It was Saturday afternoon, and I was picking up some supplies for dinner: eight ears of corn, to be given the Laurence Simon Roasted Garlic ’n’ Butter treatment.
On my way out, I swung through the Frozen Goodies section, solely to torture myself. I have no business buying anything in that aisle, but I use it as a test of willpower, similar to Rob Smith waltzing through the beer department. And besides, I like to see what interesting and ridiculously obesifying new flavors those Two Fat Fucks from Vermont™ have come up with. Screw Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough...we got us Dublin Mudslide, Black & Tan, and Vermonty Python now!
While there, I saw a little boy, perhaps all of seven years old, with his mother. Something - perhaps her failure to buy every fricking flavor of Haägen-Dasz for him - was pissing him off, and he complained to his momma thusly:
“You’re getting on my last nerve!”
He said it at least twice, so there was no mistaking it. He must have heard it from some adult at some point in his life and thought it was either (1) cute, or (2) effective.
His momma did not think so.
She grabbed his little ass right then and there and hauled him up short.
“You do not speak to me like that, young man!”
That put the little snot in his place, I can tell you. It was a welcome sight indeed. I could not help but smile...
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