For the Kids, & all you Crack-Babies

Hello kids. How's the day? Yes, this post is for you.

Wondering if you're a kid?... Well, rest assured - you are; and, if you're not, the situation can be rectified quickly by shoving your thumb into your mouth.

This will be short, so whatever remnants you have from June's bagged lunch, please, feel free to finish them off over this short entry.

Firstly, we're going to have babies. Cockapoo babies - two of them. This is the same type of dog that Molly was, and I think things will turn out nicely. They'd better, anyway.

Second, I've incurred some cost since last time I posted [ed. note: and this before even starting construction on my two lemonade stand props.. shit.].

Last week, and after having been to the dentist multiple [read: multiple] times for fillings in the past few months, I had a root canal. Let me tell you about it.

It wasn't that bad.

People all over the planet would rather call Mr. T a "fucking faggot" to his face than have a root canal yet, for some reason, it's no worse than a filling. This got me thinking: what in sweet Louisiana could be so bad about the process?

And then the bill came in.

(cue "cha-ching" noise)

Root canals, on average cost a whopping $1000 but, thanks to a little black market dentistry I managed to finnagle a total much less than that.

Then, not to be outdone by the bastard known as root canal, my automotive needs spiked this week in an unprecedented move market analysts are calling "fucking shitty." But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Leaving the destist's parking lot I noticed Cop on Bicycle [yes, on a pedal bike]. He was stopped, leaning over on one foot talking with a pre-teen mother and her cracked out baby; no doubt some pressing police matter given the number of slave-children drug-traffickings we've seen in recent months.

I rolled by, casually, and he looked my way [probably more out of fear for his safety given the wirey aluminum frame he sat upon]. Fifteen or twenty feet after Cop on Bicycle were another couple pre-teen mothers and their crack-babies walking along the sidewalk. Now, I'm driving - a big, synthetic materials car - minding my own business when, for no apparent reason, one kid starts tugging his mother out into the road as if to cross. Immediately I get onto the brakes, slowing considerably, so as not to dent my fender on this clearly ignorant child.

The kid makes several back and forth motions, no doubt trying to decide if he should continue crossing, or if there is a fraction of a chance that his shit will get ruined right there in the middle of the street. Because of his angst, I too am letting on and off the brakes wondering if, indeed, this child has the mental capacity of a peanut and will continue in front of this big moving object or, conversely, if he's got enough crack in his system to whisk him to the other side at a rate fast enough to give Clark Kent wood.

For fear of the former I stop entirely, frustrated by the fact that I've already had to think this much. Pre-teen Mother #1 stares at me with a look like I just humped a midget, and I stared right back at her like she and her Crack-Baby were new to the concept of "car." So I stopped, waved them infront of me just hoping that I would be far from their stench soon, and happened to look in my side mirror. Cop on Bike is striding over, catches my eye in the mirror and yells, from his mouth, no less, for me to "pull over."

Instead of fleeing the Law, I pulled the extra foot to the side after Pre-teen Mother and Crack-Baby were out of the way. For sake of brevity, the conversation with Cop on Bike went like this:


ME: (getting out of the car)
COP ON BIKE: Get back in the car!!
ME: (getting into the car)
COP ON BIKE: (at passenger window) Didn't you see Crack-Baby and Pre-teen Mother?
ME: Well, yes, but they sort of just... leapt in front of me like I was stealing their cocaine.
COP ON BIKE: Shit, that's scary. Did you see how red their eyes were? Christ. This is a nice car.
ME: Yep, she's a beaut.
COP ON BIKE: So, can I have it?
ME: Pardon me?
COP ON BIKE: You have a nice day now, sir. (biking away)


Watching him bike away with no ticket in my hand was a good feeling. Coming home to a [roughly] $1200 invoice for my car was not. Apparently my sweet-ass ride needs new brakes.

Maybe I'll ask Crack-Baby what he thinks about that.