“Hey, Mom, I think that’s another faker.”
My youngest son and I were in the car doing our daily morning commuting and traffic coming out of our neighborhood gets a tad bottlenecked. Some drivers have resorted to cutting through the elementary school parking lot in hopes of getting ahead of the long line trying to hit the main street. My son is used to me spouting some special names for these special line cutters, who I’m just positive their time is more important than mine. They’re not fooling anyone with their two second brake light pause at the school’s front door either. We sooo know you’re not dropping off your kid, asshole! Your poor child would still be rolling to the door. My son and I have started calling these particular morning drivers “fakers.”
Now, my oldest son and his friends will claim a person is “fake” for pretty much any offense of the moment, big or small. I have a hard time keeping up with the latest junior high speak, but say for example Person A attempts to steal Person B’s girlfriend/boyfriend, then well, isn’t it obvious? Person A is “fake.” And if Person B sneaks a french fry off Person A’s plate? Well then Person B is “so fake!”
My definition of “fake” is probably more traditional (the kids would say “old”). I would have to say a fake is simply someone pretending to be something they’re not. I usually give a person the benefit of the doubt but after so many times and so much proof of fakery, well, then I have to admit the person is most likely a true “fake.” But then as a (mature? hmm…) adult, I would have to say that some of these poor souls aren’t sure who they are at this point. I mean, if you’ve gone your whole life trying to be something else, don’t you lose touch with what/who you really are? Kind of sad, actually.
Maybe I should feel compassion towards the early morning line cutters. Nah.
P.S. When I was telling Gerald about my upcoming post subject, he admitted to being an occasional line cutter. He did say there’s no faking about his cutting though, he just drives right through the parking lot without doing the pathetic pause by the door, to, you know, let his imaginary kid out. I guess my Gerald is just an asshole line cutter, not a faker asshole line cutter. (whew?)