Tag Archives: children

The Very Worst Driving Instructor In The World (Me!)

6 Dec

The teenage boy is learning to drive.

I’m not helping.

At all.

I’m a bundle of nerves every time I give him the keys. I would prefer that the car be like the Flintstone mobile so I could slam my feet through the non-existent floorboard every time I feel like he is getting to close to another car.

Flintstone_Mobile

Yabba Dabba…slow down we are going to hit that car!

Sample conversation:

Me: OK, make sure you look left, right, behind you, straight ahead…watch for cars just suddenly pulling out…watch for helicopters…

Teenager: OK.

Me: Watch for semi-trucks. Semi-trucks will squash us like a bug.

Teenager: Got it, Dad, semi-trucks are bad.

Me: And taxi cabs. Taxi cabs are dicks.

Teenager: Right, taxi cabs are dicks.

Me: Hey! Watch your language! OK, now don’t get too close to the car in front of us and don’t stay too far behind it either, watch that car on the side of us…are you drifting in the other lane? I feel like your drifting…

Teenager: I’m not drifting, Dad. I’m clearly in my own lane.

Me: Maybe we should drive more in our own lane, like on the sidewalk. The sidewalk is safe. Drive on the sidewalk!

Teenager: I can’t drive on the sidewalk!

Me: No, no…you’re right. Better let me drive now, the traffic is getting bad.

Teenager: We haven’t even left the Target parking lot.

This parking lot is a little too full of cars for me to take the teenager to practice in.

This parking lot is a little too full of cars for me to take the teenager to practice in. We will have to find somewhere else.

I know, I know, I need to relax. I don’t remember my Dad freaking out as much as I do when he taught me to drive…but then again he might have been drunk. You know, it was a different time…seat belts cost extra in most cars. As a matter of fact, one of the cars my Dad owned didn’t even have a front seat. We sat on the floor and avoided the rusted out hole in it.

The major problem is that I’m in Orlando, one of the worst states for road rage and home to about 50 million lost tourists.

Where the hell is Disney?!

Where the hell is Disney located?! I don’t see a castle anywhere on this map!

I learned to drive in the great winding empty country roads of Ohio.

*singing* Country Road, take me home, to the place where I belong, no teenage drivers, mountain mama, take me home!

*singing* Country Road, take me home, to the place where I belong, no teenage drivers, mountain mama, take me home…

I know my screaming like a little girl doesn’t help his confidence. He is actually doing a pretty good job. Orlando is a tough place to drive. Besides the lost tourists, there is a mixture of cultures to contend with, each thinking they own the road, many, many, so many buses, those dick taxis, and a city that grew faster than it’s roadways can handle.

I don’t think I would want to learn to drive here.

I have been kicked off driving instruction duty, the wife is now in charge of teaching the teenager.

I’m also not allowed to cover the car in bubble wrap anymore.

And I’m suppose to replace the headliner of the car where I ripped it to shreds Wolverine style every time we came to a stop that I felt was too close.

I have also been told telling the boy it’s time for his driving lesson if he can find the car keys which I have buried somewhere in the tri-county area is not a good motivational game, and the fact that I created an old timey pirate treasure map to pin point the location of the keys does not count as helpful.

And finally if I’m going to take apart the engine, pretending it’s “broken”, I should learn how to put it back together again.

Truth be told…I can’t wait until he learns to drive so I can send him on errands…so many errands….

*evil laughter, wringing of hands, pulling on invisible curly mustache*

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A Seven Year Old Writes My Blog Today

2 Dec

Me: What should I write about?

Seven Year Old: NOTHING!…The Night Before Christmas!….Duffy!…I DON’T KNOW! I’m out! Wait! Watch me jump rope!

