The War Against Organized (Social) Crime
For those of you Skippy readers safely ensconced within the loving embrace of a military base, you may be unaware of a dangerous subculture that threatens our civilian way of life. That subculture, dear Skippy readers, is the Muffia.
The Muffia is a foul underworld organization, staffed by soulless Caucasian housewives so uniform in their upper-middle class mediocrity that a Stepford Husband would flinch in horror. Members of the Muffia (also known as ‘Muffiaso’) are convinced that they alone are the true paragons of femininity, espousing 1950’s rhetoric about a woman’s place being in the home while remaining totally incompetent in any of the “home arts”. They rule their families with iron fists, forcing their poor husbands to slave at the office for 60+ hours each week to support their designer label habit while reinforcing the stereotype that fathers who enjoy spending quality time with their children are secret pedophiles, and claiming that everything they do is “for the children”.
As each day passes, more harmless toys are kicked from the market, innocent television shows are ripped from the airwaves , and fathers become more confused about child-rearing. But we will not go down without a fight! Even as we speak, civilians risk their lives to take back those privileges the Muffia has claimed for itself.
My father is one such brave soul. A quiet man, he was raised to accept the status quo by humble, God-fearing Lithuanian Midwesterners. Yet even he could not stand idly by and watch the Muffia destroy all that is Wholesome and Good about America. This is his story, and I, as his beloved child, am proud to relate it here:
A few years back, I was visiting my family for Christmas. At some point, my stepmother asked my father to run to the grocery store for her. As there wasn’t a golf tournament to nap through that afternoon, he readily agreed and invited me along. Twenty minutes later, we were crawling up and down the parking lot rows, looking for a spot to park. At last, he spotted one, an ideal spot, not ten yards away from the doors to the grocery store. However, as we approached the spot, we realized that it was reserved. But, as we drew closer, we could see that it was not for the handicap, but for parents with children.
Yes, it was reserved parking for the Muffia, and, by coincidence, was on the verge of being claimed by one of its members.
With a strange glint of determination in his eye, my father gunned the engine and cut off the Muffiaso, stealing the spot from right under the nose of her minivan.
“But we can’t park here!” I protested, trembling at the thought of the Muffiaso’s wrath.
“In my day, we didn’t have special parking spaces awarded to us just because we reproduced,” he stated in a tone of voice I hadn’t heard since the Cookie Jar Incident.
I got out of the car, swallowing back a counter-argument about the substantial decrease in parking space size over the past two decades, and braced myself.
The tinted driver’s side window of the minivan rolled down, revealing the Botoxed visage of the Muffiaso.
“Excuse me, sir, but that spot has a Parent & Child Parking sign,” she whined nasally, while in the back seat we could see one tiny, innocent future victim of bad parenting gummed the lid of its Vera Wang sippy cup.
“Yes, I know. I’m a parent, and this is my child,” he explained, pointing to then-twenty-something me. The Muffiaso’s Priscilla, Queen of the Desert-inspired makeup was not thick enough to conceal her rage, and her French manicured-talons were poised to rend the flesh from his body.
“Excuse me, sir,” she hissed, “but Parent & Child Parking spots are bigger to make it easier to get children out of cars.”
“Yes, I know,” replied my father, his tone still calm, “but my child is bigger than yours, and my car doesn’t have a sliding door like yours.”
“I can’t get into a regular spot!” she shrieked. “What am I supposed to do?”
My father pointedly looked at all the minivans in the lot not parked in Parent & Child Parking spots, then just as pointedly looked at the dents and scrapes on the Muffiaso’s vehicle.
“Well, you could always learn how to drive,” he suggested.
At which point we ran for it.
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July 22nd, 2008 at 11:36 am
Awesome :P
You should submit more.
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July 22nd, 2008 at 6:38 pm
OMG… I laughed my arse off… So many times I have wanted to do something like that!
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July 22nd, 2008 at 6:50 pm
*snirk*
Minty-fresh gems.
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July 22nd, 2008 at 7:15 pm
You are a brave woman to speak out so against the Muffiaso. My family was only just able to escape their clutches many years ago with the aid of the Men’s Bureau of Investigation(MBI), and I and my father had to spend several years in the Masculinity Protection Program(MPP). Thank you for speaking out against this organization which has destroyed so many lives.
Captcha “nad moved”- Yes, yes it did.
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July 22nd, 2008 at 7:34 pm
OMG classic! :D “At which point we ran for it.” Ah, honestly. I would have run too. Those women are scary.
I think the worst part is that the Onion article is the false one. (Or maybe I should be grateful, except the Onion only lampoons things with a root in truth…) Lawn Darts marked “not recommended for child use” are dangerous to children? Color me shocked. And those TV networks should be ashamed at choosing programs that people like instead of doing the job of babysitting America’s children. Who else is going to raise the next generation if not NBC?
