Saturday, September 08, 2007


Why It Isn't Safe to Shop in New Hampshire

I'm just a little girl, three and a half.

The man came over to my mommy and me. He shook my mommy's hand and told her he wanted her vote. She turned to sand.

Then he stooped down to talk to me. Whoops. Brrrmp. He made a stinky-wind. I wanted to laugh, but I was afraid.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked.

The day was warm. His hair was shiny in the sun and it hurt to look at him. His perfume made me sick.

I'm shy. I usually let my mommy do the talking, but she had turned to sand. Still, I couldn't think of an answer.

He turned to another man and said, ha ha, shy one isn't she. Well, sweetheart, be sure to be a Republican when you grow up.

Will you change my mom back? We were going to get ice cream, I wanted to say.

I didn't say anything, though. I'd rather hold hands with sand than smell any more of his stinky wind.

Perhaps he's trying to talk her into watching some porno-on-demand at one of the local Mormon-owned Marriott hotels.
That mommy should be reported to CPS for letting Mr. Stranger Danger get that close to her.
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