*grabs jump rope and jumps for three seconds*

Daddy, I want a phone for Christmas! Can I go play with Whitney? I’m hungry. Can I have some Oreos? Do you know what? I liked Frozen. Do you know what my favorite part of the movie was? When she was knocking, and the snowman said, ‘Is she going to knock? She probably doesn’t know how too.’ That was funny. Here is a fake lemon. Don’t eat it, it’s fake. Can I watch TV? Is Dog with a Blog on? When’s Christmas? Do I have to go to school tomorrow? Fa la la la la LA LA LA! I like spaghetti. Can we have spaghetti for dinner. Where is Mommy? MOMMY! Oh, there’s Mommy. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Mommy, can we have spaghetti for dinner? Let’s play restaurant. What do you want to order? We have Fruit Salad and Fruit Cocktail. The Fruit Salad has a lot of strawberries in it and the Fruit Cocktail only has a little bit of strawberries in it. I like Fruit Salad. Can I play on the Playstation? Whitney has the new XBox. XBox is a funny word. When’s dinner? Can we have Fruit Salad for dinner? Watch me jump rope!

*grabs jump rope and jumps for two seconds*

I want some yellow pants. Will you buy me some yellow pants? Whitney has yellow pants. Do you know what’s funny? Chocolate mousse! How can a moose be chocolate? I like Skittles. Mommy likes Sour Patch Kids and you like Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. Why do you like zombies? I hate zombies! I hate math. Do you know what would be a yummy? Chocolate moose cupcake! But don’t get the antlers suck in your mouth! HAHAHAHA! What do you think Grandma is doing right now? Watch me jump rope!

*grabs jump rope and throws it across the room*

HAHAHAHA! Daddy! The screen on your computer is still blank! Why aren’t you writing anything? You could write about my Furby! He is funny! He has no batteries. I need batteries. Daddy, why are you holding your head in your hands? Do you have a headache? I once had a headache. Hey, my tooth is loose! Look, Daddy! Look at my loose tooth!

*wiggles tooth*

Daddy, are you going to write anything? The screen is still blank. That line thing keeps blinking. Daddy, why did you put your head on the keyboard? HAHAHAHA! You wrote a bunch of D’s with your head! DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD! I can write the word Dog and Cat and Toe….

Daddy?

Are you going to write something?

A Tale Of Love Lost In Forty-Seven Acts Condensed Into One

21 Oct

The bug hit the car’s windshield with as mighty of a thud as a bug hitting a windshield could make. It’s guts spreading flat against the smooth glass creating a kaleidoscope of brownish-grey-green hues across it’s surface. In an instant, the driver of the car, a Mr. Alan Furlow, hit the windshield wiper fluid and the blue liquid squirted the messy guts away. Well, not really away, the guts now congealed on the windshield wipers as they waved back and forth, back and forth, way much too long over the arch of the windshield.

What was really unusual and quite coincidental about this bug was that his name was also Mr. Alan Furlow. The driver, Mr Alan Furlow, had no way of knowing that he just accidentally killed and washed away his bug doppelganger, Mr. Alan Furlow, thus giving him a pass on Bad Karma’s ugly head intervening in on his day, but it also didn’t change the fact that this death still occurred.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the driver not the bug, suddenly felt the need to step on the gas petal harder. The car protested for half a second and then sputtered five pistons faster. Alan felt the hairs on his neck rise, but he didn’t know what that meant. He scratched the back of his hand absently.

Half way around the world, Mr. Alan Furlow’s true love, a Miss Margery Pinklestein, also absently scratched the back of her hand. Mr. Alan Furlow and Miss Margery Pinklestein had never met, no would they ever meet, for they were doomed from their birth to wander the Earth without each other. In a weird twist of fate, the bug versions of Mr. Alan Furlow and Margery Pinklestein had met and were in fact, married. Margery of course, was now a widow, although at this moment she didn’t realize it. Currently she was sitting in their 4 bedroom dung hole assuming that Mr. Alan Furlow, the bug, not the driver of the car, had been distracted…again…on his way to the big sunflower with which she had tasked him to collect some pollen for dinner. Margery, the bug, not the hand scratching human half way around the world, was planning on making her famous Sunflower loaf in celebration of his recent promotion from poop roller to poop scout.

Meanwhile Margery Pinklestein, the person, not the widowed bug, had nothing of interest going on this day and will not be talked about again in this diatribe.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the driver, not the dead bug who will not be dining on Sunflower loaf this evening, nor will he be bragging to his friends at the stagnant water hole about his recent pay raise, decided to go through the drive thru of his favorite burger place; Colonel King Burger. The sales promotion of the month was the Double Loaf Burger. Mr. Alan Furlow purchased one of these and drove away. As he unwrapped his Double Loaf Burger from the greasy wax paper, his heart felt heavy. A single tear leaked from his tear hole and slalomed it’s way down his chubby cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and thought nothing of it. He sighed and also thought nothing of that as well.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the living not the dead, finished his loaf, and while licking his greasy  fingers tossed the wax paper into the backseat of his car. It landed on top of a pile of many other Colonel King Burger wrappers. It disturbed a family of bugs whom Mommy Bug had just given birth to a litter of 50 brand new spanking baby bugs.

