porn.

However, alcohol is involved, So I am game.

Groupons are both good and bad for you.

Good because it gets you out and into activities you wouldn’t normally.

And bad because it gets you out and into activities that you wouldn’t normally.

I fear change like the villagers in Frankenstein, nothing good can come from it.

But here is the pitch:

Get on a horse and ride to two separate wine tastings.

Massive animals and alcohol, I’m in.

Temecula is in Southern Calfornia, out in wine country.

Not Napa, but a hell of a lot prettier than I expected.

Compared to the cheap gypsy horseback outfits that I have rented a fleabitten glue factory candidate from in the past, this outfit is higher end.

And since they are associated with a massive winery, you would expect that.

It will be a guided group, they evidently don’t want random strangers wandering thru the vineyards on the backs of large expensive beasts.

Its a formula for mayhem that few situations can equal.

The group is a little iffy fust from the looks of it.

There are two German Tourists that speak no English at all, and, If I am reading the signs right, the wife is absolutely terrified of the idea of being on or around horses.

To be cruel for a second, I can imagine her husband’s horror at being on or around his chosen frau.

The next 6 people are fairly generic, with the exception of Tamra.

Tamra is that always slightly drunk friend of your wife’s/girlfriend’s that is too loud and has the REALLY annoying habit of being startled by everything to the point that she emits a shriek about every 30 seconds.

Normally, I block that out, but continual shrieking startles horses and makes for a tense ride.

I am writing this 2 solid days later and my balls are just starting to talk to me again.

My riding posture is not the best, so the occasional trot is kind of like jumping up and down on your nut sack for fun.

Once again, only because alcohol is involved. (At least its consistent.)

Riding thru the vineyards is actually a hell of a lot more beautiful than I expected.

The horse, Izzy, and I have come to an understanding.

If she won’t stop in the middle of a light trot and fling herself sideways to eat vines, I will let her graze whenever we stop to wait for the German couple.

The German wife is not bonding with her horse.

The look on her face is a combination of terror and a desperate need to take a shit.

Not a pretty look for a late 50′s house Frau from the Fatherland.

That and the fact that her horse is reluctant to be out, it keeps turning back.

On about the third stop to retrieve Helga, a horsefly flew too close to Tamra and she shrieked.

Two horses went left, one right and the lead horse my girlfriend was on shot straight ahead.

Tamra was bottom feeding in the popularity department.

Her husband/boyfriend/unlucky bastard she was with was even getting tired of it.

“Tamra, jeezes!” It kind of became his mantra.

I began wishing for her to have a Christopher Reeves-type of accident.

Just saying.

The ride ended with no one dead.

And this was when my right eye started to swell shut.

Horsehair, ragweed, or bitten by something unknown, my eye looked like I lost the fight, badly.

I spent a quick half hour in the bathroom, flushing with cool water, which kind of helped.

On to the wine tasting.

I have no palette for wine and tend to prefer sweet dessert wines.

But high end desert wines are incredible.

In the end, in a shocker, my favorite was an almond infused champagne.

Not a big champagne fan, but this was exceptional.

Add to this about 5 hours total of wandering thru downtown Temecula, which is a lot of restaurants, bars, and really cool curio shops.

I can pick thru shit in these shops for days.

Add to that a Starbucks right at the head of main street and you had me at hello.

I love Temecula, although due to the absolute shit weather 98% of the time (Heat and sheet lightening) I could never live there.

All in all, a pretty awesome weekend for something mostly unplanned.

Serendipity and I are old friends.

People sweat when they work out, I get that.

I am trying to get into better shape myself, and I sweat a lot.

But hardcore runners tend to sweat more than others, thats a fact.

Its hard work to destroy your knees on a consistent basis.

People also like to kiss.

Making out is one of the dying arts.

Couples who have great affection from each other often make out in public, thats expected.

But don’t do both at the same time.

This seems like a simple rule, like don’t stick your tongue in a wall outlet.

There is a couple outside of Starbucks violating this very rule.

They have been running, hard.

And they are sweating profusely.

They are making out like its seven minutes in heaven on the brick stoop out front.

Sweat is literally dripping down their backs, its kind of gross.

And they are macking like a hungry teen from out of town on her first porn shoot, pure excitement.
Get a room kids.

