Move Your Balloon

It wasn't quite as vicious as last night's Laker celebration outside Staples, no car windows were smashed, no trash cans set on fire, but over in Tarzana, the festivities did get a bit heated the other evening.  One short gal in particular turned testy, when various oversized and shiny inflatables, sun umbrellas and expansive back-sides blocked her precious view of the proceedings.

There were choice declarations of annoyance:  "Sit down!" "Sit your ass down!" "Move your balloon!" "Move your @#$%'n balloon!"  "Please" never found its way into the mix, I'm afraid.  There was no time for "please," no time for polite requests, spoken in a clipped British accent.  "Pardon me, but would you mind, terribly, relocating that delightful balloon bouquet to a more appropriate setting?  Say, a certain part of your anatomy?"  I think not.  This was a suburban high school graduation, people, not a tea party. 

I wasn't about to lose the longed-for visual of the youngest son crossing the stage.  Whatever it took, I was ready.  I was verbally armed and dangerous.  My t-shirt said, "Don't mess with this bitch." Sure, there were a few security dudes in bright green vests on hand, there to confiscate noisemakers and re-direct overzealous photogs to the "designated camera zone," one town over.  But it wasn't enough crowd control for my liking.  The SJG had to step in and help out.  It was my duty to serve.

When three strong-willed ladies refused to budge their behinds, I got up out of my chair and addressed them, directly.  "You need to sit down," I said.  Oh, the looks of disdain.  Oh, the hatred, the venom.  "Why?" asked the youngest, and apparently, meanest.  "You're blocking everyone's view," I said.  "It's incredibly rude."  Well, that did it.  Yes, I have that kind of power.  Scary, I know.  Down went their butts.  Up went my status to "hero."  My entire section thanked me, high-fived me, and offered to pay my son's college tuition.  I was so busy gloating that I almost missed the big moment. 

"Scotty's next!" said Tim.  "Are you sure?"  I couldn't see around a girl in a white dress, snapping photos.  I sighed and stood up.  A hero's work is never done.  Like the wind, I whooshed over and shoved her out of the way.  Poor girl went flying into the stands.  Someone yelled, "Foul!"  Bye-bye, hero.  But hey, my boy was graduating.  What was I supposed to do?  It was all about him.  It was all about me seeing him.  I got a nice glimpse, too, right before the security dude cuffed me.  Oh, well.  Two graduations, a few days apart.  Honestly.  Can you blame me for acting a little unhinged?