An Overheard Conversation At The Suburban Neighborhood Pool, If The Suburban Neighborhood Pool Were In Deadwood.
MOM 1: Fucking Homeowners Association cocksuckers. Are they so slow in the ass-fucking cerebrum as to not allow a goddamned simple, commonplace, gullet-pleasing peanut-fucking-butter sandwich on the premises of their fucking pool patio?
MOM 2: Fucking power-hungry vulturine twats is what they are, that Homeowners Association you speak of.
MOM 1: I mean, fuck me if I’m gonna take the three angelic fucking spawn of my hooch and force them to hunker their tiny selves down in the back of the sweltering cocksucking Odyssey just to masticate a PB&J and imbibe some goddamned Mott’s. Fuck.
MOM 2: Want I should write a letter to the HOA fuckers and invite them to a civil fucking sit-down where we can discuss this fucking asinine and irritating issue face to face?
MOM 1: Fuck no. It wouldn’t do any good. I doubt any of the fuckers can read.
MOM 2: Well, shit, Tiffany, let’s just divvy up the sandwiches among our sweet fucking runts and see what happens. Hunter’s gone all asshole from hunger-induced madness of the brain, already.
MOM 1: Indeed, Jennifer. Let’s buck the fucking antiquated “system” of HOA whores trying to prevent ants and the like from invading the fucking pool area. Ants I can abso-fucking-lutely deal with. Insane children? Jesus Christ on a bike, that shit is impossible to manage.
MOM 2: KIDS! FUCKING LUNCHTIME!
MOM 1: DON’T FORGET TO WASH YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS!
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