And she was debating naming one of them Alan.

(Their last name was Hippensnatch so it didn’t mean much, but you know…whatever.)

~Fin~

The Seven Year Old Learns To Text

18 Oct

The seven year loves to text. She texts from her ipod. She is still learning to read and write. (Like her Daddy.) Her best texts always come when she is upstairs and supposed to be sleeping.

hhj

Yes, I allow her to fall asleep to the TV. The frowny face is like the Bat Signal to something drastically wrong. In this case the TV was merely on the wrong channel, thus not allowing the ever present Disney Channel to lullaby her to sleep.

werer

She got in trouble and was sent to her room. The modern parent texts her child when the punishment is over. I’m not sure what the double J is suppose to represent, and I’m not sure why I got a frowny face after I said she could come out. I should have gotten multiple happy faces. If this kid is going to make it in this modern age, she better step it up!

hgghjg

My daughter has invented a new emoticon the winky frown.It cracks me up every time I see it. At the end she is asking for her stuffed bear, Duffy. ;(

jkhkjh

The master of the winky frown strikes again. ;(

fdsgsdfg

She is very inventive with her emoticons. I like the second to the last one. I call it the Fu Man Chu. :(-

dsfgfdg

Awwww! What a good kid! No J, thacker you!

Those Insensitive Children’s Games We Played

3 Oct

Play time is different for kid’s nowadays. Gone are the times when your parents would kick you out of the house armed with only a ball and your bike, and you wouldn’t see each other until dinner.

Friday was meatloaf night, I was always late on Friday night.

Imagination and pick-up games ruled the neighborhood. Everyone would meet at the “spot.” And the “spot” was different per social class child gang.  Our “spot” was a cleared out field that was going to be developed into houses as soon as the plots of land were bought. In the background stood the forest which was only  a few hundred feet of uncleared woods, but at 10 years old, perfect for building a tree fort or going hiking without any fear of getting lost forever like Hansel and Gretel…the Brothers Grimm version, not the weird movie remake.

Two other important differences from the way children play today.

One:

There was a clear cut winner, whether it was an individual or team sport. Not everyone had an equal chance of winning. It did depend on your skill. If you swung and missed the ball three times with your bat, you sat down, you were out. You didn’t keep swinging until you eventually hit the ball. Often if you were the kid that sucked at baseball, you were the kid that was King of dangerous homemade bike ramp jumping.

Two:

For better or for worse the names of the games were not always politically correct. No one seemed to notice or care. Two prime examples from my childhood was: Smear the Queer and Black Man’s Tag.

If you are unfamiliar with the game Smear The Queer, the rules are simple. Throw the ball in the air and whoever catches has to run without being tackled. This could be played with any number of kids from 2 to 200. There is no designated place to run to, you just keep going until A) you’re tired or B) you’re tackled. If you get tackled then you throw the ball in the air and it starts all over again.

The great thing about this game: no thinking required. A helmet should have been required, it wasn’t, but definitely thinking went out the door. Your caveman instinct of survival kicked in and you just ran and ran until your friends piled on top of you like fat kids on the last Klondike bar.

For most, the offensive word in this game is Queer.  But I think the scarier word is actually; Smear. Think about how you would Smear something. Now think about violently Smearing something…or someone. Queer could be derogatory or empowering depending on how you say it. (Think Queer Eye For The Straight Guy) However, Smearing is Smearing, and there is no coming back from a proper Smearing whether your finger painting or recreating a Slasher movie.

In Black Man’s Tag the basic concept was that one person was “It”, and would tag the other players who were running back and forth between two safe zones. If you got tagged, you would join the “It” person and help them tag people until their was only one left, which was usually my friend Gilbert. He was damn fast. He was German. I don’t know if that is what made him so fast, but I think Germans played around with genetic enhancing during Word War II.

