Neighbours were shocked last week to find that Muriel had been verbally assaulted by the eleven year old boy who delivers the papers, who's name is being withheld under the young offenders act should any charges be laid. Local Outragee Sandra, who lives in the same gentrified, well-treed neighbourhood as my Grandmother, is the one pushing for charges. “He's new, he doesn't know how often she bakes cookies yet. She's the nicest lady,” she said late last Wednesday, railing for the defense of the neighbourhood, “But these kids are just going wild! After assault comes arson, I know that for a fact! It's too late to save him, we have to destroy the monster! Plunge something through his heart!”
Muriel was watching for the boy early Wednesday so she could give him a tip on where to leave the paper. “With my back, bending to get the paper off the ground is hard, especially when there's snow and ice like we're getting, so I asked the newspaper boy if he could put it in the basket hanging on the porch, instead of just throwing it from the street like he does.” When asked if she had any cookies right now, with a twinkle Muriel said, “No, I don't have any honey. You can't bake cookies without honey.”
Since the boy was not distracted by a sweet treat he lashed out at the old woman who tried to tell him how to do his job. “Well he said something that I won't repeat here, that's for sure! I didn't even know words like that at his age.” Muriel recalls. “That Sandra seems to be busy-bodying about over it. I say boys will be boys, but he won't get any of my chocolate-chip toffee topped cookies, that's for sure.”
One week later Muriel welched on that promise to not give the little brat a cookie, and he apologized for telling her to fuck herself when she was just trying to save her back. When asked if he would ever use a word like that again, Timmy said “No-fucking way! She gave me a cookie with chocolate-chips and toffee on it! My mom never makes anything like that! Last night we had celery for dessert!” He wolfed down three of Muriel's cookies before grabbing at his stomach. “My hearts beating fast and I feel weird. Is this diabetes? Oh my god, mom was right about diabetes! I've got diabetes!”
Muriel watched the boy run off to tell his mother that he had diabetes. She looked pretty smug.
“He wouldn't last 5 seconds in the war.”
“Well he's eleven.” I say [JB].
“Your great-uncle Theodore was eleven when he enlisted! And he went on to do three tours of North Africa! He got his first period there, or whatever boys call it.”
“We don't call it anything, Grandma.”
“Well you ought to, it's an important time.”
“I don't remember anything like that, so it's probably not important.”
“You should put all of this in your article, dear”
“All of what?”
“This conversation, it's an important conversation.”
“How about you leave the content decisions to the professionals.”
“What professionals?”
“Me - I'm a professional. Leave it to me Grandma.”
“[Laughter] Oh, James. Now put it in your article or no cookies for you.”
“You were holding out on me? For the purposes of blackmail?!”
“You can leave that part out.”
“I should probably go straight to my therapist with this.”
“So you'll print this conversation, and maybe men won't be so quick to throw themselves off cliffs if they remember the humble beginnings of their manhood?”
“You've had a lot of time to think, huh?”
“Here's your cookie.”
The cookie was butter-raisin, so I kind of feel cheated, but a deal's a deal. Love you, Grandma.
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