KIDS!

Last week Uncle Pops and I stopped to get some fuckin coffee at a gas station.
I sat in the truck while it idled, Uncle Pops inside greasin himself up with caffeine, and I look over at this four year old with a faux-hawk and coke bottle glasses. At first I think, "Wow. It's kinda like that Tom Cruise movie come true."

Right?

So Uncle Pops jumps back behind the wheel, pours that coffee into his mug and I look back at kiddy-pie. And what should I see? A middle finger pointed toward the great northern heavens, while its thumb and three brothers sat tucked nicely into his palm. This position held for a moment, until the fingers danced about, weaving a new pattern.

Now the pointer finger stared directly at Uncle Pops' truck.

"You see that?" I asked.

Uncle Pops-FLABERGASTED-did.

I wouldn't take this sitting down. I hopped up out that seat and pranced daintily toward kiddy-pie. When I'd reached glaring distance I bent forward and asked kiddy-pie if he knew what that symbol meant.

Smiling, he nodded.

This was my cue for action.

Gently, very gently, I squeezed his nose between my thumb and pointer until the flesh beneath my nails turned ice white. Then I playfully slapped his cute little face around, twisted his glasses, threw them, and laughed. It was about this time that his bull mother came lumbering up to the cash register with a case of Natty Ice, prompting a smooth get away.

My right hand punched the hood of Uncle Pops' truck as I hurried across to passenger side. The shifter slid into reverse, tires squealed, we hit drive, squealed some tires, peeled out, and left that sonofabitch choking in our eternal glory.

After that we did what most straight men do:

DRANK BEER AND ATE PUSSY.