When I was in the 4th or 5th grade, my mom worked at the school I went to, so I ended up staying after school most days, hanging out with other kids whose parents worked there.
I used to hang out with this one kid, I won’t mention his name here, but he had two first names. It was hyphenated, and his mom insisted that you say both names and it made it sound like he was constantly in say-your-whole-name trouble. I haven’t met anyone else with two first names since then that I recall, so I’m marking that one off in the “Weird as Hell” category.
Anyway, Mark-John’s mom was a 4th grade teacher and she had a Macintosh in her classroom. This was the early 90s, so I’m marking that one off in the “Cool as Hell” category. One afternoon we figured out how to use the text-to-voice function. So, obviously, we made it say things like “Poop fart shit damn,” because I mean, c’mon.
We were in the middle of a hilarious robot swear super-combo when his mom walked in.
I went pale and put my hands up like I was getting arrested or something. But Mark-John didn’t. Something turned in his face and in his eyeballs. He started screaming at his mom.
“GET OUT OF HERE. GET. LEAVE NOW. WE’RE NOT DOING ANYTHING.”
I think about this a lot. His parents were giant Texas A&M fans and really wanted him to play football there, but unfortunately, he never figured out how to tap into that rage on the field. But also, I was dumbfounded at the audacity of responding to his mom that way. I wanted to be like, “Dude. We’re caught. It’s over for us. It’s the end of the high-speed chase on COPS. They’re going to sell some Just for Men or Bud Light now. We’re through.”
But he lashed out like a cornered raccoon.
And that, my friends, is why I’m confident Trump is up to some shit.