Archives for September 2019

SPEAKER rushes on stage. They are slightly out of breath from running late. They pace back and forth during the entire rant, never quite looking at the person they are addressing until the very end.

SPEAKER – Just hear me out. I know how . . . judge-y . . . you can get, so just let me finish before you jump down my throat.

Now it’s not that I hate children . . .

Speaker pauses and glances at the listener for a moment before continuing.

SPEAKER – See. That’s what I’m talking about. I didn’t even start and you’re already rolling your eyes.

Fine. Let me start over.

It’s bad enough that the footpaths are so feckin’ small . . . I mean, this isn’t America with their massive “sidewalks.” We’re lucky enough to live in town where we don’t have to walk in the gutter or along a boreen next to a hedgerow, with tractors whizzing past. But there’s barely enough space for one person to walk down a road around here. Why you can’t have a decent walk-and-talk with a friend, because you usually can’t walk two-abreast.

But then here comes a parent with one of them side-by-side baby strollers and suddenly I’m obliged to step into oncoming traffic because of their feckin’ snow-plow of a contraption.

Look. I can hear what you’re thinking. This isn’t about me hating kids. I swear. It’s the damn parents. I mean . . . God bless their not-so-little family and all . . . but why do the rest of us have to be inconvenienced over it. Get the in-line yokes, like. Or get a babysitter. Better yet, just leave the children alone at home. I still have the latch-key Mum gave me when . . .

Speaker drifts off and gets lost in a childhood memory for a moment before snapping back.

SPEAKER – They should be outlawed, is all I’m saying. Those side-by-side strollers, that is. Not parents . . . or their children.

I suppose some people get them as presents or hand-me-downs from relatives and the like, but they all need to be chucked in the landfill.

No! Not the children. Although some parents . . .

But that’s what I’m talking about. I’m talking about people who don’t think about how their breeding affects others. I mean have you been on a bus or train lately. You can’t turn your earbuds up loud enough for all the noisy kids.

And what kind of person flies with a small child? And another thing — why does the child get to fly for free!?! They should pay extra, to cover the cost of free drinks for everyone else who has to put up with all that commotion.

Not that I blame the children, of course. They don’t understand air-pressure or why their ears feel like they’re going to explode. You can’t just shove gum at a four year old and expect them to know it’s going to help, Dad!

Speaker pauses for a moment to shake a traumatic memory from their head before continuing.

SPEAKER – But I suppose even parents with children have to travel sometimes. It can’t always be helped. But what I really can’t stand are parents who bring their kids to restaurants! Who can afford to overpay for three kids to NOT eat over-priced chips? My parents didn’t bring us to a restaurant until we were in secondary school. And even then it was just SuperMacs.

Again, I’m not anti-child. I don’t mind a mother breastfeeding in a restaurant. I mean, we’re all there to eat, are we not? But I saw someone change a nappy at the table next to me once. Well . . . smelled more than saw, but still . . .

Oh, and that’s not even the worst child-in-a-restaurant story I have personally witnessed. About a year ago, I was in the local pub . . . a nice, family-run place. And there was this kid, maybe five or nine . . . I can never tell how old kids are . . . But anyway, this kid was running around to all the empty tables and licking . . . LICK-ING . . . the tops of all the salt shakers. I shit you not.

It was bad enough that the waitress didn’t see it. But the parents . . . not a word of correction from either of them. I haven’t eaten salt since.

Speaker finally turns to listener, stooping slightly to look down at a younger person.

SPEAKER – But speaking of eating, shall we go in to the restaurant here and start your big-boy birthday dinner with your favorite uncle/aunt?

Speaker straightens up and watches the young listener storm off.

SPEAKER – No, I’m not kidding? Where are you going? Wait. Just hear me out!

Speaker runs off stage, attempting to catch up with the young person they were talking to.

A figure dressed in black, except for a red beret enters centre stage and raises a defiant fist.

