Stealing Frozen YogurtBlack Hockey Jesus
My son and I hang back at the toppings bar. I’m building a full on PB masterpiece. Peanut butter yogurt drenched in peanut butter goop topped off with chunks of peanut butter cups, peanut butter chips, and fragments of waffle cone. It’s perfect. I want to rub it all over my naked body and roll around in the grass. I question this fantasy, confounded by the deviant reach of my desire. However, this is no time for a moral inventory. It’s time to steal yogurt.
We never sneak. We just walk right out. You’d be surprised how many companies actually have policies that prohibit their employees to confront thieves. Not here, though. The Manager is all blustery and confused with his “Sir? Sir? Where are you—SIR—you have to pay for that!”
My son is having none of this confrontation. Young, cocky, puberty goofy—he yanks his subcompact Glock 26 from his waistband and yells “WHAT? PAY FOR WHAT? WE DON’T PAY FOR FROZEN YOGURT BECAUSE WE ARE ALLLL THAT. IN FACT, YOU NEED TO APOLOGIZE TO MY KID SISTER FOR YOUR INDISCRETION AND EMPTY THAT CASH REGISTER BEFORE I PUT A HOLE IN YA.”
The Manager replies with a shaky voice, “I am very sorry, little girl.” and hands my son $38.88. Not bad when we were just looking to jack some yogurt.
“Dad?” my daughter inquires before spooning some red velvet cake flavored yogurt (covered with gummy bears) into her mouth. We’re on a picnic table in the park. The sun is hot. My son is counting his $38.88 as if counting it again might make it an even $40 or more. “Why do you write things like we steal yogurt and rob people with subcompact Glock 26s?”
“Oh, I don’t know, sweetie. All kinds of reasons. I suppose I’m being hyperbolic about us being laws unto ourselves and taking what we want because no one’s going to give it to us. I want to express those values in a way that’s funny to funny people and abrasive to stiffs. I like making stiffs uptight because that’s funny to funny people too. I’m also poking a bit of fun at our culture’s idea of entertainment while, at the same time, thumbing my nose at how boring most parenting blogs are. So, yeah, I write about my kids committing armed robbery. It’s probably wrong, but I’m a bad person.” I shrug. I eat peanut butter frozen yogurt and stare pensively at the clouds.
“But daddy,” she says with urgency, “it’s lying!”
“And that’s the most important part, honey. The slow hacking away of modern consciousness and the cracking open of the Western philosophical tradition’s limited, and soul stifling, concept of Truth to reveal the multitudinous truths hidden away in the limitless imagination like an enormous vault of shimmering gem stones in a deadly dragon’s lair.”
“I love you, daddy.”
“I love you too, kiddo. Let’s go steal some prescription meds from old people.”
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