This chick at work sometimes brings her little boy into the office after hours as she gets some work done. Tonight I had to be up there a little late so I got the pleasure of dealing with the little terror as I tried to finish up my oh-so-important crap.

Being a good person and a teacher of children, I tried to get him to punch this other asshole that was up there for some of the . But the damn kid wouldn’t punch the asshole. I asked him if he even knew what a “punch” was, and he vigorously shook his head “no”.

So I go to his mom, tell her she has a good kid cause he doesn’t know the meaning of the word “punch” meaning he’ll have less violence in his life, and she proclaims, “He knows what it means. He knows how to fight.”

The kid walks up. I ask, “You know how to fight?”

You know those moments in life where you get a glimpse of the immediate future and want to stop it but can’t cause your body and mind are on a collision course with fate and your extra-sensory visions do not compute with the you have upstairs?

When I asked, “You know how to fight?” I had one of those moments. As the words slipped from my mouth, I envisioned a world in which the kid would respond with a swift punch to my pistachios. And then I could see the little booger’s fist tightening. I could trace the motion of his bony little arm as he swung it back to its furthest reach so as to obtain maximum hurtitude. And I could see the look of utter disregard for the possible future children swimming around in my squishy almonds cross his face. Yet all my seeing and all my pre-knowledge could not stop his tiny fist from crushing my cashews or mashing my macadamia.

As I limped away in pain and confusion I thought to myself, That kid’s a fuckin’ nutcracker!

Poke

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