Avoid the Southern New Jersey Beaches at All Costs Part 6

Pick up the pieces here. You best have your best readin’ glasses on, and get somethin’ to drink while you’re at it. This one’s a doozy…

Getting’ back to the missus nearly mixin’ it up with some broad…You can tell that the folks who designed Wastaway Cove were high on smack. When the place is crowded, you can’t tell where the lines begin and where the folks millin’ about end. So, while lookin’ for the end of the line at some god forsaken ride, the missus asks a misc someone standin' about if she knew where the end was. Conveniently, the woman told her that she was the end of the line. So, the missus stepped up. A few moments later, a broad decked out in purple from head to toe, starts givin’ the missus a hard time. Accusin’ her of “cuttin'” in line. The missus, bein’ more than a bit stubborn and a lot more opinionated than she is stubborn, told her she wasn’t cuttin', she was told this was the end of the line. I guess the woman wasn’t crazy about that fact, and told the missus as much. The missus, bein’ who she is, didn’t budge. She stood in that spot, right or wrong. It didn’t break down to fisticuffs, but the broad in purple apparently had a lot to say about the situation under her breath. I relate this story to you second hand. Where was the Juice during this confrontation? I’ll catch you up to that a bit later.

Now, if the Juice is the above situation, I’m lettin’ the crazy bitch in purple go ahead of me. Now I know what you’re thinkin’. I’m sure you’re thinkin’ that’s a fairly wimpy thing to do. That the Juice should stand up for hisself. Well, here’s another free nugget of wisdom for ya, courtesy of the Juice. You might want to grab a pen and a piece of paper for this one. It’s ok, I’ll wait…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………got it? Great! Get ready, cause I'm about to tell you the nugget of wisdom (And I didn’t have to wipe any Jedi asses to get this one either). This is what you might call common sense, if you had any that is. Since, you’re about to write it down, it just tells me you got none. Common sense, that is. However, I digress. Here’s the nugget: It ain’t worth it! Simple right? Now, I hear you beefin’ “That was your spot the Juice. You shouldn’t have to give it up. Layeth the Smacketh Down, the Juice.” While you get your panties out of your ass, I’ll elaborate further. Sure, I “shouldn’t” have to give up my spot. Sure, I could beat the purple bitch down. Which, quite frankly she probably needed and deserved. The fact of the matter is…IT’S ONLY A SPOT IN LINE. Are you fucking insane? You road ragers might want to jot this down, too. You want to mix it up over a spot in line? What the flying mother fucking fuck is the matter with you??? It’s a stupid fucking ride. Junior and Juniorette can wait 5 extra seconds to get on the ride. It ain’t gonna make or break ‘em. They ain’t gonna need to see a shrink over it. They’ll need that for all the other crazy shit you do, that you think they don’t see you doin’. Don’t give me that look. You know what I’m talkin’ about.

And take it from me, the folks who want to mix it up with you over a spot in line, or cuttin’ them off on the highway aren’t playin’ with a stacked deck. Most likely, those folks is pushin’ down some serious anger that the little box it should be contained in, ain’t containin’ it any longer. And more than likely, once again, said folks will do you some serious harm. No matter how tough you think you are.

But, fuck with them, see if I care, I just want to finish this fuckin’ story. While the missus was about to have the altercation with the loony bitch in purple, where was the Juice? I’ll tell ya. I had made the decision to pair myself up with Lucifer. Which was a very bad decision, indeed. Before you start callin’ me stupid (which you have every right to), realize what my option was. Waitin' in obscenely long lines with the other 3 soul suckers, listenin’ to a non-stop barrage of bitchin’ and complainin' about the wait, the rides, the temperature, the treatment of the prisoners at guantanamo bay, how hungry they were (the kids, not the prisoners), the risin’ cost of medical insurance, and the pervasiveness of violence in our culture. It was the worst kind of Sophie’s Choice ever. What would you do smart ass? And don’t tell me neither, either. You’ve got to pick one. See, you can’t. Welcome, to the Juice’s own private Idaho.

So, I used up what felt like several eternities keepin’ Lucifer happy. I pushed that stroller real nice. Up and down and round the fuck around. Still, that boy complained, bitched and complained even more. He struggled to get out of the stroller, as I struggled to maneuver that fucking stroller around the over-congested Wastaway Cove. I spun the lil tyke this way. I spun the lil tyke that way. He was havin’ no parts of it. He wanted out of the stroller as much as I wanted the get out of Ocean City. Neither of us was getting’ our wish.

