HIPPO BRIGADE

Balloons and their general suckiness

May 6, 2010

I hate balloons.

Yeah, I’m that person.

I might as well say that I don’t like ice cream and getting punched in the junk is my idea of a good time.

I mean, who doesn’t like balloons?

They’re a sign that every one’s having a good time.

Parties? Balloons.

Zoo? Balloons.

A sale at the mall? Balloons.

High school Winter Formal? Balloons.

Carnival? Balloons.

Buying a new car? Balloons.

Grocery store? Fucking balloons.

I’ve been to three different grocery stores in the last 2 weeks, and have somehow accumulated like 58 balloons.

The employees just automatically give them to Berlyn.

Like she’s wearing a sign that says, “Look how cute and adorable I am, now give me a damn BALLOON already!”

Then I have to be all, thank you Mr. Green Smock, I appreciate you. But I don’t. Instead I want to flick pennies at your eyeballs.

First of all, getting a balloon home is no easy feat.

Berlyn MUST hold it while we drive. Except when she goes to grab something else, she lets go of the balloon, then the damn thing starts bobbing around the car, all loopy and swirly-like. It will migrate over to Hudson, who gets freaked out, and starts waiving his drool-soaked fists in the air. Then it travels up to the front seat, and blocks my view, and then I can’t text and drive as efficiently.

I say a bunch of nasty words under my breath, and stuff the sucker under the dash until we get home.

Once home, she lets go of it every 16 seconds, and starts whining, so I’m constantly retrieving it.

And then after 12 hours the thing gets all sad and deflated and joins the others in the balloon graveyard.

6 days pass.

And on the 7th day, I go all ballistic on those balloons’ asses.

I round up all the saggy suckers, and let the air out of them with my gigantic scissors, and my menacing cackle.

Meanwhile, Berlyn is rolling around on the floor, screaming.

“Berlyn, the purpose of the balloon has been fulfilled. Now we have to throw it away,” I tell her this while I pop another balloon.

“NOOO!!”

“Would you like to help me pop them?”

“YES!!”

“Isn’t that fun?”

Apparently it proved to be a little too fun.

Now she just wants to pop stuff.

My bag of Cheetos?

My exercise ball?

My water bra?

Nothing is safe anymore.