At around 7:15am every weekday, two whiny children run down the street making enough noise to wake the dead. Only, the dead are dead, so they just wake the living. They drag or ride some sort of hard plastic vehicle, like a wagon or a tricycle. I’ve never actually looked to see what it is, for fear that I might be tempted to shout profanity-laced threats of violence out of a window at children (not an entirely humorless idea, but one that tends to be frowned upon by society). But if you’re familiar with the sound, you know that hard plastic on a sidewalk is not a quiet rumbling, but rather, a sound similar to what you might hear if you were to eat a handful of sand while someone gently played a drum roll on your head with the bottom of their fists.
It happened again today. I was startled into consciousness by these two brats raised by inconsiderate, incompetent parents. The wheels of whatever vehicle carried these two soulless creatures came grinding along at a torrid pace. They reached the end of the street and turned around to go back, as was their routine. Faster. Louder. More disruptive.
Two full seconds of silence. Then complete and utter chaos.
Something happened. I have no idea what, as I was busy covering my head and praying for a justice-granting lightening bolt to strike them down from a clear blue morning sky, but it must have been fairly horrific. Both could be heard screaming as if undergoing a Civil War-style leg amputation or remaining conscious while being eaten by a grizzly bear.
It was the ultimate snooze button, like eight hours of REM-saturated tranquility were somehow bottled into the next fifteen minutes of sleep.
I’m not a religious man, but sometimes something happens that’s cruel and horrible, yet perfect and totally deserved, and I just have to think, “God, if there’s an afterlife, and it has a bar in it, I’m buyin’.”