So there’s this extremely creeptacular, pervy weinermobile who lives in my parents’ neighborhood. He’s been lurking around the house since I left home, since I cannot be there to enforce the ‘No Weinermobiles” rule. I have tried being dismissive, being condescending, and being a raging she-demon…none have worked. And before you suggest I try being kind, I should tell you that another member of my family has tried that approach, and I think that’s why he’s lingering around, instead of returning to the warmth and darkness of his mother’s basement, where he lives, despite being in his forties.
Since I’m not sure he understands spoken English, and he certainly doesn’t understand social cues, I’m going to try a language that he clearly understands—Cookies. My hope is that he is possessed with the power of literacy and doesn’t just stare blankly at the tray until he recognizes the symbols that mean his name. “D…D….D…DAN! Hey that’s me!! MY name is Dan, too! My cookies. My chickies. My bunnies. Mineminemine.”
As a result of spending my afternoon baking public service messages, poor Chris had to eat spaghetti with slightly-altered marinara FROM A JAR. He’s sucking his thumb and rocking back and forth now, muttering about the dawn of the culinary apocalypse.