He may have been a by product of that.

We played this in the school’s parking lot with each end of it being the safe zones. You could not be tagged in the safe zone. If only big cities worked this way too.

sdfs

A Simple graph for visualization.

I don’t know why it was called Black Man’s tag. Never really thought about the name until I became an adult. I had Black friends who played it. They never said anything about the name either.

“Hey, why does it have to be Black Man’s tag, why can’t it be Island Pacificer Tag? Or Spanish-American-Croatian Tag? Huh? Racist!”

The names of both of these games could admittedly have been chosen better. Maybe Black Man’s Tag could have been renamed Zombie Tag and Smear The Queer could have been renamed Rugby.

But as a kid it didn’t matter what the name of the game was, we just wanted to play.

Good job Gilbert, you genetically enhanced bastard. Good job.

The Air Vent

29 Jul

(This is fiction.)

I was 6, my brother was 10, and we had the whole house to ourselves. Grandma and Mom were at the restaurant getting it ready for the morning crowd. The crowd wasn’t very large, maybe 10 to 15 people at the most, but it was enough to keep the business alive. Those who came, came for the biscuits and gravy.  Grandma was known for her famous biscuits and gravy in at least a three county radius.

We would have about 4 hours in between being checked on through the day to fill with whatever adventures I would device for us to do. The restaurant was just a stone’s throw away from the house so we could not get to crazy.  My brother being the oldest was in charge of me, and I being of little attention span was in charge of figuring out what we were going to do that day. Luckily my brother was game for whatever I could come up with, even if that meant being Barbie’s best friend for an hour.

The house was old, with creaky wooden floors and yellowing wallpaper peeling at the corners. Grandma was frugal with the air conditioning, so the house would heat up slowly throughout the day. She seemed to have it down to a science when to pop the air conditioner on the give just enough relief to the dwellers as to not turn them into melted pools of human laziness. In the older houses the air vents were in the floors as oppose to the ceilings of modern structures. The air would kick on with a ticking noise, and then a grunt from the house as if it was so inconvenienced by the thought of cooling off it’s occupants.  Then with a strong whoosh the floor would blow sweet cooling relief strong enough (in a 6 year old’s mind) to float on to the heavens.

We would grab one of Grandma’s good top sheets from the bed whenever we hear the telltale ticking and run to the nearest vent. My brother and I would duck ourselves under the sheet, holding all four corners down between us as the air would start it’s travel from unknown origins of the inner house workings and into our sheet. The sheet would fill with air encasing us in some sort of air igloo. Our skin would goose bump with the cool air and I would watch the sheet rise as it filled. We had about 10 minutes to cool down and exchange stories in our air tent. My brother’s would always be about pirates or dragons or cars, typical boy stuff. Mine would be about princesses, my future jobs, and how to care and raise unicorns. We would listen to each other’s stories with faked interest if we had too. That was the number one rule of the air tent. No fighting. We couldn’t waste the time with fighting.

I loved the days of staying at my Grandma’s. It felt like we had a freedom there not afforded to most kids our age. I was allowed to let my imagination take over and fill our days with adventures and games.

When we got older, Grandma sold the restaurant when her old bones wouldn’t let her stir the batter to make those famous tri-county  biscuits anymore. My brother and I stopped playing in the air vents eventually. Now when we would visit Grandma we would sit at the dinning room table with the adults and listen to adult topics like changing car batteries, the weather, and stories of the restaurant regulars.

However, whenever the air would kick on in the house, I would look at my brother, and he at me, and we would smile.

Long Awkward Pause – A New Adventure In Blogging

18 Jul

In lieu of reblog Thursday, I have some exciting news.

I’m announcing the birth of a new, exciting, epic, original, ingenious, bold, spicy, operatic, collaborative masterpiece:

Long Awkward Pause!

What is Long Awkward Pause you may ask…and even if you didn’t ask, you may ask after you recover from your excitement over this announcement.

(I will wait until you pick yourself up off the floor, dust your pants off, and compose yourself thus-ly.)

Long Awkward Pause is a humor magazine collaboration between myself, Blurt, B.L.O.G., Monk Monkey, and Ramblings Of An Apathetic Adult Baby. We will take reader submitted topics  and write about them either once or twice a month depending on schedule, earth rotation, Chick-fil-a openings, births, deaths, oil changes, and other such hazards of the blog world.

