Brandon! Brandon! Brandon, come here!

That is what I heard for five minutes while we were in the Quicky Mart. Your 3 year old was running all over and knocking stuff down while you and your Whiskey Tango (white trash) wife were getting your post methadone clinic Big Gulps. You would yell every 30 seconds “Brandon come here” like an hillbilly fog horn. I wanted to yell “turn your fat jowls and watch your crotch fruit, yelling Brandon every thirty seconds does not make up for your lack of parenting “.

I chose not to as I just wanted out of there.

I paid and left and I guess you paid as well as you came out of the store as I was unlocking my car. Brandon came running out of the door and straight towards the open traffic. At 2 foot tall he would run right by me and not be seen by the oncoming car.

I glanced at you hoping to see a look of horror as you realized the impending impact but no, you were busy playing with a coupon for Skoal Bandits. I grabbed the kid with my free hand and jerked him back from running in front of the car speeding through the parking lot and then walked him over to you for what I thought would be a hero’s welcome.

Not so much.

You just squared off and said that I should get my hands off of your son. I asked you if you were sure he was your son because your wife looks like a real goer, know what I mean? Say no more. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

I have since found out that Monty Python references seem to make white trash confused and upset and want to fight.

You raised your fists, started to say something and I kicked you square in the nuts. I’m not a fighter, I’m not a lover either but what I am is a cheap bastard and I didn’t want to spill the soda in my right hand. So in retrospect I am sorry I kicked you in the balls but I felt threatened and reacted.

I hope Brandon is ok and you are feeling better.

The soda was delicious.