How about just a shower at least?

I hope he is at least wearing a condom, running clothes material is so thin these days its best to be safe.

I just needed to get that off my chest.

Total change of subject.

The “Leave my balls alone!” post from Monday went viral and got about 10 times the amount of views they normally get.

This is both a good thing and bad, from my point of view.

The good is that at least somebody is reading this damned thing.

The bad is that more people are reading this damned thing.

Which means more complaints.

I got more blog email from Monday to Thursday than the blog has received this year.

Mostly positive.

Mostly.

But, there were a number of negative emails, mainly the “You suck” kind.

Top 5 opinions about Bittermac:
1. I’m an asshole. (I realize they just “met” me, but the rest of your are laughing at this.)
2. I’m a racist. (Not true. I kind of hate everyone if they’re not my family or at the least Irish.)
3. I’m a misogynist. (Ok, I will give you that one.)
4. I hate children. (GUILTY. Well, not mine, just yours.)
5. I am age discriminatory. (Only if you count my hatred of Kids, Teens, and 20-somethings.)

A number of them had some suggestions about how I could make the blog better.

Here is the least boring 5:
1. I could be more positive. (I could, I just find it boring.)
2. I don’ t need to use so many curse words. (Bite me, and fuck off)
3. I should write blogs about popular causes, like gay rights, or the homeless. (Gay? I don’t tell you what I do and I don’t care what you do. As for the homeless? HAVE YOU READ THIS BLOG? I am ALL about the homeless.)
4. I should have ads to rescue dogs. (Actually considered it. However, I wouldn’t want people to confuse that with a joke.)
5. Stop writing the blog. (I would LOVE to be paroled from this piece of shit some time in the near future.)

To sum it all up, if you are new to the blog, welcome.

Sit down, shut up, read the blog, keep it to yourself and if you really feel a strong urge to chastise me for anything you red?

Bite me.

Picture this.

You are sitting in your house, its early morning, you just finished breakfast and you are thinking about a nap.

One of your room mates suggests you go for a ride.

You don’t really want to go, but what the hell, you didn’t have any plans for this morning other than hanging out, eating and chasing some stray pussy.

You arrive at some generic looking doctors office and go in.

You are not really sure why you are there as they shuttle you thru to a back room.

The shot they give you, they never really explain what it is.

You fall asleep.

And when you wake up, THEY CUT YOUR BALLS OFF!

Think that can’t happen to you?

Happens to thousands yearly.

Happened to my parents dog this morning.

Poor Rocky, your days of staring at some hot bitch thru the fence are over, my man.

And why do this to him? What crime did he commit?

Snuck out of the house to sniff some lace.

Why that dirty bastard!

Why stop at his balls, why not slit his throat, for God’s sake!

Justice seems a little overly dramatic these days.

Karma on steroids, if you will.

Moment of silence for Rocky’s balls. (My Blog, my rules)

Back to the practice of removing the ability to breed by surgery.

I had it done myself.

My vasectomy was something I thought about quite a bit before doing.

Nervous as hell.

Greatest thing I ever did.

I have two kids, and I look at it like a hunter in season.

Bagged my limit, I am done.

And the really weird part is, there were several men who were shocked and confused why I would ever do such a thing.

And all of them did the same thing within 6 months after I did.

Now, a vasectomy is nowhere near as bad as what happened to poor little Rocky.

I just had a snip, they castrated the little shitsu.

Rough trade, for an animal that we claim to love.

Could you imagine the procedure we would come up with if we didn’t like dogs?

Thank God they are no longer as big and vicious as their wolf ancestors.

I can’t imagine how the first dog to have this done felt.

“What the hell did I ever do to you?”

Rocky’s de-balling only took a few minutes of surgery and an hour of recovery, then we took our dazed little dog home.

He has one of those ridiculous plastic cones on his head, to keep him from chewing his stitches.

And even in his groggy, drugged little head, he knows that we did something evil to him.

And he won’t quit staring at me.

Stop it.

It’s a sunshine day!

Several things annoy me about the line above.

The two biggest reasons it bugs me is number one, the Brady Kids sang it and number two, its stuck in my head.

I hate that fucking song.

I hated it when I heard it the first time when I was about 8 years old the first time it came on.

