an essay in parentheticals.
This is the convenience store/Subway/beer grab/Keno Kasino located on the drive home (only "conveniently" if it is after 7, because you have to make a left across 117. We'll discuss some other time why in the world 117 needs a Wikipedia entry, and who bothered.)
So it's Game 1, ALCS, and I am stopping for beer and chips, (the makings of a Dream-Livin' Life of a Bachelor Man SAMMICH already procured) and there is a somewhat cute dad with 2 10-year old boys, stocking up on similar Bachelor Man supplies.
The boys are picking out sodas, and the dad hollers to them, "Let's get some crap for the game."
He really said crap. Which almost talked me out of what Andy calls "chick beer" (anything served with fruit). Almost. (It was Corona, in the end. But without the fruit, dammit. Spit - grab.)
That's not even the overheard I am reporting, because they lingered over the beef jerky ("do you guys like the teriaki?" "yeh! aaawwwesome!" in overlapping sit-com kidspeak). I am cashing out (which is another overheard, because my cashier says to her workmate, "I gotta go, people are coming to my house for dinner in, like, 5 minutes." And I said, "better tell them to bring it.") and the men-men-men are at the other cashier, now picking out Blowpops by the handful.
It is as I am shouldering out the door (with my beer/chip dinner) that one of the boys says, giddily, "My dad would NEVER do this!"
Happy post-season, all you weekend dads. It's one to grow on.