The Scout Chronicles: The Force is NOT Strong with my Little Sister

‘Sup bitches, tis Friday! The Scoutmeister is maxin’ and relaxin’ under blue skies. Saw some Rastas gettin’ their smoke on in the back corner of the park today. Ol’ Scouter moseyed on in, uber-chill, asked if they’d like to practice a little puff-puff-give? Told Scout they “Couldna spare nah puff furry mon”. Whatever shitheads, Scout just pinched off a huge digger two feet behind you that you’re likely to step on. Besides, Scout doesn’t really do drugs anyways; The Scoutmeister does bitches. What sort of Rasta won’t spare a puff for a fellow ragamuffin wanderer with great hair? Fuckin’ posers.  I’ve no time for stress today, just gonna keep on keepin’ on and let the world do what it do.

My main point in preachin’ today is: I fear we are going to need to be very, very patient with my little sister. She just doesn’t get it. Doesn’t matter the subject, she doesn’t. Fucking. Get. It. Take today for example. She is on and fucking on about some diamond horseshit she picked up from Sesame Street. Some lameozoid kid’s program has her obsessing over making a diamond with her two hands. Constant with the “Daddy draw diamonds!”, and oh, there goes dad, flying to the artist’s pad drawing and coloring more diamonds because he’s a pathetic fucking slave to my Sister’s every whim. “Mommy do diamond!” and mommy, like a lifeless automaton, puts her two hands together forming a diamond of open space between her sets of index fingers and thumbs. “Daddy, do diamond!”, and now dad snapping to attention as though the goddamned Furer just walked through the door makes his own hand diamond. Then, get ready for it, she says…….”Scout, do diamond!” You have got to be fist-fuckin’ me. Where to even start? First off, unlike your lackeys mom and dad who allow you to rule them with an iron fist, Scout is a GDI (God Damn Independent). You don’t order Scout around unless there is a sweet potato treat incentive program on the back-end of this command, and there certainly isn’t as I know damn well you cannot reach the treat cabinet. Secondly, and this is a pretty big one, the Ol’ Scouter DOESN’T HAVE OPPOSABLE THUMBS. Have you ever noticed, Princess Dumbface, that Scout knows how to open doors but yet cannot? Ever considered why? Can’t grasp the fucking doorknob Einstein. So riddle me this, Sister, how do you expect The Scoutmeister to form a diamond with his paws when he has no thumbs and his paws look like a muppet covered in fur so even if he could form the diamond there would be no diamond because the open space would be covered by fur? And finally, ever considered what sort of core strength would be required for me to stand on my hind legs while holding my front paws together in front of me to form a geometric shape? Actually don’t answer that, because you fucking well know I haven’t been doing my crunches lately and cannot hold such a pose, regardless how many times you demand. She cannot think outside the box. I respond to her command with the “You have got to be shitting me” look and instead of taking the hint she gets red-faced and starts screaming “SCOUT DO THE DIAMOND! SCOUT DO THE DIAMOND!” The Scoutmeister has had enough of this shit and so leaves the room to retire to the second couch (BTW, we have TWO couches now! Pretty amped to say the least, but a story for another day).

Scout is a tolerant guy but at some point we’re going to need to buy little Sister a helmet and a ticket on the short bus. I fear we’ve got a very long row to hoe with this one. Whatevs, it’s Friday. Getchyer drank on, getchyer smoke on, throw some Bob on the stereo and just cheeeeeel. You know The Scoutmesiter abides.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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