GRASS

GRAMMY: Well, this is a crappy place to have a picnic. Why can’t we sit over there under the tree?

ME: Because you can’t sit on the grass over there. There’s a sign.

GRAMMY: Oooh. There’s a sign. I don’t see any damn grass police. And even if there where, what are they gonna do? Tazer an old lady?

ME: Sorry, Grammy. I’m not breaking the law?

GRAMMY: The law? It’s grass, Barbara. What the hell’s gonna happen if someone sits on it? They’re gonna cut it in a week anyway.

ME: Grammy, where are you going?

GRAMMY: I’m a taxpayer, dammit, and this is a public park. That grass belongs to me.

ME: Grammy, come back here. Grammy! (sigh) She’s worse than a two-year old.

JULIUS: She’s coming back, Mommy.

ME: Well, that was a quick sit.

GRAMMY: Changed my mind. Now let’s go home. I’m getting tired.

ME: But we just got . . . what is that smell? Grammy, you didn’t . . . .

GRAMMY: Where the hell is the ‘No Dogs Allowed’ sign? That’s what I want to know.