SPEAKER – Glitter is Evil!

The figure relaxes to arms-akimbo stance.

SPEAKER – It’s as simple as that. Even if scientists were to invent a bio-degradable, Eco-friendly glitter . . . it is still wrong.

Speaker begins pacing the stage.

SPEAKER – Even when suspended in some form of glue or gel, it still always leaves a mess. A mess that is never fully cleaned up and almost never by the person who caused the glitter catastrophe (a “glit-tastrophe”) in the first place. It’s selfish that way. It downright childish, and not child-like at all.

The speaker comes to a halt and pauses a moment, before turning back to the audience.

SPEAKER – It’s bad enough when parents and teachers, adults who aught to know better, cave in and let kids run wild with it (glitter, by definition, cannot be contained). The fact that adolescents tend to favour it just proves that they are cognitively still underdeveloped and probably shouldn’t be allowed to vote or drink . . . not if glitter is the type of life choices some of them are making. Being sleep deprived is no excuse for bad parenting.

Speaker holds up hands to ward off abuse.

SPEAKER – Oh, I see you silently judging me, just because I don’t have any children. But I was a child once and let me tell you . . .

Speaker claps hands and shakes head.

SPEAKER – But I digress.

Speaker renews pacing.

SPEAKER – If it weren’t such an annoying nuisance, then why is a “glitter bomb” such a popular way to piss off enemies? An American started a business mailing glitter to people’s enemies for a fee. And even though he was making money, hand-over-fist, he shut the company down rather than have to deal with all that glitter. When a capitalist would rather retire than make easy money, then you know the product is truly evil.

Speaker returns to centre stage.

SPEAKER – And only if it were just glitter.

Speaker holds up one finger.

SPEAKER – There’s confetti (AKA: fat glitter);

Speaker holds up a second finger.

SPEAKER – Tinsel (AKA: long Christmas glitter);

Speaker holds up a third finger.

SPEAKER Powdered-sugar (AKA: confectionery glitter);

Speaker holds up a fourth finger.

SPEAKER – and perhaps worst of all . . . Sand (AKA: Mother Nature’s glitter).

Speaker clenches fist and shakes it.

SPEAKER – Oh, there’s that judgmental glare, again. But if you’ve ever spent even a moment of time at the beach or in a desert, then you know . . . you know in your heart-of-hearts, even if you won’t admit it aloud . . . that you’re finding sand in crevices you didn’t even know you had for weeks. MONTHS!

Speaker takes a deep breath and pauses.

SPEAKER – And yet somehow, and for some-why, humanity has found a way to take the single most annoying inanimate part of nature . . . and manufacture an unnatural, UNHOLY . . . previously unimaginable evil . . . that we waste, WASTE, not just our hard-earned cash on, but our precious and limited time on.

Speaker takes a step forward.

SPEAKER –Only when we all stand together can we end the scourge that is glitter.

Speaker raises both arms over head.

SPEAKER – Stand up. Stand up! Stand up and say it with me, everyone: Glitter is evil!

Speaker exits, chanting “Glitter is evil!”

A non-native English speaker enters, holding a wrapped Chicken roll.

SPEAKER – Ya know, when I first moved here I thought everyone was a bit racist against me because I wasn’t Irish. Turns out, you were just annoyed that I was taking so long to order my bloody chicken roll.

Speaker places one hand over heart.

SPEAKER – I tell ya, I owe the lot of ye an apology. I mean I would’ve been out of the shop and done with my sandwich if it hadn’t been for Galway’s latest blow-in.

Speaker points with chicken roll back into shop.

SPEAKER – Not only did he jump the feckin’ queue (and we were all too bloody polite to say anything . . . well, except auld Mrs. Browne and that didn’t help matters) . . .

Speaker points chicken roll at audience.

SPEAKER – But as I was saying, there’s a special place in hell for queue-jumpers. I’m glad auld Mrs. Browne said something . . . but ultimately it just confused the eejit even more and dragged everything out far longer than it needed to be, so it did.

