The title of this post refers to the federal statute that makes it illegal to interfere with commerce through the use of threats or violence.
Once, when I was about eleven years old, I had set up a candy stand in my front yard and was in the process of selling to the neighborhood kids a bunch of candy I had ummmm . . . . expropriated from the local candy store.
I was about half way through selling out my merch — Pixy Stix, Root Beer Barrels, and Candy Buttons} when the father of the Stennard kids — one Mr. Charlie Stennard {a flaming asshole of biblical proportions} — approached my stand and told me to immediately cease and desist my commercial efforts because he didn’t want his brats spending their hard earned money and filling up on my pogey bait.
Even at that tender age I had a mouth on me as wide as the Great Plains — and that mouth was inextricably paired with an attitude that had been recently honed to a fine edge by living for the past five years in New York City as a latchkey kid before moving to the suburbs.
So upon hearing Mr. Stennard’s demand I, in turn, suggested to him that if he didn’t want his ill-behaved issue spending their money on candy at my candy stand then perhaps he should try doing a better job of parenting by teaching them the value of money and the ill-effects of too many sweets upon a growing body, and oh, by the way, my candy stand is on my property and I’d appreciate it if he’d remove himself from it forthwith because “you’re hurtin’ my business”.
Or words to that effect.
Sputtering with rage Charlie threatened to shut me down by telling my parents — a clear violation of the United States Code referenced in the title and, if you think about it, a lame and douchey thing to say to a small for his age eleven year old when you yourself are a 6 foot five inch tall thirty year old father of three.
To which I responded with a yawn, or something equally offensive and dismissive.
Whereupon Charlie — rather than backhanding me across my smart-assed mouth as any man with actual balls in his pants would have done — marched up to our front door, rang the doorbell and when my annoyed {my parents HATED unexpected drop-bys} mother presented herself he stridently repeated his demand that I immediately cease and desist my commercial activities.
At which point my mother, in turn, suggested that if he wanted his children to learn the lesson that it wasn’t good to piss away their money on candy then perhaps maybe he should consider spending a bit more time parenting HIS children and a bit less time trying to parent hers.
That or simply not give his clearly irresponsible {and somewhat dim, if truth be told} children the luxury of their own money — at least until they knew its value and were mature enough to handle it like adults. . . . saaayyyy, the age of thirty or forty.
My Mom was a pitbull where her kids were concerned and she knew instinctively {what us kids only learned about her later in life} that she was a better fucking parent than all the other parents out there combined — and she certainly wasn’t going to brook any nonsense from the likes of Charlie fucking Stennard.
My Mom and your faithful blogger — Christmas 1969.
