Last night was the biggest party night of the year.
But not for us.
We’ve been sick. So has the rest of the world. We had no plans.
We didn’t want to go out in the cold for fireworks. We couldn’t (in good conscience) leave the kids with a sitter.
So the family went to the movies.
We saw “Bolt” in 3-D. Aside from 3 trips to the bathroom, and a choke/vomit incident, it was a surprisingly pleasant outing.
The kids and I loitered in the lobby after the movie, waiting for Jeeves (Owen likes it when I treat him like “the help”) to bring the car around.
My eyes were suddenly assaulted by a giant, pink, flashing “2”.
SERIOUSLY?!? There’s a need for “Pink Panther 2”? Who the hell green-lighted this? Why haven’t I heard about such a travesty? Is Steve Martin in some sort of fiduciary trouble? There’s umpteen-thousand talented screen-writers, waiting for a break, and this crap is getting put out? Why are they going to fuck up my birthday with this steaming pile of turd? Who sits around saying, “Man, that Beyonce can sure ACT! I can’t wait for the sequel!”?
And while I’m thinking all this, my son, apparently, was processing his thoughts and emotions much, much faster than I.
He walked up to the bigger-than-life-sized cardboard cutout.
And calmly punched Steve Martin in the nuts.