Also, musings on the sisterhood of girl scouts and creeps who hang around with kids…
I’m not feeling great today. Went grocery shopping last night, the girl scouts were selling cookies out front. Had a bunch of cash on me, purchased a shameful amount, ate until I was sick.
I think the cookie sales are supposed to teach the girls about entrepreneurship. Or something like that. I wasn’t a girl scout, I don’t know much about them. Except that they’re not associated with the boy scouts. Where the boy scouts are all about facism and homophobia, the little girls are all about sisterhood.
I don’t trust men who enjoy the company of children that don’t belong to them. Weird shit, that. Don’t feed me a line about how children are surprisingly intelligent. They just don’t have a filter, but neither do I. Hanging around kids is suspect, watching them at play deserves an arrest.
Whatever, just give me the cookies. And, please, don’t make me buy them from your daughter. I have no interest in speaking with a little girl. I don’t feel like standing around while she stutters out prices and tries to count out the boxes I want.
I don’t trust men who enjoy the company of children that don’t belong to them. Weird shit, that. Don’t feed me a line about how children are surprisingly intelligent. They just don’t have a filter, but neither do I. Hanging around kids is suspect, watching them at play deserves an arrest.
Thirteen boxes, that’s how many cookies I went home with. Fucking shameful. My wife’s already eaten three entire boxes on her own.
She also wants to pay some lady to massage our dog. There was a flyer at the high end feed store where we buy his overpriced food. $60 an hour, that’s what the lady charges.
“Mr Debs would love it!”
“Of course he would. He likes it when you pay attention to him. I’m not paying some lady to pet my dog.”
“She doesn’t pet him, it’s a massage.”
“What’s the difference? It’s rubbing on a dog for money. She’s basically an animal hooker.”
“No, it’s different. It helps with joints and digestion.”
“It says that on the flyer, that doesn’t mean anything. What’s she basing that on? It’s not like a dog can tell her. I wouldn’t trust anyone who honestly considers dog massage to be a thing.”
“It says she’s certified.”
“By who?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who certified her? The dog massage academy? Where do they get their accreditation?”
“It doesn’t say, it…”
“It’s bullshit. The fact that someone claims to be certified in dog massage makes me trust them less. This lady’s probably a dog raper, or she’s gonna hurt him really bad because she’s a fool.”
“Well I think Mr Debs would like it.”
“Mr Debs like it when you kick him. He’s a fucking idiot.”
I’ve been getting really into chicken fighting the last few months. It’s a fascinating scene, one I’d love to write about. But it’s totally illegal, and the missus has outed me to the Kauai legal community, some of whom apparently read BeachGrit, so I can really only mention it in passing. Rest assured, it’s a very fun, if totally morally reprehensible, time. So I’m just gonna continue betting on bird murder and leave it at that.
Make that four boxes of girl scout cookies the wife has wolfed down. She just polished off another.
Slater’s new banana board, seriously? When are people gonna learn, if he’s riding it, you can’t. For all dear Robert has done for the progression of the sport, advancing board design ain’t one of them. I shudder to think about all the wasted sessions of the early nineties, back when I thought a 6’2 x 17″ x 1 ¾” elf shoe sled was the best equipment I could get. Fucking terrible. So much bogging, so much flailing.
The fact that he’s riding it in a heat doesn’t give me great confidence in his efficacy as a fantasy surfer anchor. Seems to me he pulls out the odd jobs when he’s not really feeling it, gets back on normal(ish) boards when he’s invested in a win.
