Respect the Loophole

1:25 p.m - 1/4 of an inch of juice left

I drink coffee as the vehicle for the 1,000 calorie flavored creamer. I eat bread for delivery of the fat-laden butter. The only reason I walk on the treadmill is because it makes it Ok for me to listen to Eminem even though I'm older than his mother.

I eat Raisin Bran for the raisins in milk and Lucky Charms for the cute baby marshmallows. (most people get the Lucky Charms one, but tell me the Raisin Bran one is just dumb because why not just eat raisins. Duh. Because I love raisins in milk but raisins in milk as a snack would call too much attention.)

Life is full of loopholes.

You can say you're doing research while you Youtube ThugLife cat videos. “I have to do this. It keeps my hand on the pulse of America's humor, kids!”

In summer's muggy haze, there is no easier time for a dinner loophole than quartering up a chilled head of iceberg lettuce to cool everyone off. Who wants real food anyway?

All you need for a loophole to present itself is a good set of brains, both hemispheres, one for sound reason, the other for downright conviction.

My children are masters of the loophole. They can slip in a cuss if they turn it into a reminder of how my hearing isn't what it used to be. "Mom, I know you think you heard me tell my brother he was going to get his ass destroyed, what I actually said was 'I wonder about tonight's asteroid storm.' You know you need to ask the Dr. about your hearing." True enough, my child.

You can loophole making faces at your brother because your mother says Don't say anything mean to your brother and you're not saying anything. Saying "Don't touch him" makes you wish you would have said Touch Him because the almost of a one inch away poking finger is more annoying than the landing of the finger.

Loopholes allow me to visit my kids at work. I can go to the grocery store where one is a bagger and to the pool, where the other one lifeguards. I had to buy groceries anyway, which explains why I'm at the store during his shift, and before one starts huffing and puffing that I'm at the pool spying on him, let me just say that the only reason I am at the pool is to see if the Silver Swimmers were holding a Waterworking Those Bat Wings lap session.

When I see how long my children will make the quarter inch of apple juice that's left, last to the point of them barely pouring enough into a glass to wet a hummingbird's lips, because of my words, "The person I see drink the last drop of juice, has to go to the basement and get a new gallon," we're entering some loophole-ripe ground here.
 

Here we have an empty gallon of juice. With no one responsible for bringing up the replacement, since I didn't see who drank the last drop.

 

  It is impossible for me to get angry in the face of such beautiful circumventing genius.

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