The other nickname for Richard would have been more appropriate, but I guess that's just perpetuating the crudeness that ruined my afternoon

I had something funny in mind for today's post. Chuck, Junior and I spent the weekend camping with friends and their children, and if six adults stuck in the woods with five children under the age of five doesn’t scream funny, I don’t know what does.

But then when we got home, I took Junior to Mulletville Park and everything changed.

When the planets align correctly, Mulletville Park can be a very nice place. There’s a pond you can walk around, picnic tables, ducks with mullets; it’s quite enjoyable.

Alas, today was not a day of celestial convergence. In fact, as I drove home, I vowed to never return and to write a letter to the mayor of Mulletville that read: “I’d rather live on a sinking, splintered river boat on a smelly polluted river of rotting fish and West Nile-infested mosquitoes alongside a family of lepers than in this town.”

The first problem with Mulletville Park is that the children’s playground is nestled in a spot at the top of a cliff. You can’t see it from the parking lot, so you never know if it’s crowded or not with other people’s brats. It’s like going on a blind date: You just have to hope it doesn’t suck too bad. Getting a stroller up and down the cliff pathway is harrowing. There should be a fricken t-bar.

The second problem is that there is no one in charge. The Mulletville police stop in from time to time to bust drug dealers, but not often enough. People swim and fish in the pond. The ducks quack and preen. Dogs roam. Radios blast. Ice cream trucks speed by. Drug dealers hide in trees. Chipmunks rally against squirrels. The Mulletville track team runs. It’s anarchy, I tell you.

Anyway. Today.

Today at the children’s playground it was me and Junior, two dads and their toddlers, and two moms with their older kids. A group of teenagers was sitting on a bench. Everything was going fine until one of the teenagers started fighting with his girlfriend. And oh my God, I know sometimes I have a bad mouth, but I was not prepared for:

F***ing whore
F***ing bitch
F***ing slut

And the worst of all disgusting, horrible words:
F***ing c***

Shouted. Repeated.

I started to shake.

I am terrible in public situations involving conflict. Terrible. When a fight breaks out, I freak out. I often wish I could morph into a 350 pound muscular man with menacing facial hair and an authoritative voice so I could go around breaking up fights—instead of running from them—but all attempts thus far have been unsuccessful.

I looked at the dads to say something, but all they were doing was glaring. There was more:

F***ing whore
F***ing bitch
F***ing slut

And the worst of all disgusting, horrible words:
F***ing c***

And more.

And more.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. If I could have willed myself a pair of testicles, they would have been the size of watermelons. I inched closer. I was so close to saying something and then, from below the cliff:

“Riccccccccckkky! Riccccccccckkky!”

His peeps were calling him. The group disbanded and disappeared.

I wanted to rip Ricky's head off. I wanted to shout to the parents, "Why didn't anyone say anything?" But then, why didn't I speak up? Why did I expect one of the dads to save the day? Sure, they would have fielded a punch better, but I can look tough.

Or not.

And Ricky, your name sucks. If you want to verbally abuse your girlfriend, why the hell do you need to do it on a children’s playground? I think that says more about your character than your trash mouth.

And Mulletville? You.Break.My.Heart.