Let me explain.
I was in the gym locker room the other day at work, with my boss’ testicles nowhere in sight.
Just to clarify:
I’m not sad about this.
My review isn’t for another 6 months, so the less I have to see of them before I’m forced to nuzzle them gently for my pay raise while his two chihuahuas watch, the better.
Their interview process here is weird.
Regardless, I was in the gym when Ian, a former high school friend of mine who was suckered into buying some of my daughter’s Girl Scout cookies, started talking to me about them.
Ian: “Hey Rod. Next year, remind me not to buy any of those Tagalongs.”
Me: “Ian. If I’m hawking Girl Scout cookies this time next year, just do me a favor and put a fucking bullet in my head.”
What makes this much less funny is that the troop leader is actually my wife.
C’MON, HON! I SOLD 40 BOXES!!!
Male Girl Scouts are discriminated against in the bedrooms of America.
I put that in the ‘Complaints’ box at home, but I don’t think it will go anywhere.
(who, for some fucking reason, constantly SNORTS instead of blowing his fucking nose OHMYGOD WILL YOU JUST BLOW YOUR NOSE?!? JUST BLOW IT!!!)
…in the locker room pipes up:
Snorty McBoogerNose: “Cub Scouts sell candy. But the fun part is the soapbox derby. You get to build a go-cart and race them.”
I get to build a go-cart?!?
I pause on this, and reflect upon my keen skills as a carpenter.
1) the time I hung a ceiling fan in my son’s room which five minutes later burst into flames while he was sleeping
2) the time I called my builder to have him come and tighten my kitchen faucet with a wrench
Me: “Man. My kid is SO fucked.”
My vast array of power tools.
Me: “Well, unless I can build the whole fucking thing with a power screwdriver, my kid is screwed.”
All these other kids sitting at the starting line with their rocket cars and Speed Racer Mach 3 replicas…
…and my kid sitting there in something made of shingles, leftover siding and a shitload of screws.
I can see it now:
They’re going to shoot off the starting gun…
…and all these other kids are going to be rolling down the the hill towards the finish line…
…and my kid will still be sitting there in his shingle-siding-shit-mobile trying to get the stupid thing rolling on the tiny little wheels made of screwed-on yo-yo’s.
At which point he’ll just go:
…into a little mushroom cloud.
He’s gonna wish they just sold cookies.