Sometimes Ya' Gotta Tell Them To F-Off.

So there I was, chillaxin' at the pool with my hubby.  He took the day off in order to spend some much needed time together.  Life this summer has taken hold, and we've been busy--and our alone time has suffered.  Before hitting the movies and over to Texas DeBrazil (dinner tonight, thanks to Julia and Chiz!), we decided to catch some rays.

We brought our Subway sandwiches and drinks, beach towels donning the lounge chairs, sunscreen all over our bods.  The sun had been soaking us in for about 30 peaceful minutes.  Beautiful, quiet, serene minutes.  There were barely any others at the pool, one of the luxuries of not working during the week.

And then the family of hillbillies came traipsing through the gate.  Three women that could fill the entire baby pool, two men, and a shitload of kids--at least 6--and they were all boys.  And it was still fine when they started canon-balling into the pool.  And it was still fine when they were screaming at the top of their lungs, as though the invention of a pool had never been introduced to them before.  And it was still fine when the squirt guns came out and they were firing shots at each other within reach.

Things were still fine when the father started screaming at his kids to stop talking to their mother in the profane manner that they were.  Things were still fine when one of the mothers told one of the little boys that she'd "Beat the shit outta him if he didn't stop squirting her."  Things were still fine when one child began to sink, and started to scream for help.

And we lay there, the sun taking ahold of us, not saying a word.  We relaxed through the mayhem.  Soon Kent arose and dove into the pool, anything to get away from the noise or perhaps simply because he was too hot.  Who knows?

And there I lay, feet toward the pool, about 10 feet from the pool's edge.  Next to the Rules and Regulations sign that clearly stated several infractions these yahoos were breaking.  But who am I to enforce them?  No, not my job.  It's the summer.  I'm here to relax, to swim, to relax, and oh, yes, to relax.

I tuned out the annoyances so close to my right, focusing on my hubby who was swimming around.  And that's when a huge burst of water hit me directly between my legs.  It was like a bidet cleaning with my suit still on.  "JESUS CHRIST!" I yelled in shock and jumped up out of my seat.

And one of the piece of shit mothers, who ten minutes ago was cursing out her kid, had the audacity to harp in on me.  There was no apology.  There was no "Hey, son, say your sorry to the lady that you just violated with your squirt gun."  No, there was nothing but a "If you don't want to get wet you shouldn't be at a pool."  Oh really.

And without a moment's thought or a moment's hesitation, I had to tell this woman, and the other two women who stood with her, to all "F-off."  Except I used the word.

If I seem a bit self-righteous, I don't really care.  There's nothing worse than parents who are unable to control their children in public places.  Seriously.  If it's that difficult, please turn your ass around and go home.  Public places aren't merely for your children to run amuck.  They're not cute.  They are annoying--as are the adults who are unable to control them.

And by the way--Rule #2: No throwing of water.

Tomorrow I'll hit the pool again, and when I do I'll be sure to bring my headphones and super soaker.  Except it won't be the kids I'll be aiming for, it'll be their parents.

Enough said.