I have this friend, let’s call him “Ben,” which is his actual name so it’ll be easy to remember. Ben posted the following story-rant on the facebook the other day and it just spoke to me. So I decided – with permission – to illustrate it and share it with my twelve followers.
Yesterday. Lazy afternoon. I’m lounging on the couch, watching t.v.. I hear multiple footsteps, rapidly charging my front door.
The doorbell rings. I mute whatever the fuck I was watching, get up, go to the front door, and open it without hesitation, because I recognized the weight of foot as multiple small children.
“What’s up?!” I say enthusiastically as I open the door.
“Would you buy these?” a 7 year old says, attempting to shove some stack of cards (of which I cannot discern what the hell they might be) in my face. His 5 year old compatriot and a little girl of no more than 3 years old stand by his side.
“Tell him what it’s for, first!” a motherly voice calls out from the other side of my fence (which is designed to separate outside intruders such as these from my enjoyment of apathetic lonesomeness and depravity).
“It’s for our… um… we in soccer!”
“Oh, really? That’s cool. What are you selling?”
The mom, again, steps in and explains that they are selling ‘Papa Murphy’s pizza’ coupon cards, which, if I am so wise to buy one, I will make my $5 back on within just half of the “amazing” savings afforded by this magical card. Not being one to shun a neighbor, and after close inspection of one of these community building, calorie and fat promoting cards, and the realization that the “shit’s legit”, I succumb to their ploy.
“Okay. That’s a deal,” I say- even though I fucking HATE Papa Murphy’s shitty pizza, and, furthermore, HATE the stupid fucking dunder-headed, white trash cunt that always exclaims “Welcome to Papa Murphy’s! Would you like to hear about our awesome specials?!” with such fucking false excitement that I can’t help but imagine eating a bullet, were I to ever find my life in the realm of this V.D. riddled human’s state of employment.
Yet, I digress…
Anyhow… I come back to the door, hand the older brother 4 $1 bills and 4 quarters, say thank you, receive my Papa Murphy’s card that I will never use, and ask;
“So, what soccer team do play for?”
“The red one!” exclaims the younger boy
“I’m number 13!” says the older
“Oh!, That’s an interesting number…”
“Yeah! I’m number 54!” says the younger
“54? That’s a great number. I like that.”
“Yeah, but I wish it was 45…”
At this point, mom, who is trying her best to let lean over my fence and let her flappy milk bags fall out of her horribly unfashionable and ill-fitting blouse-shirt-rag-thing, says “Tell him why you want to be number 45!”
“Because it’s a gun!” the 5 year old says…
Because it’s a fucking gun.
…God bless America!