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Description
This is another drawing of an event which occurred one day and 3 hours ago. (I despise long descriptions, but, being biased, ask you to read mine).

My long time co-worker Stephanie drove me home from work in her long suffering gold Chrysler family van. Along the way we had to stop to pick up her four year old son, Dylan, who had spent the day with his father, Richard Rice.
I had learned through Stephanie of their difficult separation. Difficult in that he didn't want to let her go in spite of their loveless and unmarried existence. Richard once tried to get sex from poor Stephanie by breaking her vibrator. In person Richard usually came off as dull and mild.
On this night we drove up to a vacant lot along the road which lead to the college and my home. This lot was once a junkyard, but since the city cleared it out as an environmental hazard, it had become the gateway to sort of hippie commune. Richard described it as "the hanging gardens". As this encampment had no plumbing or electricity, Stephanie was to take Dylan home for night.
Stephanie left on the headlights to light her way and trekked in. Out of the woods came Richard and his mother, both of them short and thin, and wearing landscape workers clothes, with small flashlights on their hats.
Once sleeping Dylan was secure in his car seat we tried to leave.
We did not leave just yet as the Chrysler's feeble battery had been crippled by the strain of running the headlights.
Richard came back up to the van "Oooo look at you now" he said. He sounded like a second rate grade school bully.
He and Stephanie exchanges low blows and then lit up a smoke to make things more amiable. It worked.
I phoned for help, in the form of my roommate Timmy and his car charger, which promised to arrive in 20 minutes or less.
I had never spoken to Richard at length, nor had I wanted to, but on this night I had no place to hide.
A shooting star went down when I wasn't looking. Richard said "278".
I asked "278? What's that? Is it significant?" I expected it was some hippie speak I wasn't hip to.
"It's the 278th shooting star I've seen" Richard explained. "I've been counting since I was 13".
I had trouble with this idea and volunteered that I counted the number of movies I'd seen. Young Richard thought this was "pretty tight".
I thought I was home free, but a discussion on Dylan starting pre-school brought Richard to tell me about how he'd skipped middle school (grades 6-8, usually age range about 11 to 14, for those who don't know). "I graduated elementary school, took a few years off and then did highschool."
I couldn't keep silent "You missed middle school? Middle school is probably the most important one. It's three years of hell that socializes you. It makes a person out of you."
"Nah" Richard argued. "Middle school is bullshit I didn't need. All it does for you is it makes you be able to take more of the man's bullshit. That's not for me."
In effect what he said was true, but he was wrong about it being bad. Bullshit is simply the language of people in society. Without it you can't hold a job, deal with in-laws, or in truth function socially at all. But this pearl of wisdom helped me understand simple Richard Rice.
After help came and went and we were driving out, Stephanie told me she'd had the same conversation with Richard many a time. His mother, the herbal urchin, had been a doormat during his key development and allowed him to become a man-child selfish geek who could only hold down work as a gardener. The notion that he'd fathered a child and that his weed addled brain had notions of gaining custody were monstrous to me.
I told Stephanie "From now on I think I'll call him Dick Doucherton" Or maybe not. Douche may be too good for him. In truth he's more like a yeast infection. A scourge to woman kind, and in fact to humanity at large. But Dick can stay. That name he richly deserves.

Description
This is another drawing of an event which occurred one day and 3 hours ago. (I despise long descriptions, but, being biased, ask you to read mine).

My long time co-worker Stephanie drove me home from work in her long suffering gold Chrysler family van. Along the way we had to stop to pick up her four year old son, Dylan, who had spent the day with his father, Richard Rice.
I had learned through Stephanie of their difficult separation. Difficult in that he didn't want to let her go in spite of their loveless and unmarried existence. Richard once tried to get sex from poor Stephanie by breaking her vibrator. In person Richard usually came off as dull and mild.
On this night we drove up to a vacant lot along the road which lead to the college and my home. This lot was once a junkyard, but since the city cleared it out as an environmental hazard, it had become the gateway to sort of hippie commune. Richard described it as "the hanging gardens". As this encampment had no plumbing or electricity, Stephanie was to take Dylan home for night.
Stephanie left on the headlights to light her way and trekked in. Out of the woods came Richard and his mother, both of them short and thin, and wearing landscape workers clothes, with small flashlights on their hats.
Once sleeping Dylan was secure in his car seat we tried to leave.
We did not leave just yet as the Chrysler's feeble battery had been crippled by the strain of running the headlights.
Richard came back up to the van "Oooo look at you now" he said. He sounded like a second rate grade school bully.
He and Stephanie exchanges low blows and then lit up a smoke to make things more amiable. It worked.
I phoned for help, in the form of my roommate Timmy and his car charger, which promised to arrive in 20 minutes or less.
I had never spoken to Richard at length, nor had I wanted to, but on this night I had no place to hide.
A shooting star went down when I wasn't looking. Richard said "278".
I asked "278? What's that? Is it significant?" I expected it was some hippie speak I wasn't hip to.
"It's the 278th shooting star I've seen" Richard explained. "I've been counting since I was 13".
I had trouble with this idea and volunteered that I counted the number of movies I'd seen. Young Richard thought this was "pretty tight".
I thought I was home free, but a discussion on Dylan starting pre-school brought Richard to tell me about how he'd skipped middle school (grades 6-8, usually age range about 11 to 14, for those who don't know). "I graduated elementary school, took a few years off and then did highschool."
I couldn't keep silent "You missed middle school? Middle school is probably the most important one. It's three years of hell that socializes you. It makes a person out of you."
"Nah" Richard argued. "Middle school is bullshit I didn't need. All it does for you is it makes you be able to take more of the man's bullshit. That's not for me."
In effect what he said was true, but he was wrong about it being bad. Bullshit is simply the language of people in society. Without it you can't hold a job, deal with in-laws, or in truth function socially at all. But this pearl of wisdom helped me understand simple Richard Rice.
After help came and went and we were driving out, Stephanie told me she'd had the same conversation with Richard many a time. His mother, the herbal urchin, had been a doormat during his key development and allowed him to become a man-child selfish geek who could only hold down work as a gardener. The notion that he'd fathered a child and that his weed addled brain had notions of gaining custody were monstrous to me.
I told Stephanie "From now on I think I'll call him Dick Doucherton" Or maybe not. Douche may be too good for him. In truth he's more like a yeast infection. A scourge to woman kind, and in fact to humanity at large. But Dick can stay. That name he richly deserves.