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Snyarhedir reply on March 12th, 2011 12:53 am:
I vote for PBS.
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July 22nd, 2008 at 8:22 pm
i have long believed that soccer moms will bring about the fall of western civilization.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 1:03 am
I must hear of this cookie jar incident.
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Minty reply on July 23rd, 2008 3:14 am:
Well, it was like this:
My mother had this cookie jar shaped like a frog (see: http://cgi.ebay.com/Reclining-frog-bow-tie-flowers-ideal-condition_W0QQitemZ170155011953QQihZ007QQcategoryZ13924QQcmdZViewItemQQ_trksidZp1742.m153.l1262#ebayphotohosting ). As you can see from the link, it’s lounging. For some reason, this reminded my mother of some famous spread of Burt Reynolds from back in the 1970s (see: http://www.all-pictures-photos.com/thumbs/burt-reynolds/burt-reynolds-008.jpg ) (but only if you really want to. And if you’re not at work. Well, it’s kinda-sorta safe for work, but not really).
Anyway, she named the cookie jar Burt, and it was a big joke around our house that didn’t get explained to us kids until we were older. Burt had been given to her as a wedding present by my parents’ college friend Ivy, who, in addition to being a fun person to hang out with, wore dangly earrings made out of chicken feet. How she managed to survive college in the 1960s with earrings like that is beyond me–but I digress.
So, there was Burt, which we kids were not allowed to touch, because Burt was big and heavy, and we might break him. As you can imagine, this frustrated the hell out of us, especially since a) my mother thought cookie jars were only for homemade cookies, and b) she hated to make Burt sad by leaving him empty for long stretches of time, so there were almost always homemade cookies in him. To further prevent us from destroying her favorite ceramic sex amphibian, my mother put Burt on top of the refrigerator, where we couldn’t reach.
Well, she didn’t count on the two of us being a little pair of monkeys, who interpreted “thou shalt not climb on the kitchen counters” as a suggestion. So, one day, when she was out and our father was left to “watch us,” we decided we wanted cookies. Not being totally evil children, we asked him. He said no. We asked him again. He said no. We asked him a third time. He said no, and go away, I’m trying to watch television. So we went away.
Ten minutes later, we came back, and as predicted, Dad was napping on the couch, tennis or golf or some other sport too boring to watch on television having lulled him to sleep. We seized the moment, climbed up the counters, and began to wrestle Burt’s head off to get to the chewy baked treats contained within his body cavity. And that’s when Burt’s head slipped out of someone’s hand. I don’t remember if it was mine or my brother’s, but needless to say, it hit the floor and–just like our mother said it would–broke in two pieces.
Two seconds later, our father, He of the Selective Hearing From Three Counties Away, materializes out of nowhere and, taking in the situation, growls, “What did I say?” He used that tone of voice that triggers primal fear in even the most evolved human being (you know, the one that sits on the couch all day, watching Reality TV and squirting whipped cream directly into his mouth). As you can imagine, my brother and I were trembling in fear, because we knew what was coming next…
The Lecture.
Oh, we were bad kids. We were selfish and had no consideration for anybody else’s property, and our mother was going to be So Upset when she got home, etc. etc.
I can’t remember what happened to us. We probably got sent to our rooms and had our dessert taken away. But that tone of voice hardwired itself into my brain so, twenty years later, it still sends chills up my spine.
This story does have a happy ending, though. Burt, it turned out, was easily repairable. A little super glue, and his head went right back to sitting comfortably on the rest of his body, enabling him to serve the family to this very day.
And we love him, very much.
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Stickfodder reply on July 23rd, 2008 6:49 am:
That sounds like something I would have done when I was a kid except that i would have either tried to glue the head back together myself or just put the pieces back in place and made it look like nothing happened.
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MarkHB reply on July 23rd, 2008 4:01 pm:
Stickfodder,
From the way the tale unfolded, it sounds like Dadteleportation took place. I seem to recall a dwell time of about eight femtoseconds between Breaking the Important Thing and the sudden appearance of karma when I was a kid.
johnny reply on April 23rd, 2009 4:44 pm:
my brother was chasing me with a broom swung at me and missed and shattered my moms snowman cookie jar twenty minutes later and some wood glue it was mostly back together except for the big chunk missing out of his arm
we turned it just right so they didnt notice it for an hour until dusting prior to company arriving then there was hell to pay
Snyarhedir reply on March 12th, 2011 12:58 am:
Too bad those links now link to nothing.
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Brianna reply on May 3rd, 2011 3:12 am:
Yeah, I vaguely remember the Burt Reynolds pic (yeah, I’m old, real old) and sort of pics of cookie jars that had a similar pose, but it would be nice to have my memory refreshed. I’m glad I’m not the only one browsing the archives. :)
July 23rd, 2008 at 9:50 am
Run, Forest, Run!