I’m really excited to work with these guys, and I hope you’ll be just as excited to read our stuff. And if your not excited, at least tell your friends how not excited you are about this site, and how they should check it out for themselves.

You can view  the site, here. Don’t forget to follow, pretty please. Currently the site is just featuring reblogs of us, the actual first post will be on or around Aug. 2nd. It’s a topic submitted by Jo Ellen of Two On A Rant and it’s a tasty one. Feel free to fill out the form on the about page and suggest your own musings.

For everyone who follows, you will receive one free email notification!

awkward2

Dear…Sincerely

10 Jun

Dear Candy Crush,

Playing Level 65 a thousand times without beating it is not fun!

Sincerely,

Not Spending Any Money On Charms You Bastard!

—–

Dear 6 Year Old,

I’m changing my name so you can’t call it a million times an hour.

Sincerely,

Mxyzptlk-ya-gowkza (Formally Known As Dad)

—–

Dear Game Of Thrones,

All you have done is talk for 9 episodes, and now we are going to make it exciting?!

Sincerely,

Smells Like Boardwalk Empire

—–

Dear Fart,

Your timing sucks!

Sincerely,

She Is Not Impressed With My Lovemaking Skills

—–

Dear Lazy People,

TV Remotes, Dishwashers, Car Clickers, ATMs, Cell Phones, Sporks

Sincerely,

The Spork Is Underrated

—–

Dear Iphone 6,

We have already released our phone so you could copy the features and make everyone buy new phones again. You’re welcome.

Sincerely,

Galaxy 4s

—–

Dear TV Executives,

Sleepy Hollow, Hannibal, Bates Mates…recycling at it’s best.

Sincerely,

That Does Nothing To Save The Planet

—–

Dear Three Blind Mice,

Sorry to hear your tails got cut off.

Sincerely,

1-800-Find-A-Lawyer

—–

Dear Eminem,

It would be cool if you were a TV advertising spokesperson. Just saying.

Sincerely,

M&M’s

—–

Dear Every Light On In The House,

Kids…Why? Is This Necessary?

Sincerely,

Thanks For Making Me Sound Like My Dad

BrainRants vs The Zombies

10 May

 BrainRants is a solider who has been deployed to Afghanistan and fellow blogger. I dedicate this story to him and all the soldiers fighting for us. This is written in a style similar to his blog…a warning to anyone with a sensitive inner monologue.

I have been wanting to write an Army/Zombie story for awhile, so here it is:

(And my apologizes to any inaccuracies to the United States Army, Army slang, and ranks.. I have never been in the military services, and my research was kind of hurried.)

—————————————————-

My chopper touched down at the LZ, which means Landing Zone for all you non-army do gooders back home. I had barely been able to take one fucking boot off the damn thing when the greenest of the green corporals comes running up to me.

“General, wants to see you immediately!” this piss-ant shouts over the roar of the decapitating head choppers above us.

Shit! Already?!

“Can I get off the damn whirly bird first?!” I shout back, mustering the urge to verbally assault this guy back to butt-fuck Iowa or wherever the hell he was from. I know he was only the messenger but I was a little cranky from my 7 days of piss, shit, and hell to get to this dust bowl. I guess that’s no excuse to take it out on what was probably a WOG* in military’s clothing.

“Yes sir!” WOG-y yells back and heads in the direction of the barracks where the General and hopefully a plate of fried chicken were awaiting me.

I follow.

I thought I would be able to stow my bags first, but this is the army, and that’s not how things always work.

As I enter the barracks, Corporal WOG does all the proper saluting and announcing and all that army formal stuff.

The General points to a chair in front of his desk, “At ease, sit down please.”

I sit.

“Right to the point. Classified,” the General starts. “There is a new threat here in Afghanistan. We recently learned that certain sanctions of the government were experimenting with chemical warfare. I think you can see where this is going.”

“You want me to a lead a team and take out some sort of chemical plant. Shut it down for good. No problem.” I say and smile.

The General frowns.

“Normally yes, however this chemical they produced was suppose to kill soldiers…which it does…except they come back to life.”

