Douche. It’s what’s for dessert.

This past weekend we were in St. Louis, Missouri, visiting our little sister Kelly and her husband Doug. Six months ago they had a baby boy, Parker, and we were eager to meet him.

We had the perfect day planned: take Parker to the zoo, take Parker to an Irish pub for lunch, take Parker home, put Parker in his Ohio State Buckeyes singlet, watch the Buckeyes game with Parker, put Parker in his Cardinals t-shirt, watch the Cardinals game with Parker, put Parker in his Blues jersey, watch Parker throw up on his Blues jersey, take Parker out of his Blues jersey and watch the Blues game with Parker.

Then to top it off, we’d take Parker to Ted Drewes, the legendary frozen custard stand on Route 66. What we didn’t plan on was what happened once we got there.

After pulling into a rather tight parking spot, we piled out of the car, already imagining the glorious diabetes-inducing concoctions awaiting us. But our euphoria was interrupted when we were approached by the driver of the car next to us.

“Did you not just feel your door slam into my car?” he barked. (Apparently he’d just downed a mouthful of asshole sundae.) Doug said that no, we didn’t feel our door hit his car because it hadn’t. “You gotta be kidding me,” the guy retorted, “You didn’t feel that? Our whole car shook!” (Guess he got nuts on that sundae.)

Now, under normal circumstances, a conversation beginning this way would be quite alarming. But Doug is a police officer for the City of St. Louis—he takes down pimps, drug dealers and murderers for a living, so we knew this Lexus-driving yuppie cracker was starting a fight he couldn’t finish.

While this was all going down, Kelly was busy putting Parker into his baby carrier. Once finished, she came around the back of the car to see what the commotion was about. And the bazookas came out firing.

“Where’s the damage?” she hissed. When the guy timidly responded that there wasn’t any, she followed up with, “That’s because we didn’t hit you!” She then turned on her heels, her infant son sleeping peacefully in the carrier dangling from the crook of her arm, and added the cherry on top: “FUCKING DOUCHEBAG!”

Every eye in the crowded parking lot was now on us, and while we felt twinges of discomfort, our sister strutted away, savoring the blood of a fresh kill.

Meanwhile, Doug remained calm. “I’m having Caramel Almond Banana. And that douchebag’s license plate number is NFP-272. I’m running it tomorrow.”

The Twins