Ok, I can see having reserved parking for expectant mothers in front of places like Babies ‘R’ Us, but in front of the grocery store? Jeez, people, get off your lazy ass and walk! And if you can’t get your kid in and out of the car because there’s no room, then maybe it’s time for a smaller car!
I’m a stay at home mom and I’m all for letting my hubby taking care of the kids. It’s how I keep my sanity. I’m also not stupid enough to drag the kids to stores unless absolutely necessary.
Some people need to have common sense beaten into them.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 12:03 pm
Your father should have a gold statue erected in his honor… or maybe just a six-pack.
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Minty reply on July 23rd, 2008 1:08 pm:
Actually, I think he’d prefer a little plaque reading “My children survived childhood without being strapped into car seats until their first growth spurt.”
Where it would be affixed, though, I have no idea. Maybe on the Safe Kids Worldwide building?
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ineedhelpbad reply on July 23rd, 2008 2:48 pm:
You could always put it on the “Parking for Parents with Children” sign at the grocery store.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 5:45 pm
My brother drives one of those vans that moonlight as oceanliners. It, too, is dented to shit. I had to pick he and his wife up from the airport once, and couldnt leave his kids with anyone, so I took their boat to the airport. I was terrified the entire time… I felt like I needed a skipper or, at the very least, one of those incompetent look-outs from the Titanic movie. “Iceburg! Dead ahead!”
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Nomen Nescio reply on July 26th, 2008 3:42 am:
great big van already dented to shit? best kind of vehicle imaginable for driving in traffic, short of wheeled APCs perhaps. everybody else will be on the lookout to give you all the room you need — and if they don’t, hey, what’s one more dent?
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Ali reply on April 29th, 2009 11:20 am:
Nomen – that’s why I leave all the dents in my van. :)
captcha: orinoco grandfather Gives new meaning to the title “Orinoco Flow”
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Snyarhedir reply on March 12th, 2011 1:06 am:
Maybe an Imperial APC (the first – and so far only – kind I saw) from Star Wars: Rogue Squadron III would be better. No one would dare mess with you in one of those – unless they had access to a speeder, fighter or E-web blaster (or bigger/better).
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July 23rd, 2008 at 6:50 pm
Parking for parents with children? Bleh…
There is a store in my local area (No, not giving the name, or even type here) that has a sign posted in the front:
“Attention: While in parents of screaming children will be beaten. Screaming children will be given ice cream, Cherrios and chocolate. Unattended children will be given rock candy and a triple shot of expresso before being returned to their parents.”
There is of course Handicapped parking available, but it is not in the main parking lot. The only sign in the parking lot states:
“There are no designated parking spots on this lot. Handicapped parking in rear.”
When I asked the property owner about this he responded that there are other stores where you wind up parking halfway across the lot because the first third are filled with stupid signs like Expectant mother parking, Parents with kids parking, people with little yappy dogs parking, and people who’s left eye is bigger than their right eye parking.
This is not to say that I don’t appreciate the thought behind the expectant mother parking. It is really hard on a woman who is eight or nine months pregnant to walk 3 miles across a 200 degree parking lot to get her husband his 12 pack of beer and some toilet paper. But ladies, please! Don’t park there unless the turkey timers are poking out!
Anywho I’ve seen similar signs, but I just ignore them. The only ones I pay attention too the the pregnant women and handicapped signs. Peace.
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Snyarhedir reply on March 12th, 2011 1:10 am:
A pregnant woman should (and probably would) make her husband get his own damn beer.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 8:09 pm
Its also best to avoid those parking spaces on base that have the funny little eagle symbols or stars on the signs for them. Especially make sure that the significant other knows about this rule. First SGTs simply don’t care that it was not you who parked there.
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SPC Hyle reply on July 23rd, 2008 11:57 pm:
What’s really funny is that, excluding CMH recipients, Generals, and Post Sergeants Major, those spots aren’t really authorized. They won’t tow you or ticket you. They can’t.
Doesn’t mean you should antagonize your chain of command.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 8:57 pm
But that takes half the fun out of watching the birds and stars turn red in the face and start yelling at the top of his/her lungs at the 1st.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 9:40 pm
I went into labor in a movie theater, The theater had expecant mother parking but it was taken so me and my husband had to park way out in the back of the lot. Coming out of the theater, I saw a lady getting into her car in an expectant mother spot who was barely showing. I must have screamed at her for five minutes. She pretty much just shrugged and said, “Walking so far tires me out” My husband dragged me away then so that we could get to the hospital, but damn. Unless you’re a blimp, you can walk and its better for you and your baby.
