Hello, Social Services?

The golden haired punk who drove his trike into Ella and started this whole B’KlynDad tirade, was back in Carroll Park today. This time he had on his cunalingual Rolling Stones T-shirt. Last I saw him, wearing an Iggy Pop tee which should automatically mean a visit from Social Services, he tried to slide down the slide right into Ella who I pulled away at the last second.

Today I learned his name is – get this – François. François? This punk is named François? At least I will get my revenge on his attempts to hurt my little girl when he attends Middle School when two jocks work his kidneys and gut while the other jocks with teenage man-boobs and immature mustaches chant, “Fight, fight, fight, fight!”

I found out his name because he came over to me and anther woman at the slide as we held our children at the top and slowly lowered them down. I pulled Ells up as fast as I could when I caught sight of the blond menace. Not so for the other little one whose mum knew François, and didn’t seemed in the slight bit troubled when Ol’ Franny leaped upon her six month old like George the Animal Steel and put him in head lock.

“No, no François, be nice. Nice hugs,” said the woman in a mellifluous tone as she tried to separate the two boys. Once apart François slapped the baby on the head and stormed off grumbling, “NO!” under his breath.

I’d like to finish the entry with a joke, but honestly, I can’t think of any.