[Real Life] It All Starts With Juice

While walking to work this morning I ran into a bit of trouble. It wasn't in the form of Tuesday morning gang bangers but rather a small little child, in a stroller armed with fits and juice. The corner of 17th and Dolores is often tame. People who sit at Maxfields usually keep to themselves, and I walk on the south side of 17th so I can keep to myself. My morning two mile walk to work is a time where I meditate about the day ahead and prepare myself for the challenges of looking at porn. About half way down the block from Church I heard a child screaming. The ping-ting shrill only a child can make that took me out of my happy space. I looked ahead and saw a mother on her cell phone and with her son in a stroller. It almost looked like he was seizing, contorting his body every which way to free himself from his stroller bastille. His mother said in an I-never-have-watch-Dr.-Phil-voice, "Conner quiet, mommy's on the phone." I approached with caution. It wasn't enough. As I stood waiting for the traffic to ease up and cross against the light, the kid threw his sippy cup at me. Upon impact the lid popped open and juice sprayed all over my jeans. I mustered an "ughhhh." Mommy didn't even say anything. I was flabbergasted. She kept talking on the phone. "Are you going to apologize?" "What?" "Your kid just hit me with his juice." "Hold on Marcie. What?" "I said, your kid just hit me with his juice." "Oh." She didn't care. By this time her son was twisting. He looked like Linda Blair in the Exorcist. I half expected pea green soup to come at me next. The light changed and I stepped off the curb. "Lady your kid's a terrorist. It all starts with juice."