Days like this are the reason God created profanity.

Ok, before you start reading this, please familiarize yourself with yesterday's post if you haven't already. And if you're new to my blog, you should also familiarize yourself with The Swamp Thing Chronicles. I'll wait.

Back? Ok. Let's begin.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKMUTHERFUCKERFUCKINGFUCK!!!!!!!!

Who inspires more profanity-laced tirades than any other human being on the planet? I don't even have to say it, do I?

Why do I ever write anything, ever?? I knew - KNEW!!! - that the second I wrote that I had managed to evade Swamp Thing the entire summer I was inviting Cruel Fate to bitchslap me upside the head. And Cruel Motherfucking Fate just about left me unconscious and twitching in a fucking ditch.

Minutes after I posted yesterday, I took Pie to a birthday party for three kids from school. I didn't realize these children were triplets (What are the chances that two of my three children would have friends who were triplets??), and if I had clued into that fact, I would have remembered that these are the triplets who live directly across the street from The Swamp. Camille is pretty tight with this crew.

Pie didn't mention this until we were en route to Chuck E Fuckin Cheese. My sudden awareness of the possibility of running into Swamp Thing? Two words, kids: Instant Diarrhea.

I stealthily made my way to the party table, introduced myself and Pie to the triplets' dad, and beelined it the fuck out of there, top speed.

R got home from work and I told him about the irony of what I'd blogged earlier and how it very well could come round and bite me in my dimpled white ass. I begged him to go pick Pie up at the party so I wouldn't have to. R reminded me that I had gotten the little hand stamp when I dropped him off, identifying myself as the only one who could take Pie home.

Fuckin security measures...

So I pulled into the parking lot and saw the Swamp Van. FUCK. I wished I had some sort of disguise, like even the Groucho glasses with the nose and mustache. Anything. I had nothing but a Bud Light hat snatched from Rip, so I pulled that down over my eyes. It was the best I could do.

I tiptoed in and before I had even gotten all the way through the door, Camille greeted me by shrieking and waving wildly from the pedal-copter.

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII, SARAH!!!!!!

(Shut up, ya little shit. ) Hi, sweetie!

I scanned the room for Pie, hoping to grab him by the elbow and bolt out of there like two bats out of hell. I spotted him by the Skeeball, and as my binocular vision zoomed out, I saw her. There was no way to get to Pie without walking past her.

See, the problem with my peppering my posts with variations of the word Fuck all the time is that when something's Super Duper Off-the-Charts Fucked Up and I am Beyond Fuckin Pissed, I don't have another word to communicate it. It's already like the queen mother of 4-letter words. What do you say when you want to kick it up a notch? This amp doesn't go to Eleven, Nigel. Where do you go from FUCK????

FUCKFUCKFUCKMOTHERFUCKINGFUCKFUCKITFUCKME
FUCKERFUCKFUCKITYFUCKFUH-HUH-HUH-HUCK.

I figured I could pull a move like something out of Frogger - hide behind a group of people and move to somewhere I could hide until another group I could hide behind walked by and thusly make my way from one end of the game area to the other without attracting the attention of the Swamp Thing. I found a group to walk with, only they zigged when I zagged and I was totally screwed, right in front of the one person in this world I least wanted to run into.

Other than Shatner. At least I'm pretty sure Shatner isn't going to say anything to me.

Well, HEEEEEEEEEEEEY, Stranger!!

(I fuckin WISH I was a stranger... ) Oh, hey!

When I'm stuck like a deer in headlights, the polite person I am (polite person, nonconfrontational pussy - poTAYto, poTAHto) defaults into Make Stupid Conversation mode, even though I know better than to give her an invitation to speak. The concept of Invitation means nothing to her. SHE SHOWED UP AT MY HOUSE. SHE WALKED IN MY WALK-IN CLOSETS. SHE IS JUST ALL KINDS OF HORRIBLE.

And there she was, across from me. I kept imagining how fulfilling it feel if I were to puke on her shoes.

But I didn't. I saw Pie walking toward me with a handful of tickets to cash in, so I hurdled one of her twins, grabbed Pie by the wrist and swiftly darted through the sea of overstimulated children to the Prize Counter. Fortunately, Pie had only a few tickets so his choices were limited, but any one who's ever taken a kid to any Pizza and Prizes outfit knows that it can take a full ten minutes to choose between the whistle and the fuckin spider ring.

Meanwhile, I was experiencing serious paranoia. My heart was pounding. I kept looking over my shoulder. Please, please, please, God, let me out of here before I have to deal with her.

Pie. Dude. Seriously, let's go...

Pie made his selection and we flew out of there like our asses were on fire. He asked me why we were running through the parking lot.

I just want to get home. I, um, really, really miss Dad.

On the way home, Pie told me something Camille had told him. She said that her mother told her she calls our house ALL THE TIME and we NEVER pick up the phone.

That is a blatant lie.

Ok, it's true that if she DID call I probably wouldn't pick up the phone, but apparently she has no idea how Caller ID works because I would obviously know if she had called me, and I haven't seen her number on it but once all summer.

I hate it when people lie to their kids. And in this case, she's totally making ME out to be the asshole in the situation. And I'm SOOOOOOOO not the asshole. I couldn't Out-Asshole the Swamp Thing if I wanted to.

Is Out-Asshole a verb? Well, it fuckin is now.