This phrase has become part of my own lexicon, despite my attempts to beat it back with a stick. Anything you hear that often sinks in whether you want it to or not.
Today, I would like to share with you, some of the people and things that I have encountered over the past week that need a "Swift Kick in the Pants".
A Swift Kick in the Pants to: My Shoes
for the sole separating out from under the heel and making a smacking noise with every step. And an extra kick for happening as I walked in the building at 9:00 am, leaving me to announce my arrival at every meeting with a thwack,thwack.
A Swift Kick in the Pants to: Me
for face planting in the middle of Five Guys Burger. Go figure, old dumbass germophobe wants to wash her hands before she eats her burger and since they take an eternity to cook a burger at Five Guys, I had ample time. However, you would think that after a lifetime of scraped knees and twisted ankles that I would look more closely at the four inch high lip between the restaurant floor and the bathroom floor.
Just to reinforce for the trillionth time - Weak Ankles + Clogs + Uneven Pavement = eating the floor.
A Swift Kick in the Pants to: The Boyscouts of America
for stalking people outside the 7-11. I definitely don't mind buying things from the Girl Scouts or Boy Scouts. I have certainly purchased more than my fair share of Thin Mints. But on this morning, the BS0fA had a new product line (oh goody, no more microwave popcorn), which included an eleven ounce bag of Carmel corn. This is a much smaller bag than your standard bag of chips. The bag was smaller than an 8X11 sheet of paper.
I picked up a bag and handed the kid a ten dollar bill. It wasn't priced, but I figured I must have had it covered. He looked at me in confusion, tongue half hanging out of his mouth like it was the first time he had seen money. The older scout at the table told him to look up the price. He flipped open his little catalogue and said "eighteen dollars please". I tried not to look as shocked as I was. Are you telling me that if they sold that measly bag of snacks for eight dollars, the BSofA would not have made a tidy profit for their organization? Say, somewhere in the neighborhood of $7.50? But it gets better . . .
I reach into my wallet to return the ten dollar bill and retrieve a twenty. I hand the boy the 20 and again, a pained look of confusion crosses his face. He stands there, motionless and silent with the twenty dollar bill in his hand. Again, the older scout instructs him to give me two dollars change. He opens up his little cash box and it is empty. The older scout yells down to his father "Dad, we need change for the box.". His father, deep in conversation with another father about either baseball or hookers, barely nods to his son and goes on with his conversation. At this point, my level of frustration is at its peak. I had two choices: Walk away or walk down to the father and give him a Swift Kick in the Pants. I walked away, but one week later, I regret not kicking him. What a douchebag. Or maybe the douchebag is me. I am the proud owner of a $20 bag of caramel corn.