Now I usually do not start or title my blogs this way, but today, I was inspired to share with each of you what I fear I may become as a parent if I stick to:
A. Drinking shitty bourbon all day long.
B. Become a Nascar Fan and drink shitty bourbon all day long.
C. Become a Nascar Fan, listen to Vince Gil, have children with my sister, and drink shitty bourbon all day long.
D. Have two children like the ones I am about to describe to you...
In between calls today, I took a two hour break to take my kids (not to be confused with the two ass biters I am about to describe below)to the beach in Pensacola. It was a beautiful day, they had been patient as I churned away on my keyboard for eight hours, and I was, to be honest, ready to stop planning for a little while. It is always that time when the best things in life happen, and today's experience was no different...
So we get to Pensacola Beach - which does contain some of the most wonderful beaches in the world - the sand is sugary white and perfect for building the Pyramids at Giza (see pictures above) and on Green Flag days (for non-floridians this means there are no sharks, no rip tides, no hurricanes, and no syringes or other biohazards washing up on shore from cruise ships) it is great to go sit on the shore and relax in the cool ocean water and the hot sun. The only problem with Pensacola Beach is that it attracts tourists from some of the most illiterate states in the union- and much of what they say about illiteracy seems to be true...
Anyway, we make our secure campsite, and in the best beach etiquette, set up the towels, move the chairs, get the cooler, and try not to occupy more than a ten foot by ten foot swatch of ocean front property - you can always tell the tourists when they break out their newly purchased fully collapsable Coleman Mobile Home tent, complete with diaper changing station and decorated with Dale stickers (who the fuck is Dale anyway) - so that is what happened to us today. Our nice little spot was soon to be shadowed by American Woman, Cromagnon Man,and Children. Here after, I refer to them as Mom, Dad, Child A and Child B. I am not a cruel person, and I typically give the benefit of the doubt to just about everyone I meet, but for god's sake, this family(although representative of about 20% of the families on the beach) left me feeling like Dr. Spock in my child rearing and parenting abilities...
So, let's discuss Mom. For any mothers out there who believe that stretch marks (I mean really really bad stretch marks) accent a green bikini - they do not. Let me repeat that - they do not. Stretch marks and a bikini look like police tape at a crime scene - folks see it, they are not sure what happened, have to look just out of human nature, but are repulsed each time they investigate. That's what Mom was wearing, and, like I said above, I had to do a double take - I thought at first her kids had written on her stomach in permanent marker, or perhaps she had waves tattoed across her stomach - but no, I was wrong on all counts - it was just a series of stretch marks highlighted by pockets of resilient fat framed by lime green bikini. In between cigarette breaks, mouthfuls of Doritos, and rolling over, there came a shrill cry from her mouth to Child A and Child B "Ima Gonna Whup ur ass Boy"- I was not sure which boy she was yelling at, and apparently neither were the children, they looked up and continued doing whatever it was they were doing...I will get to that later.
Dad. What a piece of work. Maybe thirty five. Vince Gil, long sleeve, BLACK, concert tshirt on. Sunglasses (expensive sunglasses). A straw hat. Pleated cut off POLO shorts(I found this very very very hard to digest, but saw both the polo tag and his ass crack when he moved down towards the water to rinse his feet - you will understand more later)- he seemed oblivious to all that surrounded him - he was transfixed on covering his feet with sand, and uncovering them, rinsing them, then recovering them, unconvering them, rinsing them - and repeat. Maybe OCD, maybe fear of having to gaze at the green stretch marks, maybe the shrill voice of his mate had beat him into a permanent state of thinking about what and how his life went so terribly wrong. None the less, his feet must have been as polished as a worry stone, because he covered, rinsed, repeat, covered, rinse, repeat...
Child A and Child B - Apparently one was younger than the other, but it made no difference. Any item that could be used to torment, hit, maim, scar, burn, destroy, cut, molest, traumatize, disable, or terrorize the other was used in their conversation - I can only imagine the look of their trailer after a long summers day with those two asswads locked up inside, hyped up on Dr. Pepper, beating the living shit out of each other. If there was ever a case for ritalin, benadryl, bondage, or straight jackets being part of a parenting plan - these two were the prime study. I watched in amazement as Child A beat the shit of Child B with a wood handled fishing net, (insert shriek from Mom), then watched Child B wallop the shit out of Child A with a Boogie Board and scrape a plastic beach rake across his relatives back with little or no remorse. Then both would run when Mom would shift her tits (this was apparently the sign that Mom was ready to stand up). The two little shits would run into the water, and apparently Child A was not quite the swimmer, because he would generally get in over his head (literally), swallow salt water, and then dog paddle while choking back to the shore. These two miniature rednecks did this for the better part of two hours (re-read this about every fifteen minutes, then stuff a handful of Doritos in your mouth, have someone scream at you they are gonna whup ur ASS and have someone wear a green bikini with stretch marks - and you too can have a piece of my paradise today).
My children are far from perfect angels -Gray whined about no mustard on her sandwich, Gabe complained about the water with no waves, but both of them sat amazed at the circus show that was going on before us. The absolute best part of the day - and always the best part of our beach trips, was the sandcastle. Today, Gabe wanted an Egyptian Theme - so we did the pyramids, and we pretended that we had an army of slaves and had to have a quarry and roads and a town - and the pictures above prove it - you can barely see the three pyramids, and the rocky towns and the quarry for each pyramid neatly laid out (Gabe seems to be spending a lot of time watching Discovery Channel lately, because the pyramids had to be laid out in some wierd angle - not next to each other, but sort of off center - he said to me "they must be aligned properly" - and I suddenly realized that my in-laws must be really intelligent people, or better yet, he had gotten a recessive trait that neither my family nor my wife's family seem to display...now if it was the odds on winning at roulette, a low emotional blow, a reference to a dirty movie, belittling someone in public - then maybe one of our families have that gene, but no such luck on the smart thing). Gray built towers - that was her job, build a tower, move on to the next tower, build another tower, move on to the next tower, do fifteen jumps into the water, build a tower, you get the picture. Her poor ass cheeks got a little pink - (this is another blog, but girls have too many curves for sunscreen - I always remember to move the straps and get sunscreen there, but never seem to be able to coat enough on her ass cheeks). High point of the day -
Even better, Child A and Child B came up as we were getting ready to call it quits, and admire our work - and one of them said "My Dad builds better sandcastles" (he had disappeared. Perhaps he had spear gunned himself to escape the next 15 years of hell). With no hesitation, and with no ill intent, Gabe looked up and them, and said - Not today.
With that, those two pudknockers moved on, and proceeded to trigger the shriek of their bloodline and continue to batter one another.
Until next time.
George
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