When I finally had enough of all the shiny, happy people in Wastaway Cove, I found the missus and told her I was takin’ the boy on the boardwalk. She was about to put up a fight, but I guess the barin’ of my teeth changed her mind. I spent the rest of the night waitin’ for either god to take me home or the fam to get done with the rides all the while pushin' Lucifer in his stroller. And as much as the big guy might love me, I think he likes to fuck with the Juice just as much, as there was no relievin’ of my sufferin’. So, I continued on weavin' Junior through the crowds, just tryin’ to keep him quiet. God, it was fun! Best. Vacation. Ever. Who'd want to go to Vegas and fuck misc women that you’ll never see again? Who’d want to do that? There’s so much fulfillment in havin’ an everlovin’ family.

The missus and the kids finally (thank the Christ. FINALLY!!!!) made their way out of Wastaway Cove. Before we left, I wanted to get funnel cake. I luvs me some funnel cake. This was probably gonna be my only pleasure of the whole vacation. And what a sad, sorry excuse for “pleasure”, really. All that money I spent, all the time I wasted, all the sex I didn’t have with all those smokin’ hot, over 18, gals walkin’ the boards nightly (hell all the sex I didn’t have with the missus or myself for that matter), none of it was for the Juice this vacation. NONE OF IT!!! But, this funnel cake would make up for it. Ahhhh…who am I fucking? Cindy Crawford? This funnel cake wasn’t gonna cover an iota of the blood I had to give for this vacation. But, it was something…

I stop at one of the local funnel cakin’ makin’ dumps on the boardwalk. I ordered 2 funnel cakes. Now the kids want cotton candy. Fine, but since I just spent yet another week’s salary at Wastaway Cove, I was only buyin' one bag of blue cotton candy for the 3 of them. They can share, fucketh thateth. You see it comin’ dontcha? 1 bag of cotton candy for three kids? As if. What the fuck was I thinkin’ Apparently, not only didn’t I buy the right color for Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie), but I didn’t buy enough for all of them. ‘Cause Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie) pitched such a bitch, it was the likes you haven’t seen since Bill O’Reilly had that stick up his arse accidentally removed. Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie) cried. She carried on. And my blood pressure went thru the top of my head.

Now, I’d like to say havin’ four kids has increased my patience level. It has. To a point. See, the Juice comes from a long line of wicked short patient people. Wicked short. Let’s just say that my ol’ man had a mighty backhand waitin’ for ya if ya didn’t know what 9 x 7 was. And you better answer right quick. No repeatin’ the question, either. Just the answer, thank you very much. Or face the backhand. It’s 63 by the way, you moron.

So, Barbara’s havin’ a world class shit fit, and I swear to the Christ, I was ready to pull a Bruce Lee on all of them. Normally, in a situation like this, the Juice likes to repeat to hisself, calmly as possible, something like “it doesn’t matter, he/she/it is just a child” or “it doesn’t matter cause (insert name) is just a fucking mental patient”. Or some other new age bullshit. I call it talkin’ myself off the cliff. Well it wasn’t workin’ here. Maybe it was the community college idiot from earlier, maybe it was all the pissed off people in Wastaway Cove, maybe it was the fact that Jessica Simpson won’t answer my calls. Whatever it was, the Juice was DONE! As I was about to throw the 32 oz cup of soda the counter girl was handin’ me at Barbara (the girl formerly known as Crazy Pixie), Jethro (who’s addicted to soda) started his regular chant for Pepsi. I handed the counter girl 50 bucks, I turned around, got out the soap box and started proselytizin'. At the top of my lungs.

“Didn’t I just spend 100 bucks on rides on the three of you?” I pointed to the kids. I got down right in Barbara’s face. “Hey, here’s a neat idea. Instead of bitchin’ for a change, how about thankin’ your dear ol’ dad. How about thankin’ dad for takin’ your ungrateful asses to the great Ocean City. Better yet, how about thankin dear ol’ dad for workin’ a suck ass job day in day out so you can ride the mother fuckin’ rides here are lovely Ocean City. Or so you can eat Coco Puffs everyday, and play outside. How about it? How about a lil thanks once in awhile.” With that, I got down off my soap box, folded in back up and tried to push all the anger back down into the tiny box it belongs.

Ok…maybe that last part didn’t happen, but it sure as shit was goin’ through the ol’ noggin. That and how many ways I’m plannin’ on givin’ it to Jessica.

Next: the real bitchin’ begins!!!!!