See what I did there, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers?

For the first time, Chick-fil-A earned a higher profit than KFC; as a result, KFC is going to announce their new anti-gay appetizer: Not For Nancy-Boys Spicy Wings.

PETA enlisted four young girls to scold First Lady, Michelle Obama, for using hard-boiled eggs instead of plastic eggs for the White House Easter Egg roll. It is now official, PETA stands for People Especially Tiresome and Annoying.

Since you asked:

We truly live in interesting times.

In the Sixties, Alcatraz was deemed inescapable due to the cold water and strong currents. Now thousands compete in a triathlon starting from barges next to Alcatraz. Many without wetsuits.

And yet we now have a fairly recent phenomenon: people too lazy to talk audibly. I.e., Lazy-Talkers. You know whom I mean. Clerks who barely mumble “Can I help you?” so it comes out garbled and mushed like “Caheyehepu?”

How is it possible that we have a generation of 100-foot wave surfers combined with people too lazy to flip on a turn signal?

At Rite Aid, the young greasy-blonde clerk plus braces and bad acne “greeted” me. He was supposed to say; “Did you find everything OK?” But with his head tilted back, his mouth-breathing jaw agape, his eyes barely open, what wheezed out was;

“Dehewfineheythinohhey?”

But get these same douche-nozzles on a cell phone? Holy carpe diem, suddenly they are louder than Placido Domingo belting out Paganini at the Met.

And you know the lazy-talkers are also the loud shoe-scuffing-shufflers, fat-assed long-diagonal-parking-lot-walkers, the forever-to-pull-out-of-their-parking-lot-spacers, the grocery store aisle-blockers, the no-turn-signal-users, the stop-sign-rollers, the sexy-baby-talker-young women and the still-using-Valley-girl-speak pushy soccer moms.

It feels good to vent, Slattitudes and Nuggliesiaseseses. It feels good to vent.

Can I get a Hay-Nan-Nanny and a Hot-Cha-Cha one time?

Lex has an epiphany

So there I am, sitting on my butt on the cold, hard cement walk, leaning against the cement wall on the walkway above the stands during my daughter’s track meet. This was a duel track meet, so it wasn’t exactly standing-room only.

The meet was running a solid one hour late, so I was, truth-be-told, a little cranky. Getting ready to time Ann Caroline’s 200 meter race, so  I wanted to practice on the 100 meter races. A guy walks up in front of me, talking loudly on his cell phone, and he stands dead-solid right in front of me. Totally blocking my view and just talking away. He could have stood anywhere else. Any freaking where else.

Just as I was about to let out an exasperated, pissed-off and very loud, “Dude, really? Right in front of me? That's where your rude ass is going to stand? ” I hear him say on his phone;

“Listen, I can still hear you all talk, but I have to put mine on mute, my son is about to run.”

Right then, an-odd-for-me thought occurred: let it go. Let it go, the guy seems OK. Maybe he is having a tough day or was on a really important call. Besides, he was so focused on the call, I was pretty sure he did not realize he was blocking my view. Plus, his son is in track, my daughter is in track, so, hell, let it go. There was something touching about the pride he felt in his son about to race. 

So, for once, I did not say anything. Just slid a few feet over to the left. Guess where he moved? A few feet over, right in front of me again. Again, for once, instead of being the politeness police, I just smiled, laughed to myself, leaned around him to the left and let it go.

(Yes, this is still me, your pal Lex)

Right about then, the problem was solved, the guy hurried down toward the track and out of my view. It felt good not to have said anything. Taking the high road was nice. For once. 

The gun for the last 100 meters heat goes off and with it comes a sudden loud, loud cheer. From both teams. All of the other athletes and coaches and volunteers are clapping and running from the infield to line up on the side of the track to watch this last heat of the 100 meters race. A chant goes up of;

“Riley, Riley, Riley…”

At the starting line in the middle of the track in lane four, among seven other oddly slow-moving competitors, in a green aluminum walker, was Riley. 

Riley was a severely physically challenged young man with thick glasses making it down the track as hard and as fast as he possibly could, dragging his feet on the track one shaky step at a time. If there were dry eyes in the place, they weren't mine. It was going to be close for him to make the whole 100 meters. 

This is the power of track. One second I am ready to get road-raged at a guy, the next I am tore-up from the floor up with love and emotion for Riley. 

Riley had all the athletes in the race helping him and encouraging him every inch. And, with their help and his sheer tenacity, Riley finally made it to the finish line.  

The place went absolutely bonkers. Riley got a huge hug and a kiss from his father. 

Guess who Riley’s proud, proud daddy was? You got it. Loud-cell-phone-talker-standing-right-in-front-of-me-guy.  

Bless his heart.