Space 3’s grandson only gets invited to a party one time. Then it’s over.
No more after school treats or skateboarding adventures with pals.
No more G I Joe explorations in the dunes behind the park.
No more pricking index fingers and becoming blood brothers at age 9.
Space 3’s grandson is a holy terror. I kid you not.
I have vivid memories of him yelling at me,
on numerous occasions, in this young, scratchy, psychobabble-sounding voice from the top of the hill,
“HEY! Hey you! Can you find my toy? My sister threw it over there.”
“No, I don’t see it.”
“NO! Not there! Over there!” “HEY! Hey, do you live there?”
“HEY! Who are you talking to? What’s your name?”
“HEY! Why won’t you talk to me?”
Space 3’s grandson is like Chuckie meets Gage Creed, except I haven’t seen any weapons yet.
Though he’s but a lad,
sometimes I am more afraid of him than the dude at unit
27 covered in Roman numeral tattoos.
Drinking more helps, that and closing my windows when grandma’s babysitting.
Let’s move on to something of a more international significance.
How about my friend and yours, Mr. Kobe Bryant?
NBA’s Stud Muffin, King of all Kings, his Royal Highness ship, Man of the Year, Tiger’s BFF. Everyone knows he didn’t rape that woman way back when. (Did you see what she was wearing?)
And why do we know that?
Because he said he so… “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” Oh…wait…No, wrong liar.
But unfortunately for Kobe, media cameras caught his homophobic, potty-mouth in action, so he can’t totally deny he’s a gay-basher and that he enjoys using the F-Bomb now and then. (See clip on my blog for proof.)
But, he’s one helluva player.
No, I don’t mean with ‘da ladies, I mean on the basketball court!
But the pathetic thing, in my trailer park girl opinion (and I do have one!) is that the blogs, tweets and articles that followed Bryant’s nasty tongue were centered primarily on the usage of the F-Bomb in sports and NOT on the homophobia that is rampant as Bed Bugs in our society.
I mean if he had attached the N-Word to the F-Bomb, imagine the outrage, the explosions, the financial repercussions, the hatred! Or how about the K-Word to the F-Bomb? And folks imagine the position the NBA would have been put in then.
A $100,000 dollar fine? I think not.
After all, $100,000 is pennies; a bag of Jelly Bellies to a Bling Man like Kobe.
Now, hear me out…
I think a better punishment just might be 200 mandatory hours, 24/7 with
Yep, you guessed it…Space 3’s grandson.