Deranged Mind

October 20, 2007

High School Musical

Filed under: children,Humor,Society — The Deranged One @ 1:18 am

My experience with ice skating has been rather limited. In high school, I dated an ice skater. She had the tightest ass I’ve ever seen thanks to getting up at 0400 to skate round and round. (I saw her recently, Father Time hasn’t been very kind to her since she stopped skating. It looks as if he worked her ass over with a Louisville Slugger turning it into a mass of mush.) Anyway, the extent of my interest in ice skating ended with its effects on the development of her ass. And as soon as I realized she had more issues than Readers Digest, I moved on.

Fast forward 10 or so years. I was a young man, no longer in high school, yet still without an interest in ice skating. If ice skating happened to be on television, I’d rather clean the toilets. I certainly wouldn’t sit down and watch it of my own free will. My mother, on the other hand, loved ice skating. She couldn’t get enough of it. So to be a nice guy, I bought her two tickets to some ice skating show for her birthday. I’m still not sure what it was – some washed up ex-Olympians on ice. The afternoon of the performance, my younger sister called to say she had been hospitalized and was scheduled that evening for an emergency appendectomy. And dear mom insisted that I use her tickets to the ice skating show since she was flying up to be with my sister. Joy. I don’t remember a whole lot about the performance other than it was the longest two hours of my life.

After that, I pushed ice skating back into the deep recesses of my memory and carried on with life. Until tonight. My youngest is in Brownies. Her troop wanted to go to see Disney on Ice. And guess who my little one wanted to go. Yes, yours truly. But wait, it gets better. The performance was supposed to be High School Musical.

Now, as you’ve probably surmised, I’m not thrilled about ice skating. And I haven’t the first clue what High School Musical is. I asked several of my stay-at-home-MILF-neighbors whom I know I can trust, but they weren’t much help. Nobody could tell me what it was. My little one would go on and on about how great it is but not much more. The 10 year old couldn’t really help. And I didn’t even bother with the teenagers. I’d have more luck talking to the wall. So I was left in lurch.

When my little sister was in junior high school or so, she wanted to go see New Kids on the Block. Remember them? I certainly do because I was the sucker who agreed to take her. God, it was utter torture. Any of those Amnesty International assholes who want to take up the cause for the pieces of shit housed at Guantanamo Bay should be forced to sit through a New Kids on the Block concert. They will quickly learn that the harshest treatment the enemy combatants face, is a walk in the park compared to a New Kids concert. Water boarding? That’s nothing compared to Hanging Tough. Sleep deprivation? How about Please Don’t Go Girl? There was a whole arena full of screaming teenyboppers who were practically fainting. And there was a constant high pitched scream that probably caused small animals to convulse for miles around. All in all, it wasn’t much fun.

But after tonight, I’d take a New Kids on the Block concert any day of the week. Think of an arena full of adolescent New Kids concert goers combined with ice skating and you have High School Musical. It was horrible. There was constant screaming, the music sucked and twists and spins on the ice. On and on it went. And naturally, I had a big fight when we got there. “Daddy, we need a program.” Not for $20 we don’t. “Daddy, can I have cotton candy?” $12.50???? You’ve got to be kidding me. “Can I have a snow cone?” Wow, only $15 and we get to keep the cup. That’s a deal and a half if the fucking thing were gold plated. As soon as the show started, these little white girls in front of us, leaped from their seats and started dancing with about as much rhythm as an out of balance washing machine. The little girl behind us kept kicking my seat for all she was worth. And through it all, we had to listen to horrible music accompanied by screaming.

Now, I’m obviously not an expert on ice skating, but in my humble opinion, tonight’s skating was nothing to write home about. Between screams, kicks and a couple of twirls, it was just a bunch of people skating back and forth. Nothing special. I got my hopes up when the lights came on after 45 minutes or so, but it was just intermission. They rolled out a Zamboni to smooth the ice, but honestly, there hadn’t been enough action to even rough it up.

Lights went back down, screaming resumed and there was some more mediocre skating. After another 45 minutes, the torture was finally over. My head hurt. There was a constant ringing in my ears. And my back hurt from being wedged in a broken seat. All in all, it sucked. Maybe my seat was just too far away to really focus on any tight ice skaters’ asses.

September 17, 2007

Neighborhood Children

Filed under: children,neighbors — The Deranged One @ 9:25 pm

So there I was, a lazy Sunday afternoon. The wife and kids were out shopping spending God knows how much of my money. A small price to pay for a bit of peace and quiet. Well, I hope a small price. I went upstairs and laid down to rest my aching back with a copy of Jeremy Siegel’s The Future for Investors. Excellent book, if you haven’t seen it.

Anyway, I started reading, the sun shining through the window and before I knew it, I was becoming increasingly drowsy. Ah, this is the life. Just as I closed my eyes, BANG! I jumped up to see what was going on and there were those damn neighbor children with their Razor scooters. They had a bottle in front of the neighbors driveway and were using a scooter to try to smash it. Screw it, it’s not my driveway. I laid back down and there was some more banging. So I got up again and yelled at them to knock it off. They did. For a while. Then they got out the football.

I have nothing against football. God knows I played enough of it when I was a kid. Although baseball was my pastime. Still, nothing wrong with a little football. Until the idiots started arguing.

Jeremiah: I want to be the QB.

Lance: You’re not good enough to be the QB.

