Pool Parties and Impending Doom

What a weekend I just experienced. Dark realism crept from the shadows like a legion of spiders. No matter where I turned, reality smacked me in the face with a new, desperate realization. Let me explain.

I have determined, through diligent observation, that Girl Scout moms possess dark clown magic. Oh, they may look innocent with their Martha Stewart bob cut and designer sweatsuit, but something is definitely afoul. No one can fit that many people into a minivan without delving deeper into the dark arts than Lord Voldemort himself. What do a pool party and an evil clown convention have in common? They’re both places you can see 127 people come out of the same car.

I have also determined that the world is doomed. I’m not trying to be melodramatic, but there is just no other way to put it. Doom is on the horizon. How are we gonna go, you ask? We will die by our own stupidity. Someone will push the nuclear button in an attempt to flush the toilet or disable the entire power grid with a fork, an AC adapter, and a set of unread directions. How do I know this, you ask? Flash back to the pool party with the 400 Girl Scouts traveling in a van that’s creepily bigger on the inside. There were boys at the party as well. One boy exited the locker room with someone else’s t-shirt on, argued the point despite the fact he didn’t wear a t-shirt to the party, then begrudgingly returned it. This is not, in itself, a societal conviction, just an indictment. What happened next makes me reluctant to turn our fate over to the next generation and ultimately dooms us all. The owner of the shirt was found and he was informed his shirt was back in the locker room where he left it. He proceeded to walk past the locker room door, down the hall, and open the door marked with the big, bright red letters that said, “Exit.” He stared out the exit door for several seconds, apparently confused that grass was growing in the locker room. Maybe he wondered if his shirt was hiding behind shrubbery. Maybe he was looking for a man named Roger. It really is quite difficult to imagine what, if anything, was going through his head. What was going through my head, on the other hand, was clear and precise. Doom, I say. Doom.

Speaking of doom, I once again became distinctly aware of the ongoing internal conflict between two formidable deadly sins. I wanted a snack and to sit on my rear, which initiated the conflicted between sloth and gluttony. Sloth was armed with a mighty spear he was too lazy to pick up and gluttony was too fat to get into his armor. I’d tell you more but, well, sloth won.