If I May

Tonight was no ordinary Vendredi. Tonight, we got to meet the little bastards that have been tormenting us with frozen unborn chicken fetuses. They were pretty much the ratty scoundrels that we expected; just shorter. Sadly, the outcome did not consist of any financial retribution for our time, pain, suffering, and/or paint loss. In retrospect, the "community conference" was clearly just a good old fashioned state-funded Friday night bitch session.

Brian must have said, pointer fingers pointing, "If I may..." two dozen times. (Hence the title). He, as usual, was so on in the pinch. Quite seriously.

Contrary to some crocodile tears and some rapidly spoken Spanish by some so-called "parents", it seems the budding criminals have received nary a punishment. Gabriel, quite obviously the ring leader (and charmingly reminded me of my own little brother who once told a cop that my mother did indeed see the red light as she drove through it) corrected his mother in front of everyone when she announced proudly to the room that she'd grounded him; no TV, no video games, no going outside to play. "That's not true, mom," said Gabriel, the ever-honest destructor of property which does not belong to him, "I play games and watch TV all the time"!

Oh the lies, the lies! If it weren't for the times they were going to lengths to be contrary to their lying parent’s most recent lie, all the little rat bastards did was look us right in the eyes and lie ...like the Sealy under Booboos's tempurpedic! If I didn't already believe so much in my "people suck" theory, I might find some of this surprising or disappointing. Three hours later, each of the mini-punks got to chow down on cookies and juice as we exited. Feeding tomorrow's fugitives mini Oreos and Chips Ahoy? Is this where my tax dollars are going?! I'm quite sure there'd be absolutely nothing Ahoy in my life if I were an 11 year old skell.

Alas, now, as we sit back and the adrenaline fades, I am reminded of a little chant the Oompa Loompa's taught me. The Oompa Loompas (of yesteryear, mind you, not the CGI freakshow new-fangled loompas) tell me, in unified song, that when your kid is a (pause) brat (pause) the blame lies with the mother and the father. Horizontally and otherwise challenged as they may be, since neither Oompa nor Loompa has ever egged my car, so I'm sticking with them on this one.

Doompa dee doo.