The Bowls Are No Laughing Matter

I was sitting quietly on my bus, lost in thought when I heard a quiet voice beckon my attention.  "Mr. Bus Dwivah," he said softly, sounding almost apologetic, "My sista just punched me in the bowls."

I'd never heard this child make so much as a peep, before.  No 'good mornings' or 'good-byes', so I wasn't accustomed to his form of speech.  That aside, being a fellow dude, I know the seriousness of being hit below the belt.  It hurts to even joke about getting hit in the nuts.

I followed him back to his seat and spoke to his sister, who's a couple years younger than him.  A tiny little lady, she can't be anymore than kindergarten age, and even more quiet than the boy.

"Did you hit your brother?"  I asked.  She shrugged her shoulders and hunkered down in her seat, before whispering, "Yes."

"Are you sorry?"  I asked.  She shrugged.  "I think you need to apologize to your brother." I added, to which she shrugged her shoulders again and spoke a single word apology.  "Sorry?"

"That sounded like a question." I said.  I think you need to move to the front of the bus, for now." I said.  This form of justice doesn't seem to dissuade any of the others I pull forward, but having no idea how to speak to children, this is the only form of authority I feel I can wield.  When I requested she move forward, she stubbornly hunkered down even lower in the seat, and informed me that she was quite happy where she was and that she would not be moving.

A part of me almost wanted to grab the supervising teacher standing outside my bus, but I didn't want to get the school involved in a sibling squabble.  Finally, the boy, who's nuts had been punched, said that he'd move to the front.  I immediately told him that he needn't take the punishment and told him to sit wherever he liked.

I don't know what led up to the little girl punching her brother in the "bowls".  I doubt there's any problem so extreme at four or five years of age to warrant a punch to the nards.  Then again, I wonder just how hard she'd punched him.  He was quite able to spring to his feet, straight away, and come calling on me to intervene.  I, personally, haven't had a lot of experience being hit there, but admittedly, I have had the misfortune of sitting on them when climbing into my truck.  When I owned my Camaro, this misfortune happened quite often.  Thankfully, not in my Mustang, yet (knock on wood).  But whenever such an accident happened, I could barely say my own name, let alone go for a walk.

Whatever the case, it doesn't matter.  It's all speculation.  When I dropped the kids at there spot, the mother of the two kids in question was present and I made sure to inform her of the physical exchange between her daughter and son.  I repeated that I doubt any problem for kids so young, would warrant in a rebuttal like this.  After all, The Bowls Are No Laughing Matter.

Where The F_ck Did I Park?

I remember years ago, getting really high with some friends and hitting the bar.  Actually, to be specific, I remember going to my friend's house, I kind of remember being at the bar, and I sort of remember some of the trek home at 3am.  Yeah.  The events of that night are and were as smoky as the room where we'd sparked up.  I'm sure I had fun.  Maybe...  Maybe not.

I don't in any way condone or endorse driving under the influence of any sort, and I've not done anything of the sort since that time.  Believe me, the events that followed made it perfectly clear that this practice should definitely not be the norm.

In a haze, I recall driving home down one of the less traveled streets that ran parallel with the main drag through that part of the city.  I was completely paranoid of trouble, I drove extra cautious and slow.  Especially, considering I drove a Camaro at the time, which is sort of a cop-magnet.  I got home, parked in my spot, and plugged the car in (it was winter time), then went into the house and went immediately to sleep.

I lived at home at the time and my mother woke me up in the morning when she was about to leave for work.  "Where'd you park your car?" she asked.  Considering how fuzzy the night before was, I was baffled by the query.  I was certain that I'd parked in the back, next to her car, but upon investigation, I saw that the electrical cord that I'd used to plug in the block heater on the car, was neatly slung over the fence, the usual spot where I would hang it.  I ran to the front, thinking maybe the car was parked on the street.  It wasn't there.  I struggled to remember where I would've parked or if I'd even driven the car home.

Apparently, I had.  Apparently, some kids happened by, not long after I'd parked the car in the back and apparently, they had a hell of a good time rippin' around the quiet winter streets and side-swiping a f*cking pole.

I loved that car.  I had it fixed and it looked good, but it was never the same for me after that.  In addition to the education I received from not leaving my sports car unattended in the back yard of a house situated in a bad part of town, I learned that good people aren't allowed to have nice things and that you should never ever drive under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.d