Now I just need to worry about the other 98

Sometimes the best thing you can do, is be a total dick.

After work I found myself in a bit of a mess because I realized not only had I not written a column for this week yet, I hadn’t even came up with a topic.

In my panic I even started writing one that I’ve been putting off for years in which I reveal to the world my secret shame (Don’t worry, it’s nothing too bad, it does however involve mostly naked men).

Fortunately within minutes of going up stairs to take a break from baring my soul to the Internet, something wonderful happened.

I did the worst thing I’ve done all year.

I purposely popped  a small child’s balloon.

It’s cool though, the kid was my son, which makes pretty much everything I do OK in the eyes of God.

In my defense, I didn’t do it in front of his face. I’m not Skeletor.

He wasn’t even home at the time. It was a helium balloon he got at a birthday party almost two weeks ago. It must have been some kind of genetic super balloon because until today, it was still floating fine.

Throughout the course of the course of the day, while my wife and I worked in our separate but equal home offices and the boy was at preschool, the balloon began to sink slowly towards the floor.

I knew how this would end. I’ve been a father long enough to know that this would only end in tears. My son had ignored this 15 cent bag of plastic filled with a noble gas for the last week, but when he came home and saw it beginning to float off this mortal coil, it would immediately become the most important thing in his life and its demise would be a tragedy of epic proportions at least until he watched “Go Diego Go.”

In the three years I’ve been dealing with snot that isn’t mine, I’ve had many interaction balloons. None of them were whimsical. I’ve chased escaping balloons into oncoming traffic. I’ve driven across town to the late-night party supply store to get the right color of replacement balloon. I’ve had more funerals for balloon animals than I care to remember.

And through it all, I’ve learned two things. A) kids only care about balloons if they see them. B) I really hate balloons.

So when I took my car key and plunged it deep into the heart of that purple, oblong demon. It wasn’t out of malice, or mean-spiritedness toward my son. It was with a sincere desire to maintain and spirit of peace and harmony in my home.

And deep personal hatred.

It felt so good.

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