I start laughing, “Good one. No disrespect sir, but I think the flies have finally burrowed and laid eggs in your brain. Wait…is this a joke? Who is the fucking numbskull that thinks I would fall for that shit?”

“No joke,” the General replies with a stone face and hands me five pictures. Each picture shows several soldiers, that looked like your stereotypical movie zombie, except dressed in Afghanistan garb. Two of the pictures instantly bored the most horrific image into my brain, never to be forgotten. They showed zombie soldiers ripping apart a local woman. Her guts laid out in the street behind her like a forgotten string of sausages, as they dipped their grey fingers into her open chest cavity.

“What the fuck?!” I yell.

“The zombies are running rampart on the streets of Kabul. Your leading a squad in, and killing with extreme prejudice.”

————————————————

The rest of the fucking conversation you would not be interested in, beside I don’t have time to bring you up to speed on how the military operates.

Just know, we know what we are doing, and we do it well. It doesn’t matter if it is the Taliban, or zombies, or fucking Chicken Little and the Backstreet Boys, we will execute and destroy.

Fuckin’ A.

I will also spare you the details of briefing the team and pulling all that shit together. It doesn’t work like a Bruce Willis/Rambo movie, and I don’t have 3 close and lovable, but expendable friends to help me either…like the guy who makes everyone laugh, the guy with a girl back home that gets killed thirty minutes into the fight, or the guy that knows every weapon known to man and how to use them.

Save that bullshit for the theaters.

It is just us, our training, and our tanks.

————————————————

Luckily for us the zombie outbreak was just off the Kabul-Pagman Road, around the Amiri Market. A perimeter had been set-up of about 5 square miles. Our job: roll in, kill the zombies, and save the women and children. Another team would enter when we were done to examine and burn the bodies.

Yea, fuck my life. If you had asked me if I ever thought after joining the army I would be on Zombie patrol, I would have spit my beer in your face and called you fucking crazy-ass-batshit-crazy. That’s not Army lingo, that’s fucking poetic.

We were trained to kill soldiers and I guess it doesn’t matter whether they were alive or zombie soldiers.

“Aim for the head boys,” I said to myself and snickered.

“What did you say sir?” a newbie sitting next to me in the Humvee asked.

I looked at him and smiled. I pronounced each word slowly and carefully, “Aim…For…The…Fucking…Head!”

“Oh, yeah. Right sir!”

Shut the fuck up.

————————————————

The plan was simple. Mow down any zombies with Tanks and Humvees to start. Come in on foot in squads and kill the stragglers. We knew this wasn’t going to work efficiently or even kill a tenth of the zombies. Too many locals, the streets are too narrow, you don’t know who is alive, who is dead until you are right on top of them….and about 78 other fucking reasons this plan wouldn’t work.

I’m squad Alpha, one of twelve teams of five.

Search and destroy.

On my fucking mark.

————————————————

The Tank and Humvees did almost nothing. I knew it was a bad plan, but on paper it made sense. On paper everything makes sense whether you are the United States Army or your local cock sucker manager of a Burger King.

Myself and my team of four were on the move. We were picking off the zombies right and left, making good time through the mess of cars, over turned market tables, and buildings so close together you didn’t know where one ended and another one began.

The zombies had spread there bite. There was as many civilian zombies as their were soldier zombies. The women were the hardest to kill…mentally. I kept telling myself, they are no longer human…they are dead…dead and walking….walking dead….

“Sir!” a private from Indiana yells. I forget his name. I don’t want him to interrupt my thoughts again, and I am about to let him have the full rantings from my brain when I notice him pointing.

He is pointing out a small boy.

The boy is holding his arm like it had been broken.

But it clearly is not broken…it’s bit.

Fuck-me-son-of-a-mother-shit-bag!

“Sir!” Indiana yells again.

“What?!” I yell.

“I…I can’t shoot a child. I can’t shoot….” he stammers.

“Yeah,” I snarl.

“What should we do? We can’t just leave him. He is going to turn into….into…”

“A zombie,” I finish for him, like it’s a dirty word. Of course it’s not a dirty word, it’s just a word you don’t use outside of TV, Movies, and fucking Dungeon and Dragon masturbation festivals.

I sling off my pack and fish for the first aid kit with one hand and wave the kid over with the other. The kid comes willingly. Army soldiers are as close to Disney World as these children are ever going to get.

