Damn it.

This post will be rife with foul language.

Some goddamn mutherfucker cocksucking little maggot stole my son's bike.

Yes, it was a $15 bike we bought at a yard sale. But it sat in the garage all winter and he begged to ride it. Until his dad finally got around to fixing the flat tire last week. He's got a fancy Schwinn Stingray, and while he looks FANTASTIC riding the cul-de-sac, he can't go very far because he can't really get up out of the seat.

So we bought the shiny red bike at the yard sale.

Today, Tippy was in the stroller, I was walking and Karateboy was riding his shiny red bike. We decided to make a quick stop at the Giant before heading home. We forgot a lock. It was a beautiful day.

Yes, yes, yes, I know it was dumb to leave it in front of the grocery store, but he couldn't bring it in the store, and I couldn't leave him outside. I suppose we could have skipped the store, but that sounds so dumb. I mean, this is COLUMBIA.

But nothing is safe. Karateboy cried all the way home from the store. I cried with him. I couldn't help it. They were deep, painful cries of the loss of a beloved new bike. He sniffled and said he was trying not to cry. I told him to let it all out.

I told Karateboy that the creep that stole his bike probably needed it more than he did. I really wanted to smack the crap out of someone.

At first, Karateboy didn't want me to take a violent, vengeful approach. (Funny, some of my parenting is actually working.) Later he agreed that it would be OK if I smacked him when I took the bike back. Of course we discussed that violence was not the answer.

Then I told him if I found the little creep, I was going to beat him to a pulp and rip off his ears.