Speaker begins to pace slowly.

SPEAKER – I mean it’s a feckin’ chicken roll, not rocket science. Even I copped on after a bloody fortnight. But not this guy, not John. I’ve seen him around town since the start of the semester (three months ago, at least) and I know he’s a Yank from the Canadian flag on his backpack. (He’s not fooling anyone.) He’s too spoiled by too many choices to be able to make up his privileged little mind.

Speaker stops, looks down at the chicken roll.

SPEAKER – ’Tis simple enough, even if you didn’t know that you wanted a chicken roll until you got to the deli counter.

Speaker holds up one finger.

SPEAKER – Step One: butter or mayo. I know the choice is very tribal. It has divided families and doomed budding love affairs, but we’re all born with a preference and we should just all learn to get along. I’m a butter person myself, I love me some fresh Kerry Gold . . . but I don’t grill the employees about which brand of butter they’re using. Even margarine is better than that white gloopy shite. I’d rather have a dry chicken roll than the world’s best mayo . . . if there is such a thing. So why the feck would John pester the woman making his sandwich to show him the label on the massive jar of . . . She shouldn’t barred him right there.

Speaker holds up two fingers.

SPEAKER – Step Two: spicy or regular. It’s the simplest decision in the entire chicken roll ordering process. If ya have to ask how spicy the spicy chicken is . . . Look, either ya don’t like spicy things and so ya should stick with the plain. Or ya like things spicy and so the spicy bloody chicken is your only option. If ya don’t think it’ll be spicy enough for ya, ya got bloody salad options to supplement the mild spices. (Or should I say ’spice?’ It’s just bloody pepper. I swear you Irish are such light weights.) But for a minute there, I thought “John” was gonna ask for the Colonel’s secret recipe.

Speaker holds up three fingers and sighs.

SPEAKER – But the worst of it . . . the absolute, nearly wrecked my bleedin’ head in worse . . . was Step Three: salad choices. It wasn’t even the combo this monster ordered as much as the sheer quantity. The man had the ’Notions’ to request . . . no demand . . . five separate salads.

Speaker stomps back and forth on the stage.

SPEAKER – It’s just not me. Some shops will only do a maximum of three and I think even that is too much. Any more than two salads and the very structural integrity of the chicken roll is undermined.

Speaker pauses to take a deep breath.

SPEAKER – It started off bad enough when this lad ordered “pickles” right off the bat. He almost lost his shit when she put peppers on his chicken roll, but who can understand his stupid accent? Apparently this muppet has never heard the word “gherkin” and so ends up settling for both, peppers AND gherkins. And then . . . get this . . . he orders both tomatoes AND cucumbers! Not only does this fool already have “pickles” on his chicken roll, but he seems to be ordering every drippy, soggy salad in front of him.

Speaker leans into audience.

SPEAKER (under their breath) – I swear I thought he was taking the piss at this point and was going to order everything before storming off without paying for.

Speaker steps back and holds arms out wide.

SPEAKER – But then John did the unthinkable. Guess what the stupidest man in Galway . . . in all of Ireland . . . did next? How did he top off the sloppiest chicken roll, the chicken roll already too stuffed to shut? Lettuce!

Speaker shakes head slowly.

SPEAKER – ‘Tis the bulkiest of salads . . . and he wants it on top of everything else. I was so shocked I turned to the rest of the queue and shrugged. I should’ve gone all in and rolled my eyes. He’s lucky he didn’t get a chicken roll thrown in his face.

Speaker looks down at chicken roll, again.

SPEAKER – I was so flustered I barely got my order out: butter, spicy chicken, cheese, and jalapeños. I even forgot to ask for it to be cut in half.

Speaker holds chicken roll out to audience.

SPEAKER – But ya know what? The whole ordeal has ruined my appetite. Does anyone want this?

Speaker hands chicken roll to audience member and exits.