Two girls were playing badminton on the street today, with their hands. Right in front of a Foot Locker, just batting a feathered ball back and forth. They looked like they were taking the match pretty seriously. An older dude, maybe a father, looked on, annoyed. I couldn’t figure out why, though I really wanted to. So, here is the scenario that I made up:
“Christa, stop stepping on the back of my flip-flop. I HATE IT.”
“Girls. This is New York City. You don’t yell. Or wear flip-flops.”
“Shut up, Dad. That guy is screaming over there.”
“I BET YOU NEED JESUS CHRIST IN YOUR LIFE RIGHT NOW YOU PIECE OF SHIT WHERE IS MY TELEPHONE – STACEY, STACEY, STACEY! OH HO HO, THE LORD AND SAVIOR, STACEY!”
“See?”
“Ow! Dad! Belinda just flicked the back of my head.”
“ALRIGHT, THAT’S IT. YOU TWO, RIGHT NOW. BANDMINTON. RIGHT HERE, IN FRONT OF THIS FOOT LOCKER. WINNER GETS FREE LUNCH, LOSER GETS TO SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR THE REST OF THIS TRIP. AND YOU HAVE TO BUSK FOR YOUR FOOD WITH THE MANDOLIN IN MY BACKPACK. GOT ME?”
“Dad, neither of us know how to play mandolin.”
“EXACTLY, DAUGHTERS.”
“Dad, we don’t have rackets.”
“EXACTLY, DAUGHTERS.”
[father throws shuttlecock into the air, girls begin swatting at it].
I’d like to see YOU come up with a better explanation.
No, seriously, I’m all ears.