This afternoon, before the wind whipped up into a frenzy that would prevent Cooper and me from taking a walk along the bluffs up above and alongside the shiny blue ocean in the Palisades we stood at the stop sign that, if I must be honest, IS THE MOST CONFUSING AND ASSHOLE ENGENDERING STOP SIGN IN ALL THE UNIVERSE.
There are about 89 trillion options at this particular corner that leads to this space in the universe that is filled with:
distracted texting models
large muscular men attempting to pounce upon the distracted models
cats on leashes
crazy homeless people
elderly tribes of Middle Easterners carrying food coolers
lone females reading under trees
confused maintenance lawn mower guys
And so as Cooper and I sat, obediently, at one of nine corners that converge at the spot that takes you across the street and to the strip of wide lawn that overlooks the ocean we were VERY mindful to look to the left and then look the the right and when we saw that the coast was clear—when we were sure that it was our turn—we marched across the street as fast as we could.
Until we got halfway.
Until we were .000098ths of a millimeter in front of the horn of a Porsche that honked so loud I thought for one second that I might have lost The Coops, he jumped so high out of his skin, as the Porsche owner screamed at the top of his male pattern balding lungs: YOU HAVE NO CLASS!!!
Which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT CLASS? WHAT YOU NEED TO DO IS GO COOL YOUR SWEATY BALLS ON THE SOOTHING SAND THAT NESTLES UP TO THE PACIFIC OCEAN UNTIL YOU THINK YOUR TEENSY DOGGIE TESTICLES MIGHT ACTUALLY BE SMILING AND WRITING IN THEIR JOURNAL—-THEN, AND ONLY THEN, CAN YOU TALK TO ME ABOUT CLASS.
Your Horn Is Your Penis,
Commander Coolio Coolmeister