I Would Never

     I've often heard people say, "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

     I always think why the fuck not?

    I sure the hell would! Not only would I wish whatever horrible thing had happened to me on them. I would get down on my knees and pray they suffered ten times the amount.

    I'm just fucking with you. I'm not that kind of person. That's not what my Catholic faith taught me.

    I was taught to forgive and forget like Jesus. And I assure you I would. I would never allow myself hateful thoughts or entertain the desire for vengeance. It's just not who I am.

    I would never!

    Never, ever, ever! Not in a million years. I was raised better than that.

    But, if I were that kind of person, the possibilities would be endless.

    Like, there was this kid in my second grade class who wouldn't let me borrow his blue crayon. We were in art class, and our task was to draw our favorite thing about summer. It was May and we only had a few weeks left of school. I had drawn what I believed to be the most perfect illustration of the ocean with the sun brightening the water, and even a lifeguard stand with seagulls flying overhead, and I knew as soon as Sister St. Sebastian saw the magnificence of my work I would be given some kind of reward. Maybe I'd even get to have the rest of the day off. Or no homework that night.

    But nope.

    Didn't happen.

    Know why?

    Because my classmate, Geoffrey, good little Catholic kid he was, wouldn't let me use his blue crayon. Little fucking bitch!

    So I had to wait until, Kathy, the girl to my right, was finished coloring a picture of the pool in her backyard. By the time she was finished and gave me the blue crayon class was over. 

    Now going back to what we were talking about. If I were the kind of person to wish it on his worst enemy. Well, let's just say Geoffrey would need something very, very badly, and I would make sure he didn't get it. 

    That little fucking bitch!

    Perhaps it would be a night of sleep.

    As fate would have it Geoffrey and I live in the same neighborhood as adults. My teenage daughter sometimes babysits his youngest. If I were someone who wished things on his worst enemy, my plan would be very easy to execute.

    I would wait for a night when Geoffrey and his wife went out on their "date night" and help my daughter with baby sitting duties. Let's just say Geoffrey's son would have a homework assignment. And that homework assignment would involve coloring a page in a coloring book. I would allow him to color until he needed just one more crayon to finish. Then I would take that crayon and I would snap it in half. I would then spin an elaborate tale about how when a crayon is broken it means that the Devil can do whatever he wants in your house. Acting like a concerned guardian, a loving parental figure, I would  explain to him that his parents would be dead in the middle of the night thanks to Satan, being sure to tell him that it was all his fault. 

    Geoffrey would get a wonderful night of sleep after I planted that seed in his son's mind. I'm sure.

    Though, like I said, I would never.

    Never, ever, ever.

    Just not who I am.

    But if I were, I remember this one day in kindergarten, where my teacher, Mrs. Edwards, made us a snack of cream cheese and celery. I thought it was  the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I ate them like a pig. An hour later, we were going over the alphabet, or some stupid shit, and I felt my stomach rumbling. I frantically raised my hand, waiting for Mrs. Edwards to call on me so that I could request to be excused and use the lavatory. 

    But nope. Mrs Edwards ignored me and allowed me no choice but to shit myself. All of my classmates noticed the putrid smell and started holding their noses and giggling. It was only then that my teacher decided to allow us to go to the rest room. 

    Oh Mrs. Edwards, if I were the kind of person to wish bad things on my enemies, which as I said, I'm definitely not. 

    Not me!

    But if I were, let's just say Mrs. Edwards would find herself tied up, naked, in a bathtub, with me above her, kindly forcing about twenty cream cheese and celery snacks down her throat, along with an entire box of laxatives. And just to be sure I got the desired results I craved, I would also drip half a bottle of Visine down her throat because I once read that if swallowed it produces uncontrollable diarrhea. 

    I would patiently wait by the bathtub, singing and dancing to the song Let it Go from the movie Frozen. "Come on, Mrs, Edwards," I would say. "Let it go, let it go, let me see you shit yourself  just for me."

    After a while she would, and I wouldn't leave the room until I was satisfied seeing the look of disgust and humiliation on her face as she bathed in her own feces.

    You must think I am a horrible person thinking these things.

    It's okay. I'm not. I am filled with kindness and love.

    I really am.

    But there was this old woman who lived across the street from me when I was a kid named Mrs. Thompson.

    She was a cunt. One of those miserable old bitches who lived to make innocent children's lives unhappy. Her favorite way to act like the asshole that she was involved peeking out her living room curtains while my friends and I were harmlessly playing a game of catch. Usually with a tennis ball. Sometimes a baseball. Or sometimes simply playing around with a basketball.

    She would wait for the moment the ball inadvertently landed in her yard, or even for it to brush a blade of grass around the perimeter of her yard. Then she would come smashing through the front door like Mr. Fucking Kool-Aid, run to grab the ball, and return to her house. She would lock her screen door and tell us we were bad kids that needed to stay off of her property.

    Now as I said before, I don't wish harm on my enemies. 

    I really don't.

    But if I did I would be sure to track Mrs. Thompson down. She'd probably be in some nursing home rotting away if she were still alive. I'd pay her a visit, and instead of bringing her flowers, or a box of chocolates, I would carry along a huge trash bag filled with an assortment of balls.

    I would first grab a lacrosse ball. Then I would stand over her and throw it as hard as I could at her face. Next would be the basketball. I would continue throwing it against her face, catching it as it bounced back, and throwing it again and again, watching it bounce back to me off of her nose, her eyes, her mouth, until she was sure to be black and blue. 

    Finally, I would unzip my pants and take out my own pair of balls, shove them in her toothless mouth, and then pinch her nose until she couldn't breathe. She would struggle, squirm, try to push me away. But it would be pointless, because I wouldn't leave until she stopped moving, and then I would smile to myself knowing she would be in Heaven and have all the balls she wanted.

       I would never do that, though. I could never treat an older person with such cruelty. You believe me, right?

    I know you do.

    Because I would never!

    You'll have to excuse me now. 

    Starting my car, fastening my seat belt, I turn the music on, and begin singing. "Let it go...Let it go!"

    Adjusting the rearview mirror I glance at the trash bag in the back seat and I look forward to playing ball tonight.

    I hope my right arm is as good as it was when I was a kid.