Me and The Boy were making our way from the camping department near the back of Sports Authority toward the door by way of the shoe section, where a blondish, thirty-something mom in tight jeans was attempting to re-shoe her entire pack of semi-feral boys.
Jake had been giving me some guff about being old and crotchety and after a bit I began to take his point. I offered that it was so. That I was just about a grumpy old man what hated all the neighbors. That I dang sure didn't like much of anything about their puppy mills, their noisy a$$ dirt bikes, squawking jungle fowl, or their gardening crews that set up shop at six AM on Sunday mornings. Yep, son, you're right, 'spose I'm ready to retire and complain about the government full time.
Just about then we ambled past the shoe aisle and I turned and leaned a bit toward Jake. In in a menacing stage whisper I sort of shouted .....
Now, get off my lawn, punk!
Didn't faze mom, she never even looked up. But all four of those boys (ages four to twelve I'd guess), well, they 'bout jumped outta their skin. Eight suacer eyes, just watching me until I faded out of their line of sight.
Made my day, too. Chuckled all the way to the front door.