It embodies everything that is evil and dark about music, pop culture and television.

That being said, Marsha Brady was the poor man’s Pamela Anderson back when.

The sexuality was a little more subtle.

The show sucked as a general rule and the writing was the literary equivalent of a pity fuck.

Before I go on a rant, lets reign things in and focus.

I had someone in the past ask me if I could clean up the blog, because when I like it, it sometimes shows up on their Facebook wall and their mother or some small child might read my blog and be offended.

It never even occurred to her that it has ALWAYS been my goal to offend her mother.

Not specifically her, but anyone like her.

Anyone who can raise a mentally challenged girl child and instill her with the morals of a rampant whore and the logic of a retarded Alzheimer’s patient.

I knew this girl back in the days where her nickname was “Partyfavor” and she worked HARD to earn that nickname.

But what happened to her since then?

God only knows.

What was once only damaged is now twisted beyond all belief.

2 divorces and the only comment I ever heard the woman say about her ex’s was “I married well, they were real dumb and super rich.”

Wow.

I have spent 5 minutes trying to rewrite a sentence so it did not contain the “C” word and have found that its beyond me so I erased it.

Anyway, I had not heard from this low-brow harridan in months, when I received a message from her this morning.

Her writing is as poor as her life choices, but essentially, she asked if I could make the blog “Child friendly”.

WTF?

It seems that since she and I are FB friends, if I “Like” something, it sometimes shows up on her newsfeed.

And this is where her mother and small children might follow the link to my website and find out about quacker shits, vile people, and YES, profanity.

First off, what the hell is a small child doing roaming the internet unattended?

For God’s sake, there are sexual predators out there!

And her mother has to be retarded, that is the only thing I have to assume.

So we have unattended Pedo-bait and the retarded breeder that spawned this miserable bitch.

I am still trying to figure out how any of this is my problem.

So, when in doubt, go with what has worked in the past.

Bite me.

Memorial day.
A day of remembrance.
Remembering people who’s life or death provided the freedom we all enjoy, however you view it.
Thanks.
Thats all, I refuse to fuck with or make fun of this.

On other fronts, today is also one of the bigger BBQ days of the year.

Good times to be a carnivore.

I made that comment on Facebook, and had one of those “vegetarian types” that I know say that its also a good day to be a herbivore.

It isn’t, but thats not my job to point out.

Vegetarians have a huge inner conflict because, deep in there heart of hearts, they feel wrong.

The last vegetarian that ever said something like that to me had tears in her eyes not an hour later as she shared a rack of ribs with me.

One report states that 98% of all vegetarians secretly eat meat on a semi regular basis.

But that is not the funny/sad part.

The report further states that only 15% are willing to admit they cheat.

That is a whole lot of denial going on.

Very Sad.

Me? I am an unapologetic carnivore.

I do eat vegetables as a side dish, but never as the main dish.

This is not a superiority thing, its a more in line with nature thing.

Back to the BBQ.

Pork is one of the finer inventions of the Almighty.

Eating baby back ribs is one of the most primal and delicious experiences in life.

Give me a beer, some ribs, cool tunes and the right company and we have a preview of heaven in the afterlife, should I ever clean up my act enough to get there.

A large family BBQ today is exactly what I needed.

For a brief moment, all the tensions of life flow away in the noisy chaos.

Not for everyone, just some of us.

On a side note, I haven’t been reminded about how short I am in quite awhile.

But, today is evidently the day for reminders.

I have a nephew that is 16 and well over 6 foot.

Didn’t come from my side of the family, there isn’t one of us over 5’8, definitely comes from mom’s side.

Anyway, the big kid is a football player, did you see that coming?

So it follows that all of his friends are football players as well.

Not a one under 6 foot.

Including the cook of this sumptuous feast, 6’5 and has a touch with ribs.

Ahhhhh.

There has yet to be a fist fight at one of our family BBQ’s over the years.

The rare shouting match, yes, amateur “Fight Club”, no.

Which is the most bizarre thing.

I am of the personal opinion that a loud, aggressive, “In your face” way of dealing with issues defuses situations before they can build up to dangerous levels.

I call it the “Irish Family Therapy” method.

Its more than a little dysfunctional, but it works, pretty well actually.

More than a few people would disagree.

