the otherwhirled

Back when we used to live out in Camarillo, CA, Mrs. Other occasionally swam at a gym down in Thousand Oaks. On one fine Saturday when she was there and I was out refereeing soccer, she went to the gym while the Little Others stayed at the gym’s daycare facility. Apparently, this was a gym where “The Rock” works out, and my son wound up playing with The Rock’s son (or some kid who claimed he was The Rock’s son). My son claimed that his son was a jerk—kept throwing balls at him and he apparently had a filthy mouth. A couple of weeks later, when I was on my way down to Burbank for a meeting with a client for whom I did some programming at the time, I wound up at a stop-light right next to “The Rock”. I waved nonchalantly, obviously being much cooler in my minivan than The Rock in his zippy little sports car, and he, talking on a cell-phone, sorta-kinda looked at me, nodded, then looked away. After the light turned green and he sped down the road at an obnoxious speed, I yelled after him, “Your son is a jerk!”, but since my windows were up and he was already about an eighth of a mile ahead of me, I doubt it had any lasting effect on his psyche.

And that’s all there really is to that story. Aren’t you glad you took the time to read that? I figured you would be.

i’m still a hell of a lot cooler-looking in my minivan than he is in his zippy little sports car. no, REALLY!