I Hate Kids Parties
Now frum time ta’ time Sweats likes ta’ whore carnies out ta’ birthday parties an’da like and if it weren’t for the extra green I’d tell Sweats to take a flying pantsless leap inta’ the Ring the Bottle booth.
So Sweats “recruits” me and mys “Whack ‘em Cats”, Lester and the “Tubs a’ Fun”, Bodo Diddles and Mel with the Pettin’ Zoo in tow. Wes sets up in sum ladies back yard and in minutes we’re swarmed wit kids. Kids with their snotty noses lookin’ all grimy, smellin’ a Sweet-Tarts™ and pee and touching all yer stuff wit thear sticky hands.
“Hey kids. Wanna’ try yur luck and whack a cat?!” I deliver my caller pitch with grace and volume, but I guess I pushed the volume a little too much as three of the young’uns immediately began to cry.
“No, no. Shhh!" I beg. "Shut up kid. Who wants to see a severed head?” But I couldn’t quail the brats bawlin’ before a couple of the parents scooped up thar little’uns while givin’ me the ol’ parental “whata’ ya’ done to my baby” look. *Sigh* Off to a great start.
Thins go fine for the next 20 minutes or so ‘til the barrel shaped birthday boy shows up with his entourage of 12 year olds. “You look like a homeless bum.” He says while violently purging frosting from a hunk of cake with hes front teeth.
“You look like a candidate for diabetes.” I fired back.
“What?”
“Here squirt try ta’ whack a cat.” I tossed a softball at the porker and when I saw him wind up his pitch like an epileptic putting on deodorant I knew I made a horrible mistake.
So as I was nursin’ my bloody nose contemplating how a softball ain’t so soft when I sees Sweats walkin’ round the side of the house with the tub‘o birthday boy’s mommy. Being the sneaky bastard that I am I decideds to follow and guess what ol’ Gil discovered? Ayup, mommy-dearest t’was playing her own carnie game “Spank the One-Eyed Trouser Trout” in Sweats pants.
Well, ‘nufs enough so I packed my gear, grabbed Mel outta’ the tree them damn kids ran him up and fer good measure swiped ona’ the fat kids presents. I don’t know whatta’ gonna’ do with a Lebron James action figure, but it’s better than what Sweats got from the party, a nasty case o’ crabs.
So Sweats “recruits” me and mys “Whack ‘em Cats”, Lester and the “Tubs a’ Fun”, Bodo Diddles and Mel with the Pettin’ Zoo in tow. Wes sets up in sum ladies back yard and in minutes we’re swarmed wit kids. Kids with their snotty noses lookin’ all grimy, smellin’ a Sweet-Tarts™ and pee and touching all yer stuff wit thear sticky hands.
“Hey kids. Wanna’ try yur luck and whack a cat?!” I deliver my caller pitch with grace and volume, but I guess I pushed the volume a little too much as three of the young’uns immediately began to cry.
“No, no. Shhh!" I beg. "Shut up kid. Who wants to see a severed head?” But I couldn’t quail the brats bawlin’ before a couple of the parents scooped up thar little’uns while givin’ me the ol’ parental “whata’ ya’ done to my baby” look. *Sigh* Off to a great start.
Thins go fine for the next 20 minutes or so ‘til the barrel shaped birthday boy shows up with his entourage of 12 year olds. “You look like a homeless bum.” He says while violently purging frosting from a hunk of cake with hes front teeth.
“You look like a candidate for diabetes.” I fired back.
“What?”
“Here squirt try ta’ whack a cat.” I tossed a softball at the porker and when I saw him wind up his pitch like an epileptic putting on deodorant I knew I made a horrible mistake.
So as I was nursin’ my bloody nose contemplating how a softball ain’t so soft when I sees Sweats walkin’ round the side of the house with the tub‘o birthday boy’s mommy. Being the sneaky bastard that I am I decideds to follow and guess what ol’ Gil discovered? Ayup, mommy-dearest t’was playing her own carnie game “Spank the One-Eyed Trouser Trout” in Sweats pants.
Well, ‘nufs enough so I packed my gear, grabbed Mel outta’ the tree them damn kids ran him up and fer good measure swiped ona’ the fat kids presents. I don’t know whatta’ gonna’ do with a Lebron James action figure, but it’s better than what Sweats got from the party, a nasty case o’ crabs.
posted by Captain Mog at 7:41 PM
4 Comments:
Candidate for diabetes... choice comeback, Gil. LoL.
Was the tubbo's mom a MILF?
Something tells me Sweats ain't picky.
Thanks Bug's Butt, carnies always quick wit a quip... or drunk, either. Naw Darth tubbo's mom was more o' MILRSF (Mothers I'd Like to Runaway Screaming From) which should answer Latigo's question.
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