Anyway, PFile, you need to stop coming all by your creepy self to the master planned community pool that thematically revolves around children. You will have noticed of course, because you are a pedophile, that the thing all the adults at the pool have in common is they’re all accompanied by screaming crazy children. I imagine that this gets your blood to racing, but you still belong at the Olympic sized community pool where kids are not allowed. Or prison.
Because you are a pedophile and you want me to believe you’re not so you can molest my children without obstruction, you will probably object and say something all frothy with justice like “It is my right to sit by the kiddie pool every single day. I live here too. That doesn’t make me a pedophile.” Give me a break PFile. You stole my son’s water rocket from the pool. You knew he’d be downtrodden for a week, only to be heartily cheered again by good old PFile when he saved the day by bringing it back. Nice grooming technique, pervert. I saw you glare at me with disdain when Jackson, by his parents order, snubbed you. You looked like some high school chick who just got dumped for someone better looking and more interesting.
Ah but you’re resourceful, PFile. You found a new little boy to play catch with and lure closer to you in the least populated section of the pool. I know your game. You shorten the distance of your throws until the little boy is within arm’s length; then you splash him and sneak in a playful hug. You even glance around to see who noticed, and always find me peering into your sunglasses. We lock gazes and I can hear you wondering if I know. O I do, PFile. I know about you. And I tell every single parent of every child you try to fondle. And I tell the lifeguards every time you pick a new one. I am your thwarted lust, PFile.
I try to use my imagination to give people the benefit of the doubt. So PFile, here’s what I came up with for you. Let’s say your 9-year-old boy was killed in a totally bizarre highway accident where a bunch of iron fell off a semi and crushed the passenger side of your car. I used that example because I hate driving by semi-trucks towing a bunch of iron. It freaks me out. I always think “Pass this truck, Black Hockey Jesus, before you’re all crushed by iron. Go. Go. Go.” Anyway, let’s say I confront you.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Dude. You better stay away from my kids or I’m gonna blow your grill out for real.
PFILE (weeping like a sissy): But my little boy was killed just 2 months ago and playing with your son heals my gaping emotional hole wounds. It’s the only thing that brings solace to my woe-filled heart of grief and despair.
You might think I’d get all emotional and hug your fat rolls and go all Robin Williams on you with that “It’s not your fault.” rap, but I wouldn’t.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Dude. Sorry about your kid. Still, you better stay away from my kids or I’m gonna blow your grill out for real.
In the 21st century, there’s no context I can create that makes it cool for a grown man to make friends with little boys, Peter Pan. You need to move along to the grown-up pool. Or prison.
Black Hockey Justice