Not sure why I'm using a barn to illustrate this piece - I just like it. Come to think of it, if Mr. Potty Mouth feels like lobbing more f-bombs he could just mosey on into the barn and let fly. That would be better than *bombing* the Easter aisle at Walmart. Just sayin'.
Gee it’s weird how some things just come together, even though I’d rather they didn’t.
I made out a small grocery list the other day with plans to shop after work. Well, work took a bit longer than usual so I rushed back to Kewanee to get food to cook for supper. (Note to police: I definitely was not speeding.)
It was a Monday, a real one, and I was exhausted. The thought of grocery shopping, then cooking. made me not only a tad cranky and kind of spacey. That’s the excuse I’m using to explain how I got side-tracked and landed in the half-off Easter candy and basket aisle. Which, by the way, wasn’t too far away from the Mother’s Day stuff and that connection will come up soon enough.
List in hand I stood glassy-eyed in front of marked-down chocolate bunnies. Seems like there were an awful lot of white and dark-chocolate bunnies left over, so I put them in the same category as those of us who never got picked first for sports teams in grade school.
My mood was lightening as I perused the sweet bargains in front of me when all of a sudden a bomb went off. I couldn’t believe my ears so I turned ever-so-slightly to my right and found the source of the explosion.
The type of bomb here is commonly called an “f-bomb” and oddly enough some folks are proud of their ability to lob them anytime and anywhere they wish. This guy would fit quite comfortably into that category.
I felt dark clouds gathering inside the store as my mood went south. Here we both were, standing in an aisle that was at least half dedicated to that glorious time of year that brings flowers, warm sunshine, candy, special church services and giant fluffy rabbits. If I was six inches taller I might have told Mr. Potty Mouth what I thought of his behavior but I’m not so I didn’t. Instead I put down the candy and wheeled to another aisle.
Well, what do you know? Two aisles over we met up again, and there were three more f-bombs. Less than five minutes later we passed one another again and the guy was spewing forth more foul language. (Actually, it seems the only swear word he knows is That One.)
When I got home I was not in a good mood. I ripped open a box of fish filets, dumped them on a baking sheet and shoved them in the oven. Eventually the mere presence of loved ones lightened my mood, and the dog did her best to help too. You can’t be around a sweet-natured Lab for long and still be a jerk; it’s not possible.
That night I saw a few commercials about Mother’s Day. I’m not a big fan of that holiday, but combined with the time spent in the store earlier made me think of Mom and how she could curse anyone under the table. Instead of influencing me to do the same, it turned me off completely. I guess in her own way, Mom taught me a valuable lesson.
If that guy has kids, I hope they learn there are millions of other words to choose from to express themselves. Since I met the guy, I’ve thought of a few dozen but I’ll keep them to myself.
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