Every now and then evil rears its ugly head.
We left church, and went to our favorite diner one Sunday morning for breakfast.
IF THERE IS ONE THING I HATE, IT IS RUG RATS IN A RESTAURANT WHERE I AM EXPECTING A QUIET AND PEACEFUL MEAL.
As they say in Brooklyn: “Furgeddaboutit!”
The day had started out with my deciding to tweak the pastor’s self-righteousness by wearing a Boston Red Sox cap. He is an avid Yankee fan (The model for the Nazi Party), desecrating his office with NY Yankee pennants on the walls.
Going to Mass that morning, I put the hat on the seat in view of the pulpit, hoping it would get his attention, and maybe annoy him. Turns out: the guy was away on vacation, from what I don’t know, he gets everything paid for and then a salary! Works for less than an hour, Monday through Thursdays, off Friday and most of Saturday, gets to hear juicy gossip in the confessional, and puts in a half day for him on Sundays. Any additional work like funerals and weddings he gets paid extra for!
I sit in the diner and sure enough, the waitress brings in these grandparents with two rug rats. You can always tell when the kids are going to be trouble, they carry toys to occupy them and that is supposed to make them quiet.
The brats are whining and they haven’t sat down yet. One of them stands in the booth and faces me. I stick my tongue out at him, and he drops down. TLW (The Little Woman) is blocking the grandmother’s view of me, so she can’t see me, and the grandfather, battered and shell-shocked from both the kids and the old lady is facing in the same direction I am, so he can’t see me either.
The kid pops his head up again, and again I give him the tongue. (No, not the finger, I have some class) Speaking of class, I had removed my hat when we entered the diner.
Next to us, across the aisle in another booth sits a young couple, and she is wearing a Yankee cap. I decided to don my Red Sox cap and see if I could get a reaction from her. No bite, not even a nibble. Darn, what is wrong with Yankee fans today? Then it dawns on me, they lost to the Red Sox the night before old C. C. Sabbatia was shellacked once again by the Sox.
So what did I end up with? One brat who wouldn’t look at me any more, one pastor in Vegas no less, and a shell-shocked, demoralized Yankee fan. None of these people could help and make my day!