I don’t like foul play, man. I saw you, dude. I so caught you, and you know I did!
And if there’s something that I hate even more than foul play, is seeing my kid getting the short end of the stick because of your foul play, kid.
Sure, it was a game of tag on skates, so you’re technically right: nobody got any end of any sticks. But, that’s not really here or there. The point is that there are rules to the game, and you cheated. See, I saw Son touch you, and I don’t care if your Dad is the manager of the team, and seems to have pretty darn hard shot, when my Son tags you, you stop. Boom. Just because he kept on going to the other direction – he’s still working on stops – doesn’t mean you can pretend he didn’t touch you.
This time, it was just an evil eye I sent your way. And when I made you say “please” a few times when I got your ball from the snow, I was just warming up. I heard you the first time. The first time after I made you say it. Before
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Summer’s here, and I’m cleaning up Mr. Pakarinen’s files. Today, I found this unfinished blog entry from January. Not sure where he was going with it, but I think it perfectly demonstrates his pettiness and superiority complex, and it’s only fair that the world gets to know what kind of a man I have to work with.
And hey, he’s no David Foster Wallace so I’m not going to add any footnotes, but please note that
1. He stopped writing in mid-sentence
2. at 200 words = lazy.