Jeremiah: I’ve been a QB for the last 5 years.

At that point, I was thoroughly disgusted. Jeremiah is all of 9 or 10 years old. And he’s been a quarterback for 5 years. Yeah, right. I got up again to shut the window so I wouldn’t have to listen to those scrawny little assholes. Just as I walked over to the window, I watched the football bounce off the hood of my Jeep. Okay, that’s where I draw the line. I yell down at them to keep the football away from my stable of vehicles. They ignore me. I yell again, this time a little more insistent. Lance waves. Good enough for me, that’s an acknowledgment that they heard me and if the ball bounces off my Jeep again, I’m entitled to go outside and kick some ass.

Now a bit about the neighborhood kiddies. The names have all been changed to protect the not-so-innocent (okay, I’ll admit, on the off-chance their idiot parents are literate enough to fire up a computer and somehow stumble across this, I don’t want a bunch of torch wielding neighbors beating on my door wanting to know why I don’t like their children. I do like children. Just not my neighbors’.) Jeremiah is a little asshole who lives up the street. There’s no father figure in his life and as near as I can tell, his grandmother is raising him. Her style of child-rearing is to stand in the driveway and scream at him. He’s a punk with no future other than short stints in county jail. Next up are brothers David and John. John is retarded in some way. Perhaps he was dropped on his head when he popped out. Maybe his mom smoked too much rock whilst she was knocked up. It doesn’t really matter. He’s a pain in the ass with a squeaky voice and he yells everything that he says. Well, he also apparently is deaf because I can’t tell you how many times a day I hear his parents yelling at him to stop doing something over and over. David, his brother, will end up being Jeremiah’s cellmate. And that leaves Lance.

Lance is the ringleader. His family just moved in. He’s about 10. He has a brother who might be 5 or 6. His wonderful father has Lance babysit his little brother after school. Lance is a little asshole who deserves to have all of his fingers broken. In the 3 weeks since he’s moved in, he’s broken one of the other neighbor’s tricycles, spraypainted 3 scooters (leaving spraypainted outlines of the scooters in the street and sidewalk,) knocked over our garbage cans on garbage day and generally is a pain in the ass. Wonderful person to entrust your 5 year old with. And if David and Jeremiah are going to be doing county time, Lance will be in state prison.

There’s some more back and forth about who is going to QB (there’s 3 of you little fuckers out there – does it truly matter who is QB) and then they quiet down. My pulse begins to return to normal, my blood pressure returns to somewhere around normal and I start to get drowsy again. Until John makes his appearance.

I hear John’s approach, he’s yelling something that the best government linguist would be unable to decipher. He chants whatever it is he’s yelling until his brother tells him to shut up. He must’ve been yelling something about wanting to play because they include him in the game. That or they wanted to have some fun and bounce the ball off of his head. They play catch until the ball whacks him in the face and he runs off screaming. I slowly feel my blood pressure begin to elevate.

About then, I hear Lance’s father arrive on the scene. He’s apparently incapable of speaking in normal tones. Perhaps he too is deaf like John. Or maybe he’s just a fucking idiot. Probably the latter. Either way, next thing I know, I hear him yelling, “Get the fuck out of the street! What the fuck is the matter with you?”

What the fuck is the matter with your son? I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you leave him and his brother to do whatever the hell they want, that you speak that way to him or that you’re a complete asshole who shouldn’t be allowed to breathe the same air as me.

Lance says sorry to Father of the Year and they resume play.

Now, I have another neighbor who has provided me with hours of entertainment. The wife has some sort of phobia that prevents her from being normal. She is the most outgoing person in the world if she’s inside of her car. She’ll wave and say hi like you’re her best friend. But get her outside of the car or house and she nuts up. That must be why she rarely sets foot outside unless she absolutely must. If you try to talk to her while she’s taking out the trash or picking up the newspaper and you can literally watch her face melt. It begins with the twitching around the eyes. Then her lips begin to quiver. She clutches her arms to her chest in a protective gesture. The sweat begins to bead on her forehead before she breaks into a run and makes a dash for the house. And I’ve always wondered where she drives to since she goes apeshit when she’s outside.

So once again, I start to drift off to sleep in the warm sun only to be interrupted by the nutjob phobia-woman asking Lance to get his scooter off of her freshly planted lawn. He tells her he didn’t put it there. She says it doesn’t matter, please get it off the lawn. He says he’ll move it when they’re finished. Her voice begins to waver and she asks him to please move it. He says no.

At this point, all thoughts of sleep are gone. Fucking little assholes have pissed me off one too many times. I bound down the stairs and out the door. Nutjob phobia-woman is near tears. Defiant Lance is standing his ground and has no intention of moving his damn scooter. I do what comes naturally and tell Lance that if he doesn’t move his scooter, I’m going to take it and throw it off a freeway overpass. He sullenly drags his scooter home. Nutjob phobia woman runs inside and I head back upstairs.

I lay back down and hear the little assholes resume their game arguing about god knows what. John comes running back out yelling whatever it is he yells, Father of the Year comes back out yelling about the scooter on the porch and I begin to fantasize out taking potshots with the Bushmaster at those little shits. Too bad the trajectories would trace straight back to my window. And with visions of those little fuckers diving for cover amidst a barrage of gunfire, I drift off to sleep. A deep restful sleep. And I cannot help but think that I had a smile on my face.

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