Seems there is a growing problem in America with public Easter Egg hunts. Seems some such events are scrubbed each year. Seems cheating is the problem. Seems adults, not kids, are the cheaters. . . .
Seems “helicopter parents” (adults who hover over their children and see it as their mission in life to flatten every friggen speed bump that lay in their kids’ path), are so fearful that their precious darlings will not find an egg or two and will thus be so terribly traumatized as a result that it might actually spiral out of control until their kids face a future full of failure as a result—drug addictionism, high school drop outism, living out their miserably failed lives in a van down by the riverism—and all because they didn’t find a fuggin’ Easter Egg. . . .
Anyway, these “adults” are so stressed that their kids might not find some candy during the hunt that they themselves cross the barriers and like ridiculous bird dogs point their kids to the eggs. When one or two idiots cross the ropes, of course, those left behind are disgusted and rightly think, “NOT FAIR!” However, instead of simply allowing these moron parents to publicly display their moronitude under the scornful glare of all, many of the outraged parents join the original morons and cross the ropes to help their own little Baileys, Addisons, Mackenzies, and Emersons.
As I see it, the parents who originally cross the ropes make a really bad decision . . . but for a good reason. Although they display no more intelligence and maturity than their four- and five-year-olds, no doubt these “grown-ups” knew something of deprivation as children, knew a bit about failure during kidhood, knew the insecure feeling and low self-esteem that only ineptitude, ignorance and inadequacy can deliver . . . and by God, come hell or high water they are now bound and determined that their kids will have it different than they. Okay, fine. But who can doubt that their actions are creating a whole new set of problems for their kids? What these well-meaning, but unthinking, parents forget is that the truly stronger character traits come from BOTH sides of the line, the winning as well as the losing.
And while we are at it, who can doubt that the screaming outbursts and sobbing spectacles witnessed last election night by the Hillary loser loons were a direct consequence of those well-meaning, but clueless, helicopter parents who had flattened every bump and pointed to every Easter Egg in their kids’ lives, lives now locked in a ridiculous and revolting state of perpetual immaturity?
When Bart yelled at the old lady—let’s call her Barb—to whip him up a burger, and make it snappy, Barb told Bart to get off his good-for-nothing lazy ass and fix it himself. Since these were not the words a starving maniac wants to hear, nor were the words spoken in a manner a starving maniac wants them spoken, Bart got off his lazy ass, walked to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, then killed Barb. With that little matter out of the way, Bart went to work on that hamburger he so ravenously craved.
Once his hamburger hunger had been thoroughly sated, Bart realized he might be in a bit of trouble for severely stabbing Barb to death. Although the sassy bitch had it coming, unless he thought fast, Bart reasoned, this might prove one expensive hamburger. And so, the hub tore the hell out of the kitchen, trying to make it look like a burglar had been extremely hungry for a burger as he was looting the place and when Barb had refused to fry him that burger the burglar had gone bonkers. Bart would tell the cops he had seen it all. They would never guess, right?
In near record time—maybe 30 seconds or less—this case was solved and Bart the mastermind murderer now lays on his lazy ass in jail on a Murder Two rap. The chow is gratis now, of course, courtesy of the state, but there are, alas, no hamburgers on the prison menu. Poor fellow.
Bart is 83 and counting. Bart’s ex-wife, Barb, was, is, and will now always remain, 70-something forever.
Meanwhile. . . .
A Forty-eight-year-old individual—let’s call him Jerry—got into a physical misunderstanding a piece back up at a so-called ”Gentleman’s Club” in Tampa. Since he was bounced out on his head, I reckon old Jer lost the fight. Drunk, stupid, mean, murderous, and above all, mad, when Jerry saw a chap—let’s call him Fred—coming out of an adjoining adult book store a short time later he mistook the steamer for his former fight foe and yelled a curse or two at him (well, he was drunk and the bar was dark). When Fred fled, Jer jumped into his truck and gave chase up Interstate-4 toward Orlando, determined to get some revenge for his public beat-down. Fred, of course, didn’t have a clue why a maniac was chasing him.
As the terrified Fred pegged in 911 on his cell, Jerry drew alongside and began pointing a pistol out his window. The 911 call taker answered—“Okay, what’s your beef? Talk to me”—heard gunfire, then her phone went dead. Pun intended.
After his little regular-rage which ended in road-rage, Jerry now calls state prison his home and forty-seven forever Fred is winging his way around all those big X-rated porn shops in the sky.
Gentleman’s club? Adult book store? These mother-muckers sound like anything but gentlemen or adults.