Hell in a hand basket

As we were driving home from a double baby shower the other night, my mom reminded me that I am NOT to drink the water down here.  I kept trying to explain to her how babies are made, but she just doesn’t quite get it.  Given this, it’s amazing that I don’t have a litter of siblings.  (Don’t worry, I don’t drink the water down here, it tastes like shit and sulfur anyway.)  Of course, J is uncomfortable with any conversation that could possibly result in a discussion that leads to the word vagina, so I change the subject.

Luckily there happened to be a woman in a wheelchair waiting for the light to change so she can cross the street.  Just as we pulled up to the stop light, I see her become impatient.  She kept hitting the button for the walk signal.  When that didn’t work she started beating it with her fist.  I start laughing my ass off.  How is it that her legs don’t work, but she has fists of steel?  My mom also notices the commotion, so we begin egging her on each time she hit the button…

”hit it!” 

“Hit it again…”

“no, hit it harder….”

“yea, smack it this time….”

“there you go!”


J just HAD to remind us that it wasn’t nice to sit in the car and heckle the poor thing.  I just want to know why it is okay for her to be so violent, but I am the one going to hell?!


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