If somebody has to look up the definition of an airhead, it means they may be one. It also means someone’s head is likely full of empty space. To clarify though, three airheads together could mean something entirely different. Like just the lack of being educated in well, most newer things. One of which is technology.
So this blonde, brunette, and redheaded medley of brainiacs were together one day at the brunette’s condo. It has an underground garage in which you need both a key to get into or the car remote, and a key to the elevator to get to the third floor condo. We were, I mean they were congregated in the condo ready to drive the blonde home. The brunette had her five month old granddaughter with her, because her visiting daughter and son-in-law needed some alone time. But they weren’t alone long after leaving their child in the care of female clones Larry, Moe, and Curly.
The three stooges grabbed the car seat and headed down to the garage. Because any highway regulated authorities will tell you to buckle up for safety. And not many successes are achieved in such endeavors without the likes of three mind you, rather intelligent human beings. A half hour later we still, I mean they didn’t have the baby seat securely fastened into the vehicle. Apparently you need to turn the traveler around in the other direction for the safety belt to wrap through indentations specifically manufactured for said strap, which affixes the whole apparatus properly. What’s more, you need to be fully informed how the actual seat clamps into the base of the contraption. The three women who had children once themselves never did get it right. But in our….excuse me, their defense, it was a dark and dimly lit garage. Which totally made the redhead want to contact the architect to ask him what he was thinking while designing a garage that would eventually retain silly people. And it was a pitch-black colored seat to boot. Plus, the actual car had an ebony interior. Not neon yellow. Or at least tan, so they could see things a bit better.
The redhead was holding the baby in one hand and talking on her mobile phone with the other, while the brunette’s cell went off underneath the diaper bag inside the car. The brunette began drilling the redhead with directives to quickly find the dang thing. It was like a horse trainer rearing a stallion. So the woman holding the baby and her own cell phone began a desperate attempt in searching for the ringing gizmo. Meanwhile the blonde, who was inside the vehicle, was borderline blasphemous. She sat pulling the seatbelt practically out of its socket to get it to fit all the way around the blasted baby holder. And obviously the baby was still a couple years away from educating them. The women’s discomposure resulted in the garage bulging with echoing sentiments I’ll not mention. There may have even been a little leakage. And I’m not talking from overhead pipes in a parking structure. None of them could contain themselves long enough to stop the drainage. Why suffer from stupidity when you can enjoy every second of it?
The brunette’s daughter caught up with us them before the accomplices began their transiting…taking the baby back for the child’s health and well being. I guess taking the tot out again was purely provisional unless the brunette stuck within all the guidelines of general baby care. The farcical threesome proceeded, stopping at the grocers for a few items. Forty-five minutes and two cartfuls later, the car was brimming with three middle aged babes and their bags. After dropping off the blonde, the brunette and redhead ventured back to the condo and entered the garage, or what was originally known as comedy central. Or the scene of the car seat crime, whichever way you want to look at it. They got to the elevator and the brunette announced that she had given the key to her daughter. Another forgetful female approached asking if we had a key to get in because she left hers somewhere. She called her hubby to come let everyone in. While waiting, the blonde called asking the brunette to look in her car for the bottle of Rum she had left behind. The brunette walked all the way back to her automobile and found nothing. The blonde called back again confessing that she had never purchased the bottle at the store in the first place. Because as she ultimately recalled, the cashier never rang her up. This of course is concluding that all the hair bleaching did not completely circumvent her brain. And obviously she hadn’t yet consumed the alcohol, which could have been more motivation for mindlessness. It must be the same way you feel when the air is sucked out of a blowup mattress. Which is assuming you are a mattress.
After liberating from that disruption, the brunette’s daughter subjected them to a half hour seminar on how to basically work a baby seat. Which was all the brunette and redhead could have wished and prayed for. But by that time, was unequivocally exhausting. So I, I mean the redhead, decided it was time to leave them to their own devices.
This boils down to one thing. You should not have these three women together let alone one by herself trying to figure out modern mechanics. Because women over the age of thirteen are just depositories for repeated badgering. And for maximum effectiveness, a lap harness pulled completely out of its retractor (broken) can only hold a very large occupant when it comes to fast acceleration and strong deceleration during transportation. Which is how one must feel when riding a roller coaster, or a jetting sports car. At least with the brunette’s I know anyway.
(Posts can be seen every weekend in The Parson’s Sun newspaper in Kansas)