Thursday, 17 December 2015

I want candy!!!!

Much like any six year old on this planet, once I tasted the sweet nectar of the gods on the tip of my tongue, I was hooked forever.  Don't worry, despite the name of the blog this isn't about my parents feeding me alcohol at the age of 6.  I'm talking about sweet sweet candy.  I was obsessed.  I would search the couch cushions every time my parents had a visitor leave.  There was always change, and one cent gummy bear candies were just three blocks and a road crossing away.

I never understood why I had to ask to go to the candy store if I had the money.  I came back alive every time I was granted permission. Therefore, when the permission wasn't granted I did what I knew how to do best.
Annoy the crap out of my dad.
Hi Dad, it's me again, wanting candy!

On this particular day my Dad was working on the car with his friend.
My Dad was always working on the car with his friend.  Replacing batteries, cleaning carburetors, rebuilding engines, replacing transmissions, fuel pumps, clutches, you name it!
Dad must have really liked working on cars, because he would never purchase a vehicle unless at least one of the doors was rusting off and the exhaust was spitting fire.
 Dad was under the car breathing heavily, I figured what better time to approach the old man!

I jumped on my bike and started doing circles in the driveway. Five minutes later I realized I was salivating, partly because it was hot outside, but MOSTLY because I couldn't stop thinking about the candy, it was so close, but so far away.  Maybe if I ask again!

At this point he was talking with his friend.  Something about government this, and lack of that.

What I did next doesn't translate very well from our language, so I'll briefly explain.
In our native tongue fuck off can also affectionately mean "get out of here".

So I took that as permission to go get myself some candy.
I remember thinking to myself "I'm so damn smart, I convinced my dad to let me get candy, this is going to be great!!"
I could already picture myself ripping the heads off those gummy bears with my teeth, and pretending I'm some giant T-REX that has come to vanquish them with my salivating T-REX mouth and stubby little  hands.

I depart on my bike, it's the quickest getaway before my dad might change his mind.
I get to the road crossing, where I always felt invisible.  I swear I could stand at this road crossing for ten minutes and nobody would stop for me.
One day I realized that if you time it right, drivers are forced to stop. They can and will stop before hitting you.
They don't want to hit you and go to jail.
This was my sound theory.
A lot of the time I heard screeching tires, sometimes cars rear ended each other, but at the end of the day, not my problem. They hit me it's on them.

How I've made it into my adult years with that kind of logical thinking, I have no clue to this day.

At any rate, I purchase my bag of gummy bears, almost get hit by a car at the cross walk on the way back, and make it safely home where my dad is waiting with his arms crossed.

At that point, I don't know if it was the swearing, or the misinterpretation, but my dad let me have it real good.  Open palm, right on the ass until it was numb.

I no longer had an issue interpreting what fuck off meant.

Was it worth it?  Hell yeah.  In fact, now that I'm an adult I'm going to ask myself RIGHT NOW if I can go get some gummy bear candies. Spoiler alert, I'm going to say YES!

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