It’s that time of year again. Well, it’s a lot of times – Christmas, Hanukkah (gesundheit) and Kwanzaa, whatever the fuck that is, to name a few. And, if you believe the Mayans, our final days to try out heroin or blow and experiment with that curious “male-male-female” (shout-out Joe!) fantasy we’ve often had.

For many of us, besides trumped up cheer that masks hidden depression, it’s also “program” time at our children’s various activities. Dance, choir, band and plays, you name it. About 3-nights out of our week, leading up to the holiday, are dedicated to sitting in uncomfortable seats in overcrowded gymnasiums and fighting to get a picture of your child with the rude assholes you’re forcibly surrounded by.

This year I dedicated myself to getting to each event promptly and securing a nice seat down front, making the picture posturing unnecessary for a change, while also allowing me a great view of my beautiful daughters.

Daddy raced home from work, dinner was had and the girls were prettied up sufficiently. We actually got out of the house at a decent time and I was pleased to see a mostly empty parking lot upon our arrival. The girls were sent to their appropriate meeting place and I was off to secure my well-earned, front row seating.

I peacocked down the middle aisle and arrived at the front 3-rows. Before I could get my coat off and take a seat, it happened: “Sir, these seats are saved.” Excuse-fucking-me…what are you, eleven?

That’s right – a single, grown woman was informing me that she was “holding” those for her later arriving husband, parents, aunts and uncles. Staring primitive spears through her bloated face, I moved on.

Next row, another bitch, this one using everything from programs to gloves and a goddamned shoe, I shit you not, to “save” the entire row. My desire to kill my fellow man was becoming evident in my clinched jaw by now.

By the time I reached the 3rd-row, I was borderline homicidal. Waiting for me there was the jolliest bitch of them all, who giggled as she told me how “last year I didn’t have enough coats so I brought along a string of ribbon this time, hee-hee”!

I’m not even fucking kidding. This awful whore had strewn ribbon across the entire row like some kind of razor wire across a prison fence and expected this to serve as a barrier of some sort. Furthermore, she seemed genuinely surprised that the hollow eyes to my darkened soul were not revealing a similar feeling of holiday cheer and failing to see the humor in this. Perhaps it’s because my thoughts had drifted to my standing on her back, while yanking up on said ribbon, with the other end securely fastened around her pencil-fucking-neck…but I digress.

That’s right, I piss, rant and moan about A LOT of shit, and this week’s happens to be “seat saving”. This practice is overwhelmingly dominated by women, a.k.a. “bitches”, who seem to think the world revolves around their extended family unit. Well, them and lard-asses, but still mainly women. This is the same bitch that flies by everybody at a “left lane closed” merge to force the SUV, which she hasn’t contributed a dime of payment to, in at the last second, and whose children butt in lines at theme parks. After all, asshole is a genetic trait.

“These are saved”, “those are for my family”. Really – well olly olly oxen free, you fucking douche bag, I don’t fucking see them. Who am I kidding? I talk tough but this is one of the few public times that I mysteriously keep my mouth shut and somehow accept these 3rd-grade cafeteria rules. The things you do for your children…

How idiotic is this? We are 25-65 year old parents and grandparents who think “saving seats” is some inalienable right we’ve now inherited. One person, again usually female, is selected to arrive early and save half the goddamned gymnasium because Dad’s not leaving the house until he absolutely has to and Grandma has to watch her “Everybody Loves Raymond” rerun, for some unexplainable reason, first.

You want good seats – get there early and fucking get them. Men seem to realize this and, as noted, you don’t often find them serving sentry to the entrance of a row. That said, even though we seem to realize the complete and utter asshole-edness of this behavior, we’ll hypocritically accept the seat our female counterparts have held hostage for us upon arrival.

If I could legally hit a bitch, there’d be a trail of carnage adorning the floors of various JeffCo gymnasiums as I type this, and I’d have better performance pictures of my children. Those great close-ups you posted on Facebook from last night’s dance recital? Yeah, well fuck you, I know how you likely got them, you rude, narcissistic whore.

I’ve got a seat saved for you, it’s on the “I HOPE YOU DIE” express, come aboard…KMFP-out!

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