“Did you get bit?” I ask the kid. Some understand English, so don’t. The kid nods. I see sweat beads forming on his brow and you can feel the heat coming off his skin without even touching it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I start to wrap his arm.

“Are you in pain?” I ask.

He shakes his head no.

As if on cue about 7 zombies burst from a nearby alleyway, see us, and start shimming our way.

I grab the kid. My squad just stares at me.

“Do you guys think you might want to point those fucking pea shooters at the zombies…and I don’t know…shoot the living shit out of them?” I ask as nice as I can muster.

My squad fires, killing all the zombies efficiently, and we fall back. We head back to Point Zero were we left the Tanks and Humvees. I carry the soon to be zombie kid all the way.

————————————————

First Lieutenant Douche Bag (I forget his name too) sees us immediately as we approach. I can see the fucking frown on his face a mile away.

The kid in my arms fell unconscious a while back. I see the Lieutenant’s eyes looking at the wrapped arm, which has since bled through and is now dripping pus.

“Why did you bring that child back?!” the Lieutenant barks at me. “No survivors was the order!”

“He is just a fucking kid,” I say unflinching. “I’m not here to kill kids. Maybe we can give him some sort of treatment.”

The Lieutenant shakes his head.

“There is no cure.”

I just look at him. I want to fucking punch him even though I know it’s not his fault. I shouldn’t think those thoughts. I know he could possibly punish me for breaking orders, for bringing an infested human being into our safe zone…I have to remember we are both just doing our jobs.

That’s how I earn my coin.

Sometimes it’s a hard coin to earn.

Fuck.

“Can we put him to sleep…like medically?” I ask.

The Lieutenant looks at me and says nothing. I see in his inner eyeball this thought: Have you never watched a fucking zombie movie in your life? They come back from the dead, the only way to send them back to the dead is a shot in the head. It’s the only fucking way, dumbass! 

“Sure!” Lieutenant Douche says much too loud and calls medical over.

The medics take the kid from my arms. It is a relief because I think if I held him any longer the heat from his body would catch my clothes on fire.

The Lieutenant whispers something in one of the medics ear. He thinks I didn’t notice, but I did.

“Thank you sir,” I say, salute and turn and head towards the water station just as I hear the single shot and the unmistakable sound of bullet and skull plate connecting.

I stop and hang my head.

Some days I hate my fucking  job.

*WOG – With Out Guts

Dinner With The Angry Family

16 Apr

YOU BURNT THE ROAST AGAIN! THIS IS THE SIMPLEST DISH IN THE WORLD TO MAKE…THROW IT IN THE CROCK POT, PRESS A BUTTON, AND YOUR DONE! HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO BURN IT EVERY TIME?!

IF YOUR SUCH A MASTER CHEF, MR. BALD-GORDON-RAMSEY, THEN YOU COOK DINNER!

I WOULD STILL HAVE MY HAIR IF I WASN’T MARRIED TO YOU!

CAN’T WE, FOR ONCE, HAVE A PLEASANT MEAL WITHOUT ALL THE FIGHTING?!

I JUST WANT TO EAT MY PEAS IN PEACE!

CAN SOMEONE FEED THE BABY, PLEASE?!

WHY ARE YOU PEOPLE SO SELFISH?! MY GIRLFRIEND JUST DUMPED ME AND YOU PEOPLE CARE ABOUT IS SOME CHEAP BURNT MEAT?!

DID YOU SAY YOUR GIRLFRIEND DUMPED YOU?! ARE YOU SAYING YOU’RE A LESBIAN?!

DON’T YOU DARE SAY THAT MEAT IS CHEAP! 

ARE YOU LISTENING?! OUR DAUGHTER IS A LESBIAN!

WHY DON’T YOU REALIZE HOW HOT THAT IS DAD?!

WHY CAN’T YOU PEOPLE EXCEPT ME FOR WHO I AM?!

CAN SOMEONE FEED THE BABY, PLEASE?!

WOOF!

MEOW!

If one of you don’t mind…can somebody change my litter please? It’s been like four months…

I’M GOING TO EAT THE HAMSTER IF SOMEONE DOESN’T FEED ME SOON!

*gulp*

And scene.