What kind of idiot spends a perfectly good Saturday evening focusing on playing in a kid seek to a bunch of tiny eggs each which can hold a piece or two of candy at best? What is it - .5 ounce apiece at best? I can purchase a 30 ct. pack of full size Hershey's bars for $16.50, including shipping. These will arrive at my door so no need to make a journey solely to have to scavenge up 200 or more eggs filled with candy in order to match my efforts. Not to mention, the geezer parents just may have a hard time cracking those lil' plastic eggs open and the grandparents are hot on their tails! And don't even get me started on the eggs in which the OCD director of events decides some underlings had to spend their Saturday afternoon taping together. All 2,500 of them, hand trimming if there was any hanging tape pieces not just visible to the human eye but visible to the human eye from 186,000 miles in space without a second to spare. Can someone say I better get an A for this semester of interning?
I understand these weird events are sometimes diligently attended by parents who give up their night to spend it with their kids simply because they love them enough to pretend it makes any kind of sense or just haven't produced enough social commentary about how
it is all worth it. Before long we'll have enough of these statements to fill a novel the size of
A Kitchen Soup for the Soul. And the rare parents who attend solely for the sake of the kids should figure out a way to communicate to all the other rare unicorn squirrel cabbages out there who are like them. May I suggest telepathy to avoid hurting anyone's fewiins? Because as brutish as the bullies are, they have the thinnest skin imaginable!
And I'm not referring to the silly goofy things adults decide to do for each other on a lark like an Easter egg hunt amongst adult friends, where everyone is there to hang out together and have fun and pretend to be chickens which resemble bunnies, not to obsess on their return on time and investment. Not my idea of fun but if a good friend thinks it the
cat's bunnie's meow then why not?
If a kidz Easter egg hunt is a competitive sport to you (and you're over the age of 18 or over 21 and sober) the people fortunate enough to be at the grocery store will try to retain their decorum if you decide to beat them to it if someone else has the misfortune of occupying the same time/space coordinates as you. They won't even smirk as they glide over (behind you, or course) to choose from the 41 plus 10 lb. colossal yet identical bags of candy remaining after you snatched big bad and caloric #42. After all, chocolate is chocolate! And you never know when the unanticipated forerunner will sneak in, sense your zeal, your unbridled enthusiasm while zoning in on your favorite chocolate bags and tossing them into their cart and will not stop until there are none left for you, the one in second place. And laugh hysterically about it
on the car ride home for the next
week month.
Once again, parunt idiots destroy the evening of everyone in sight to the embarrassment of their kids (if there is any hopefulness left in the kids, after all clearly they're old enough to walk). Also to the disappointment of the kids who were naïve enough to think that the other kids in attendance were the ones that they had to look out for. Nope. Perhaps now the good kids have learned a lesson
it is the parent's fault that you have to deal with that shit for 13 years of your life as a kid then for your entire adulthood. Better not have kids because there is a probability of 50% that the kids will be just like these hateful bullies based on the fact that your spouse could prove at anytime to become a bully who hid the gene in the furthermost recesses of their DNA. Or, the bully may end up being
you. Because we all know you spend more time planning for a wedding (or bachelor party or Superbowl party of whatever is your sticht, your raison d'etre) than you spend considering exactly whom it is you plan to share DNA with even though an unfortunate output potentially affects the next 6 generations.
On a separate note, I always hurry through the grocery store and my experience in dance and fighting (float like a butterfly and sting like a bee!!!) gives me a serious advantage of avoiding clumsy fools at the last minute. This is a marvelous skill to have when most people have the navigation skills of a bull in a China shop or think proprioception is defined as when the condom broke a second time. Collectively, they have attention span of a goldfish on crack whilst buried in their phones and parking their asses in the middle of every lane to within a millimeter.
While doing this I've had people literally cause accidents trying to jump in front of me when they notice how serious I am about where I'm headed thinking that it is some sort of a fire sale (????) that I'm heading to. It can be notably entertaining to repeat this experiment and invite along a companion who will gasp and chant with you 10 cents hot dogs! Really? Only two left! as you hurry around the store. So, with the average lane wide enough to hold one welfare famblee (formerly two) they magically wind up right in my footpath. I can quadruple this affect by smiling broadly as I shop. I could be smiling for many reasons but the last reason on my mind for smiling would be some item at a low price, I appreciate sales but it isn't that exciting. Much more likely to be a great date, a raise, a new photo idea, or just to screw with tards at the grocery store, etc.
I've seen a few of them try to hurriedly jump out there (always and only in my footpath, regardless if the lane is 12 feet wide) and fall on their own two feet. Jumping should be outlawed once they're so damage prone as to fall over their own feet. Best to avoid the road kill, even if self-darwining is the best spectator sport today. You can always blacken a pant leg with a skid of a wheel. Or, if you dare, cause them to drop...their...PHONEs and you may see them convulse!!!!
Or maybe they're just practicing for a decathlon in the grocery store aisles and I was inadvertently road kill. Because we all know breeders look just like decathlon athletes. Jim Thorpe, is it really a reincarnate of you?