Yo, Privileged Guy At The Tennis Courts

This is for you.

The other day I was sitting at the tennis courts where my kids were attending a group clinic.

I was sitting in the chairs that border the courts. You know, seating for human beings.

There were two other mothers there. We were – like – just sitting. Chatting, really quietly. (And I mean really quietly, because I know how dickwads like you give the coaches everywhere around town such a hard time.)

We were pretty much minding our business.

Then you told us to shut the fuck up. Like animals.

To be clear, you interrupted the mother I was speaking to, mid-sentence, and yelled: “hey ladies, could you take your conversation over to the parent’s area?”


The other mother said “Oh, sorry, are we being too loud?” And you yelled “just go on down to the parent’s viewing area over there.”

Parent’s area? I didn’t know such a thing existed. I didn’t realize that parents were being segregated from the rest of the more civilized folk. Maybe we are and I just don’t know, but what you were referring to, which you then clarified: the parents area was a group of chairs five courts down, in the dirt.

Hey ladies, could you shut the fuck up and go sit in the dirt?

You very obviously had a hard on for misogynistic undertones, because I also heard you refer to my 15 year old daughter as “blondie.” If I were less classy of a person, I would have told you to shut the fuck up too. But being polite and not wanting to embarrass my kids or the coaches (who deal with enough shit from assbags like you on a daily basis), I returned to my book, and listened to you.

You bitched about children in tennis.

You bitched about not having courts when you want them because of children.

You bitched about children’s sports on the whole. You said children shouldn’t be allowed to play sports until they are in college.

You said the coaches shouldn’t be allowed to support children’s sports.

You griped about how a “council” should be formed to eliminate youth sports altogether from the community, because it bothers you every time you are there playing tennis, or even at the park walking your dog.

Every time a child at the group clinic even uttered the slightest noise – and I mean slightest – you stopped what you were doing (serving, playing out a point, whatever), looked over, and said “REALLY?!”

But I digress. You know what you did.

After you finished your friendly match with a guy who seemed much more decent of a human being than you (though not – clearly – decent enough to call out that “blondie” comment), you guys went in to the clubhouse and ordered beers. Sitting outside, still on the chairs for humans versus the spots in the dirt for the parents, I heard you loudly yelling at the guy serving you that you couldn’t believe he did not know your account number. That of all the people that frequent the place, he couldn’t remember yours.

Yeah, so.

What is so disturbing about this is your sense of privilege. It isn’t that you are more privileged than others – with more wealth or better health, greater opportunities, or whatever. It’s that you believe – like actually believe – that the world is all for you.

That it is actually OK to refer to a child as “blondie.” Ever, in any situation.

That people should be segregated based on their “status” or usefulness? I don’t know, what exactly is it segregating by to separate parents from non-parents?

I read a meme the other day that said “privilege is thinking something is not a problem because it has never personally affected you.”

That’s true. But I think in your case, I would take that a little further.

Privilege is thinking that the whole world is set up specifically for you, and that in your case the rules do not apply. That you can actually say and behave in the way you did that day and get away with it.

Why? I guess because for now you do.

For myself, I’m going to start putting my kids in situations where people like that don’t rule the world. It may be hard to find. Or maybe I will just start speaking up, and speaking out. How else will I teach my kids to stand up to that shit and make a change, instead of quietly turning back to their books and do what the privileged motherfuckers like you demand, just to avoid conflict?

Screw You, Overachieving Self

Hey, self. How is your sexy ass doin’? Feelin’ good? Feelin’ great after you just had a bowl of marshmallows for breakfast, with two bites of a rotten banana, all swallowed down with a large Diet Coke? Feeling hot to trot in your yoga pants and White Sox t-shirt; the one with a hole in the arm pit? Hope no one sees you haven’t shaved those puppies in well over a month.

You busy? You busy getting ready for something? Maybe that party you decided to throw just for shits and giggles? The party you invited well over 70 people to, expecting none of them to come? The party that close to that number will be showing up for? Showing up for to fit into your tiny apartment? Yeah … that one? Gettin’ ready for that, hot stuff?

Well I have something to say to you, self. I have something to say to you, you marshmallow-and-rotten banana-stuffing, unshaven, overachieving self.

Screw you.

Seriously, go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself sideways with rotten bananas and thorny pineapples.

Go fuck yourself with your complicated menu planning. Kiss my she-balls with your homemade invitations that just got returned because the post office is full of fucking morons. Screw you and your centerpieces, made by hand with little scarecrows inside of them. Take your place cards with the elaborate descriptions of each food item on them, and shove that shit up your crotch.

And while you’re at it, you can shove your justifications up there too. Like the one about making those place cards because you’re tired of having to always tell people what is being served. Like the one about how cheap it is do to things “DIY!!” Fuck you and your DIY bullshit. And how about the one about making five, different desserts so that you can try new recipes you’ve been wanting to try. Since when the fuck did you want to try recipes?

And let’s not talk about you saying you were throwing this party to avoid cooking on Thanksgiving. How’s that working out for you? I see you just bought a Thanksgiving turkey and ham to prepare on the actual T-day. Dillhole. Screw you.

Seriously, overachieving self. Screw you. Screw you and your kid’s platter. Screw you and making cake pops for the kids so they don’t bother the adults. Fuck that shit. What are you – a fucking babysitter?

Now just what the hell is this front door display all about? Since when the shit did you buy into fall offerings? Last year you made fun of people that put up corn stalks and little stuffed turkeys, now you’ve littered your patio with them. What the hell happened to you? You used to be laid back. You used to be cool. You served chips and dip, and said decorating was for schmucks. Now everything has this posh, yupster fall feel to it, and almost every item on your list of food has “with a hint of” as part of the description.

I don’t know if you faithful blog followers can tell, but I’m a little upset with my overachieving self. I decided to throw this party, then let it get out of hand; now it’s consuming every minute of each day. I always do this bullshit. Always. It isn’t really stressing me out, either – quite frankly, I don’t have much else to do most of the time. Really, what is so upsetting about it is that I hate what I’ve become: a posh, yupster. A posh yupster that has to have every detail accounted for. Every fucking detail to the point that I’m sitting here at 9 o’clock in the morning hot gluing feathers to a cornucopia. “Because what Thanksgiving party doesn’t have a cornucopia?!!”

Yeah, screw you, overachieving self. Screw you.

By the way … don’t be a turkey and BUY MY BOOK! And if you want it signed, just email me for details on how to get that done and shipped back to you for free! Click here, buy book, woohoo!