Weirdness Magnet II
Yesterday, a 5-year old boy walked up to me in the Diesel store in ritzy South Coast Plaza Costa Mesa, and without a word, punched me in the crotch as hard as he could.
It started innocently enough. I took a day off work to regroup and get some shopping in with my buddy Roy. We spent far too long in the Apple Store and then headed to the Diesel store to look at $275 jeans both of us can now afford, yet ironically, are now too old to pull off. As we walked in, we saw a 5-year old-ish boy sitting barefoot on the store floor, one sandal here, the other on the other side of the shop. We watched as he took his plastic raygun and flung it across the length of the store, landing with a clatter. His mother looked over, saw he was still breathing and turned back around to her reflection in the mirror, modeling a pair of nasty jeans.
As the boy began running through the store barefoot, Roy called me over to a display case to look at a watch he knew I’d like (I’m a sucker for a nice Diesel watch. My birthday is in May. Add to your Palm Pilots, please). I was walking over to the case when the boy suddenly ran up to me, stopped directly in front of me, looked up in my eyes, reared back and punched me in the crotch as hard as he could.
Trust me, I only wish I was making this up.
Roy stood with his mouth hanging open. I could only look down at the boy, who then began laughing. “Not his fault,” I told myself over and over. I looked up, and in a loud, authoritative voice bellowed,” WHOSE KID IS THIS?!?”
The store froze, eyes fixed on me and the kid. For a long pause, no one moved.
The mother then slinked over to the boy, making no eye contact with me, not saying a word. I then said, in the same loud tone, “YOUR SON JUST PUNCHED ME IN THE PENIS.”
She didn’t react. Apparently, crotchpunching is nothing new in her world. She handed him off to his older brother, who held the boy’s hand. Then she turned away, and went back to modeling her jeans in the mirror.
She didn’t say one word. Everyone continued staring at her.
My work was done. Roy and I went and had ice cream. As we sat and enjoyed our icy treats, Roy asked, "Why didn't you tell her off, man? I would have gone OFF. You let her off easy...especially for you. I can't believe how calm you were."
My only response was two words: "Blog entry."
It started innocently enough. I took a day off work to regroup and get some shopping in with my buddy Roy. We spent far too long in the Apple Store and then headed to the Diesel store to look at $275 jeans both of us can now afford, yet ironically, are now too old to pull off. As we walked in, we saw a 5-year old-ish boy sitting barefoot on the store floor, one sandal here, the other on the other side of the shop. We watched as he took his plastic raygun and flung it across the length of the store, landing with a clatter. His mother looked over, saw he was still breathing and turned back around to her reflection in the mirror, modeling a pair of nasty jeans.
As the boy began running through the store barefoot, Roy called me over to a display case to look at a watch he knew I’d like (I’m a sucker for a nice Diesel watch. My birthday is in May. Add to your Palm Pilots, please). I was walking over to the case when the boy suddenly ran up to me, stopped directly in front of me, looked up in my eyes, reared back and punched me in the crotch as hard as he could.
Trust me, I only wish I was making this up.
Roy stood with his mouth hanging open. I could only look down at the boy, who then began laughing. “Not his fault,” I told myself over and over. I looked up, and in a loud, authoritative voice bellowed,” WHOSE KID IS THIS?!?”
The store froze, eyes fixed on me and the kid. For a long pause, no one moved.
The mother then slinked over to the boy, making no eye contact with me, not saying a word. I then said, in the same loud tone, “YOUR SON JUST PUNCHED ME IN THE PENIS.”
She didn’t react. Apparently, crotchpunching is nothing new in her world. She handed him off to his older brother, who held the boy’s hand. Then she turned away, and went back to modeling her jeans in the mirror.
She didn’t say one word. Everyone continued staring at her.
My work was done. Roy and I went and had ice cream. As we sat and enjoyed our icy treats, Roy asked, "Why didn't you tell her off, man? I would have gone OFF. You let her off easy...especially for you. I can't believe how calm you were."
My only response was two words: "Blog entry."
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