My Experience with Club Kids

We had a run-in with club kids on our way to Mother’s labia shaping appointment.

We were stopped at a light near Sunset when a large group of kids appeared from around a cinder block wall and surrounded our car. They were all dressed as characters from a Grimm's fairy tale and they were dancing, pushing and rubbing up against our Bentley as if it were Hummer in a rap video.

"Rhodes! Get us out of here!” my mother ordered, but Rhodes was still traumatized by Mexico--he gets all jittery when he's driving near pedestrians.

Last year my Mother demanded he drive us to Acapulco for the weekend. While there Rhodes ran down a couple of people as he attempted to open a pack of ketchup (I can never open those darn things). Never try to open a ketchup packet while driving.

Anyhow, the paramedics were there before I finished my fries. They patched up the people that had rolled over our hood and windshield no problem. Our car, however, suffered five thousand dollars in body work. Rhodes still feels horrible about the incident. My mother keeps telling him that he shouldn't feel bad or guilty about the whole deal but he never listens.

"Those people you ran over will live, sure they might walk with a limp for the rest of their lives, but they're alive right?"

Guilt addled, Rhodes just sat there, frozen in fear, his stubby sun-baked hands clutching the wheel; visions of Mexico swarming around his head like bees.

"Iggity, Biggity, Iggity, Iggity.” he said, his knotty head bobbing around excitedly.

"We'll be late Rhodes. Press my pistol against the window.", Mother ordered.

"Iggity, Biggity, Iggity, Iggity." Rhodes complied, producing mother's .38 from the glove box and pressing it against the window with a loud 'tap'. The pistol, a personal gift of General George S. Patton to my grandfather, cuts an unmistakable profile pressed against automotive glass.

"Iggity, Biggity, Iggity, Iggity.", he ordered.

There were a couple of screams from outside- muffled well by the airtight cavity of our Bentley. The frightened kids scattered long enough for Rhodes to speed away, leaving the yelping costumed group in a cloud of exhaust.

I watched them through the tinted rear window as we sped away and I noticed that they had almost immediately gone back to dancing. I thought that was quite odd. My mother's pistol usually elicits a more negative and lasting response, but not this time. They were having so much fun that I almost wished I could join them. I sighed.

Mother snapped me back into reality, "Look at them, bunch of drugged up larval queens. Horse tranquilizers and ecstasy-- bunch of idiots."

"Drugs are no good", she continued, "unless they're given to you by a therapist or a doctor. What you see out there are bad drugs. Don't do those." She shifted in her seat a little, her discomfort underscoring the importance of her shaping appointment.

"Last time I tried one of those kinds of drugs I woke up in a ditch with someone else's severed toe in my pocket." she lit a Mild 7--an underscore to a point well made in my mother's non-verbal vocabulary.

I continued to watch the kids as they shrank into the distance, my admiration dissolving into pity. Poor souls, they're on the road to ruin, and no matter how fun the trip the destination is always a pain in the ass.

"Hurry up Rhodes, I don't want to miss my appointment. I'm dying here.", my mother snapped as she readjusted her position on the fine leather seats.

Better to suffer on the way than to suffer once you get there I suppose.