But they still refuse to spend Christmas with certain members of their family.

I say invite the whole family and put your game face on.

Cause it could get ugly.

Happy Memorial Day.
And Thank You.

I love the beach.

A long walk along the bike path that borders the beach at sunset is incredible.

The sights are incredible, and the smells of the beach always make me feel good.

And then I met Tommy.

Actually, I smelled Tommy before I saw Tommy.

Urine.

That is what assailed my nose, the overwhelming stench of pee-pee.

To put the smell in perspective, if you pee on something and then later on you pee on it again, then give it a day and come back and pee on it a few more times, then take that something and dip it
in a vat of piss.

And then I saw Tommy.

He’s a Hermosa Beach homeless guy.

That means he’s pretty mellow, never aggressive, and smiles at people.

The person I am walking with beelines as far away as she can, her sense of smell is excellent.

I, on the other hand, have had a crappy sense of smell for a long time due to a hockey injury years ago.

“Hey buddy, hows it going?” Tommy starts off nice and friendly, he is a Hermosa Beach homeless, after all.

(The rude or aggressive homeless are run out of town petty quick. Hermosa Beach makes its money as a nightlife/tourist attraction. Anything that hurts that is dealt with.)

Tommy never asks for money, and its one of those things that is a key with me.

Plus he is incredibly articulate.

I give him more than I usually give anyone and head on.

But let me take a moment to explain the smell compared to the intellect.

Tommy was one of the most polite, rational homeless men I have ever talked to.

However, he stinks of piss so strongly, that although I am sure he has some solid BO going on, I cannot smell it over the ammonia stench of urine.

This is not one ripe day of pissing yourself, this is day in, day out, piss upon piss.

But, a surprisingly nice guy.

Moving on. It takes about 5 or so minutes to clear out the sinuses.

But, ironically, I have to pee now.

There is a cinder block building with a peeked roof by the pier, and these are the bathrooms.

Although I have never been in these buildings, I know how bathrooms work.

The toilets are girls on the north side of the building, the boys on the South side.

Each toilet is an individual room, 2 feet wide, by 3 feet long.

Bricks from floor to 10 foot high ceiling.

Only natural light filtering in from the outside.

Stainless steel toilet with no seat.

I am taking a shit in prison.

The only bonus I can see is the fact that the door is locked and I cannot be raped while my pants are down.

But thats the only bonus.

This might be the single most humbling shit I have ever taken.

My knees are together and I am feeling like I am shitting at the bottom of a well.

And Lassy is not bringing help.

The is a certain something that everyone brings to the room when they enter Starbucks.

It is a flavor of sorts and everyone is different.

Some people are like a tonic, soothing and mellow.

They don’t even have to do anything really, just be there.

I am not a big believer in auras, but I also know that I don’t know everything. (Still a hard concept for me)

However, there is another type of personality/aura.

The Tensor.

The Tensor entered the building and half of the customers asses went into full clench.

And a cell phone was involved.

I realize that cell phones are a great invention, communication and all that being a good thing.

But it turns people into different people.

Like this woman.

She is pissed.

It is rare to be able whisper harshly and have it not carry.

Yet this woman is a master at it.

From the second she enters the building, she is whispers screaming at someone on the phone.

And whoever it is they are getting a ration of shit few people ever do.

And the tension is cranking higher and higher the longer she is here. She orders, gets her coffee and leaves in under 5 minutes.

As she walked out thru the door, the guy next to me lets out a breath of air he probably didn’t even realize that he was holding.

And the room relaxed.

Like some sort of aural high colonic that cleared out the backed up waste that had collected over the last 5 minutes.

Whatever, the room is better now that she’s gone.

You have to wonder what sort of life/day/experience would you have to have or be in order to walk thru life with that sort of dead zone surrounding you.

What does she do for a living, though?

This is not someone who is a professional dog groomer.

She is the type that dogs lower their ears when they see her.

Bigger dogs would snap at her.

I am trying and the only thing I can come up with that she might do for a living is to kill small animals with her hands.

I can almost feel the complaint emails being typed as we speak.

Like I always say, don’t bother, I really don’t care and I will ridicule you in public if I can.

I am sort of a rotten child that way.

However, I am fairly harmless as far as pure evil goes so I figure I am flying under the karmic radar for the most part.

