an open letter to the apparently deaf parents at the taco joint on sunday morning…
yes, you. the dad in the socks and sandals and polar-fleece pullover that matched the one on both your bitch wife and that snot-slathered car alarm you call a child. while i applaud you for evolving to the point of not hearing that glass-breaking, nut sack-shriveling sound the rotten fruit of your loins can blast at decibel levels capable of dropping a bull moose from a hundred yards the rest of us can.
it stops conversation.
it stops thought.
and it harms our digestive tract to the point of causing noise-induced acid reflux. i guess much like coroners become accustomed and even immune to the pungent aroma of a corpse that has been rotting in a louisiana swap since katrina washed it out there so have you become accustomed and even immune to the audible equivalent now being blared out of that toothless drooling pie hole of that onesie-wearing disaster siren you call “junior”.
it’s happened once too often, so here’s what i propose.
we ARE in texas you know. a wonderful place. God’s country, as most of us tend to call it. we’ve got hills, beaches, forests, and even swamps and desert. and more importantly, we’ve got firearms. lots of them. and i think if you can sit there and let that shit-stained brat of yours violate my ear with a sound that is similar to a prize-winning persian cat being force fed very, very, VERY slowy into a paper shredder than i should be able to violate your flesh with a forty-five caliber round.
not a kill shot, mind you – that would be a little much.
at least on a first offense.
but i SHOULD be allowed to wing you – pierce some flesh, spill some blood, and bring some attention with a gesture that politely says (and the following is NOT meant as a slur against homosexuals as they never cause us this social issue):
hey, faggot – shut that kid the fuck up!!!
second offense? kill shot.
who’s with me on this?