At Least They're Committed

Uh-oh! Watch out! Requisite parental bitch-fit to rapidly ensue:

Don’t you touch them. That’s all. You don’t get to. For as pissed as I get with my husband for his weight gain and lack of ambition, you’d best be happy that he outweighs me by 100+ pounds after you nearly run over him AND my 13-year-old (low, guttural snarl . . . . ) in the parking lot because you’re an idiot talking on your effing cell phone. You’d best be thankful that he can pull me back so I don’t stuff my fist through the window of your Hyundai and yank you out by your bleach blond hair and stomp your face and Buddy Holly rims into the gravel until not even your mother would recognize you. Be thankful because I think in a past life I got to do that . . . a lot. And in this one, I’m feeling just a little bit antsy.

That is all for now. You may now return to what you were doing. Thank you for your time.