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July 23rd, 2008 at 11:52 pm
Those are the type of people who upset me. Women 3 months along parking in the expectant mothers spots, the REALLY fat people taking the handicap carts, the guys with sprained ankles taking the van accessable handicap parking… you know, lazy ass dumb people.
The fat people comment may upset some but I don’t care. During a tour in Iraq I took a bullet to the knee and another to the foot. 7 months I was in a wheelchair and another year on crutches. Do you know how hard it is to do your grocery shopping on crutches?!? What pissed me off most was every motorized cart was in use when I showed up. And every one of them was being used by a fat person. I hadn’t even gotten halfway through my shopping when I slipped in a puddle on the floor. Yep, all my weight came down on my bad foot and knee. One of the fat people actually got up off the motorized cart and walked over to me to see what happened! Once he saw he walked back to the cart and continued shopping! I was in uniform and if I had a firearm that day there would have been half a dozen unclosable caskets going in the ground the next week.
Sorry for the rant…
Fat people: Get up and move! If it makes you tired it means you don’t do it enough! Leave the damned carts for the truly injured and disabled!
Pregnant women: Unless the doctor tells you there are signifigant risks wait until you are bursting at the seams before using the expectant mothers spots. Rule of thumb: If you aren’t expecting in the next 3 weeks, park elsewhere.
And if you do have a temporary diability, be courteous! leave the great spots for those who are truly disabled! Who knows, the guy you kept from parking there may have saved your grandfathers life in some war or another, and because of him you are alive today.
Captcha: Training Club – Fat peoples worst nightmare
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Minty reply on July 24th, 2008 1:08 am:
As a fat person, let me just say that I am not at all offended by what you wrote. I am fully aware of the long-term FATAL consequences of being overweight, and any day now, I’m going to put down the Hostess cupcake, get off my mile-wide ass and do something about it (no, really!).
But then again, I’m one of those weird fat people whose car currently doubles as a giant paperweight, because the battery died because I prefer to walk everywhere.
That being said, be careful which fat people you mentally include. My overweight grandfather has been considered legally handicapped for most of his life, because he never fully recovered physically from having his right leg shot up and then not properly treated for over a year, because he was in a German POW camp in WWII.
And THAT being said, he still refuses to use those handicapped carts at the grocery store. It’s probably due to stubbornness, but I like to think it’s because he thinks those people are quitters.
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Andrew reply on July 24th, 2008 1:28 am:
Which is why he’ll never be included in my thought processes ridiculing the overweight lazies. The fact that you walk around, and at least show some form of trying to control your weight excludes you. And he is genuinely disabled, so that doesn’t bother me one bit… It’s those who’s only disability is their laziness that drive me nuts.
BTW I salute your father for all his efforts in the War and am happy that he survived the POW camp.
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July 24th, 2008 at 8:57 am
I got an awesome captcha:
33,888,000 asked
Asked what? What did nearly 34 million people ask?
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Billy reply on March 17th, 2009 8:30 pm:
the answer to your question is “what kind of dumbasses are these people?!”
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July 29th, 2008 at 2:33 pm
Wow, thank you so much for this submission, I myself live in an area much like that, and can’t wait to get the hell out, all these people are just to much.
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Minty reply on July 30th, 2008 10:19 am:
Uh, I hate to tell you this, but there’s no place safe from the Muffia. Sorry.
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Andrew reply on July 30th, 2008 6:37 pm:
Shhh… Let us live in our secret little world of oblivion.
Captcha: last anchors
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July 30th, 2008 at 6:40 pm
Interesting Captcha
Garford ment
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August 15th, 2008 at 6:20 pm
I will never understand the complete incompassionate assholes that park in handicapped parking spaces when they are not handicapped,or use the motorized scooters/wheelchairs in the store when they do not need them. When my father was alive,he had a brain tumor that eventually completely paralyzed him on one side of his body, and it was always so anger-provoking to see him try to walk across the parking lot and see an unparalyzed person hop into their car parked in a handicapped space.
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Weatherbabe reply on April 5th, 2009 3:14 pm:
I can agree with that since my stepmom’s battle with cancer left her on an oxygen tank.
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Snyarhedir reply on March 12th, 2011 1:17 am:
That would be cause for justifiable homicide. That unparalyzed person should have been beaten to within an inch of their life (or was it “within an inch of their death”?) by a mob.
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Snyarhedir reply on March 12th, 2011 1:19 am:
That is, assuming that they had no disability [worth parking there for].
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March 12th, 2011 at 12:36 am
The information on the television shows actually indicates that it was far from innocent. However, what the hell was NBC thinking, naming 8PM to 9PM “the family hour”? Most kids, I think, only old enough to watch family-friendly programs would be in bed at that hour (ideally, anyway).
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Minty reply on March 12th, 2011 3:48 pm:
Ah, sarcasm.
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