Evil Takes A Vacation

Evil pulled his Hummer into the parking lot of the Yakov Smirnoff Theatre, flipped his cell phone closed, and called out, "In Soviet Russia, ass bores the comedian off you!"

"Jesus, Dad. Enough with the Russian reversal already; you've been doing that since St. Louis. It's been four hours and it's still not funny." The Spawn of Evil hopped out of the back and threw his half-empty Big Gulp toward a trash can. It hit the rim and burst open, spraying a nearby car with watery cola. "Two points!" yelled the Spawn, leaping clumsily into the air and giving an imaginary high-five.

"Nice shot, Hoops," muttered the Wife sarcastically as she got out, kicking Evian empties out of her foot well with her bright red Crocs, "It's only two points if you make it."

"Christ," wondered Evil, "has her ass always been that big?"

A hot, dry wind blew through the parking lot, ruffling the Spawn's mullet. "Dad! Dad! Fireworks! Let's blow some shit up!" The Spawn dashed across the parking lot toward the roadside stand with the Wife and her big, square Midwestern ass in pursuit.

Staring out through the windshield, Evil took a long, slow sip of his Venti Decaf No-Fat Caramel Frappuccino. "Just throw it back into drive. Stomp the gas," he thought to himself. Evil sighed and turned the key. "Time was I wouldn't even have thought twice about running over those two assholes. When the hell did I become so middle class?"