Whatever I was just going to write has gone out of my head.
Loud, piercing shrieks will do that to you.
I am in a Starbucks that sits on a shady side of town.
I once heard the gang-tatted cashier say she would “Cut a bitch” here.
And there is a child on the verge of shitting himself here.
And mom is the type of passive, don’t want to make a scene, absolute shit parent that just stands and watches.
I hate this child.
I have no idea what his name is.
Usually, when a child is throwing a spoiled brat tantrum, mom will at least say their name in an attempt to break their concentration.
Not this lady.
And she isn’t even ignoring him.
She is just standing there watching, doing nothing.
The least she could do would be to beat this little bastard half to death.
Here is a short list of why she should.
1. While screaming hysterically, he emptied an entire shelf of 1 pound coffee bean bags. (Mom did not pick them up, she is just staring.)
2. He took a USA Today newspaper from the rack and tore it to pieces, all while shrieking. (The basic social contract demands that she offer to pay for it. Shit mom has yet to offer.)
3. He just pissed himself. (And, despite his obvious control issues, he is not in pull ups, and it looks like he did it on purpose.)
If that were me, and my mother were here, the police would be feeding her into the back of a patrol car in cuffs and the manager would be trying to figure out how to get my blood off of the ceiling.
And rightfully so.
I am not advocating beating your kids, but please beat your kids.
On another note, I had a total stranger carve into my for a few hours and the end result is a rather awesome tattoo.
25 years ago, in my tragic early 20’s, I got the worst tattoo I have ever seen.
A guy that claimed to have worked at a really good tattoo parlor, had left his shop and was doing tattoos out of his house to make rent.
I decided on a tribal Celtic sun.
It looked awesome on the page with some nice knot work.
It wasn’t until the asshole had been carving into my arm for about 40 minutes that he confessed that my tattoo was the most complicated thing he had ever attempted and that he hadn’t been an artist at his last shop, he had been an assistant.
He probably was one of those little kids that would throw tantrums and mom never beat him.
So he grows up and absolutely fucks up other peoples flesh.
So I had this piece of crap riding my arm for 25 years.
But no more.
I had my new artist cover it up with a flawlessly done Celtic knotwork shield.
Couldn’t be happier.
Let that be a lesson to us all.
You don’t have to let one shitty act fuck up a part of your life forever.
If element of your past doesn’t suit, change it.
There you go, Bittermac the philosopher.