Of tiny dark things that go KERSPLAH in the night
Well it is now up to me to tell you a funny story: NO JOKE. This is a funny story and it involves me, Jeremy Cordy, and a little thing I like to call ‘fate’.
It happened today as we were driving around aimlessly after church, trying very hard to force farts out that just wouldn’t come out and remembering that I had no money and needed to hit up the bank for some loot. So, we made our way over to Kroger (which has a built-in bank) and I hopped out leaving Jeremy to die in the van. I went inside and found a line roughly comprised of 4.5 people. After I got out of the long line of smelly disgruntled people in love with the smell, texture, flavor and sight of money I made my way back out to the van. Jeremy was there, eyes bloodshot, sneezing constantly (he has allergies… towards lady bugs) and generally tired looking. I myself am no better, wearing my Fire Theft glitter shirt and my Tommy Hilfinger pants. Together we put the van into neutral and then reverse. The stage is set. Slowly, I begin to back the van out, blabbering on and on about how there were giant seedless grapes for sale by the door as I left the bank portion of Kroger and how I couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to eat a grape the size of their cat’s droppings for any reason whatsoever. So anyways I was jabbering on like a monkey on amphetamines when lo and behold, a sporty red car comes whizzing down through the parking lot, clipping my rear bumper. “holy guacamole” I thought, and Jeremy said something to the effect of “what the smell was that?” and I just pulled the van back into its spot and told him “let’s get out and teach that bastitch a lesson, Jer.”
Knowing full well that we are soldiers of Christ and wanting very badly to forgive those who trespass against us, we ventured over to where the sporty red car had just parked and made meaningful gestures with our hands and arms. “Hey!” I yelled. “Weenis!” Jeremy yelled. A balding man with a gotee and big guns for arms pops out of this impossibly low to the ground and dinky sporty red car. He gave us one look over from underneath his Oakleys (no doubt fake ones purchased at a large mall in the District of Columbia from a one eyed grinning toothless man behind a mobile cart) and just turned and started walking inside.
Knowing full well that we are soldiers of Christ and wanting very badly to forgive those who trespass against us… we took a look around the lot and decided that he was too buff to follow in and confront. What we did decide would be in order though would be to loogie on his windshield, which we promptly did. And then I (genius) came up with the good idea of writing down his license number and telling it to Scott Mattingly, who was on the job at the time. I ran inside and sought out Scott, gave him a hug and the piece of paper with the # on it and skeedaddled. Snickering to ourselves, Jer and I walked back to my van but then we noticed something bad: the red sporty car was gone from its spot… already. Poop.
God robbed us of our revenge, because revenge is His (Nahum 1:2) and we had to resign ourselves to looking for a restaurant in a van with a dent in the rear fender… without getting back at the baldy headed vagrant in a sporty red car who caused the ruckus in the first place. Kids: be careful when you drive.
“How will I drink from that stream when my soul is so afraid to Rejoice?”