Over the weekend I tagged along with my niece and nephew to a kids birthday party, and there was tasty barbecue brought in from The Grove in Hollywood, good conversation with an actor from “Weeds” and Good God Almighty, there was a giant turtle at this thing.
If you ever think for a second that your job sucks, hold that thought, because this poor guy makes his living suffering through screaming kids jamming their filthy fingers in his face. Even my nephew Spanky got into the act, leaning all his weight on the poor guy until I had to teach him to gently pet the shell. (Spanky then ate a hot dog without washing his hands. The secret ingredient is salmonella, Spank.)
Maybe it’s my alma mater’s mascot that made me extra compassionate for this guy, or maybe it’s that he’ll live to be 100, and that’s a lot of parties dealing with a lot of little shits. The turtle wrangler told me he was seriously dropped a few years ago and traumatized by it. Then she stuffed him into a big Tupperware and hauled him off.
Hang in there, turtle.