But I find myself strangely fascinated by this vile woman.

You have to wonder about her partner, man or woman, that has to put up with that.

Here is a sample conversation from my head:

“Hi honey, how was your day?”
“bite me. grumble grumble grumble.”
“What would you like for dinner?”
“Eat shit! mutter mutter mutter.”
“How about we go out for Chinese?”
“I will eat your soul, motherfucker!”
At this point she sprouts fangs, claws and bat wings.
(Sorry, saw Armies of Darkness over the weekend. My head is stuck there.)

I am willing to concede that end of the day chatter doesn’t go down that way in their house.

But you never know.

If it seems like I am complaining a lot about other peoples kids, I guess its because I do.

But, dammit, some of these little bastards have it coming.

I have never been one to gush over babies or children, on tv or otherwise, unless I am related to them.

To be blunt, the fastest way to make my teeth itch, (Sure sign of annoyance and distaste) is to proclaim that “All babies are beautiful.”

All of them?

Let’s not go crazy here.

Let’s say we made a rating scale for baby beauty, 1 thru 10.

Then we rated all babies.

At the end of it you would have a list of all your 10’s, the pretty babies.

But at the other end of that scale are the babies that, by process of elimination, are the ugliest.

It is what it is.

And its a whole other argument about your kid being stupid.

And before you say, “How can you say a baby is stupid? They don’t know anything.”

Wrong.

There is the baby of a friend of mine that all but put his eye out by jamming something into it.

3 times.

There have also been numerous instances that they baby gouged his own flesh with various implements during his infancy.

This is a dumb baby.

And I think that is something we need to get out in the open.

There are some kids that are either dumb, or ugly.

And if your kid is both, you’re just fucked.

That is not a kind thing to say, but I am not in the “Kind” business.

Not my job.

You want bullshit or sugar coating, talk to the child’s mother or grandmother.

Now THAT is a delusional bunch.

Or at least the majority are.

Case in point: (And you just KNEW that was coming.)

There is a wharf rat in a diaper running around Starbucks this morning.

3 years old, maybe 4.

Not in a diaper, per se, but there was a suspiciously crinkly pair of little kid pants on him.

And after watching this little warg running loose for a few minutes, I would not be shocked to find out that he occasionally shits himself.

Mom is not much better.

She is the epitome of the MMF.

The Manhattan Money Frau is a species of parent that I despise as a general rule.

Usually their only contribution to parenting was laying prone at conception, beyond that, these bitches can’t be bothered.

Nothing gets in the way of texting and yoga.

And God help us all when the children of these half-tarded robo-blondes hit the world.

But lets get back to the kid.

There is obnoxious cute and then there is obnoxious bad.

Obnoxious bad is our atmosphere right now.

It all starts with a slap.

The child, let’s call him Warg, shall we?

Anyway, Warg first came to my attention when he was running and fell.

And it wasn’t like a little kid falling because he is still new to the whole walking thing.

He was running along and one leg just locked up.

Went stiff and straight and he took a header to the left.

He skidded about 3 feet, thankfully not hitting anyone.

Mom never caught it, despite that fact that the entire room stopped moving.

And then the crying began.

It was like a goat being fed into a wood chipper, the noise is disturbing and each cry is louder and scarier than the last.

And now mom is involved, but she really resents it.

“Oh god, Warg, come here.” (Ok, she said Thomas, but I heard Warg)

He stands, crinkly paints and all. (And they ARE diapers underneath. At some point he has peed himself, his pants have swelled. I am not shocked.)

Mom squats down and doesn’t really check out if he is hurt, just has a face to face with him in what appears to be simply telling him to shut up.

Great, way to go, Mom.

But the slap caught all of us watching off guard.

Warg, it seems, has had enough of her shit.

His chubby little hand smacked her squarely on the cheek.

He obviously has a future in domestic violence.

But, before she can do anything about Warg’s somewhat clumsy fistcuffs, he takes off.

What happened next was both painful to watch and an epic fail.

He runs as fast possible across the room, chubby little legs churning.

Right into the door, as full speed.

I am shocked that he didn’t go right thru it.

What followed was a lot of mayhem and shrieking.

God help the world if Warg makes it out of adolescence alive.