Flip me the {foam} finger.

It’s only Tuesday, and I was completely dreading getting out of bed this morning. It’s the first morning in three days that my liver hasn’t actually hurt from all of the alcohol I consumed this weekend in attempts to get over The Has Been Matt McFaggot. As horrible as it sounds, it worked for the most part.

Until I had a dream about him last night. Ugh.

But my story today isn’t about that. It’s about a foam finger.

It all started two weeks ago when things were starting to get rocky with the has been Matt McFaggot. I had been eyeing a foam finger on the website for his favorite football team. I really wanted to get him one for the first tailgate. So in the midst of our little tiff, I marched over to the sports shop on my lunch break and found the foam finger, along with the ever-so-cool foam CLAW (go bearcats). I stood there forever, finger in one hand, claw in the other.

Finger? Or claw? Finger? Or claw? Finger. No, no. Claw. Finger. Hrrmmm…

My gut went with the finger because it’s a classic sports souvenir. And it’s originally what I wanted. So I stood in line with two fingers—one for me, one for McFaggot.

It’s finally my turn, I’m watching out the window to see if my car gets towed, and the sales lady can’t find the finger button on the cash register.

“Is it under ‘finger’?” she asked the salesman.

“Uh yeah probably.”

Scrolling….typing…scrolling.

“I can’t find it…would it be under ‘foam finger’?”

The salesman walks over and they scroll together mumbling “foam”…”f-o-a-m finger.”

They eventually find it, and $20 later, everyone in line behind me wants to shove the two fingers up my ass. But I skip to my car, which thank god wasn’t towed. So later that night, McFaggot is on his way over and I am standing by my front door with a foam finger on each of my hands (I’m the original McFaggot). When he knocks on my door, I open it and wave at him via the double foam fingers.

We both get a laugh, and all is great in the world. We took our fingers tailgating, where they enjoyed beer and nachos, and had great seats for the game. But then, McFaggots finger was carelessly tossed aside in McFaggot’s truck, never to be seen again. I laid my foam finger down for a nap on top of my dryer for the week, until the next game.

Friday night rolls around, and I’m out with Anne and her friends, including this chick Misha. I tell Anne I am totes bringing foam finger on our tailgating extravaganza Saturday morning.

“Aw yes! Didn’t you buy two?”

Me: “Ugh, YES, but McFaggot has the other one!!”

Anne: “Dammit!”

Me: “I knoooow. I wish I didn’t give it to him, then I would totally let you have it.”

Misha: “Don’t you hate that? When you give someone something cool and you never see ’em again.”

Me & Anne: “Ugh. Totally.”

Saturday morning, me and foam finger are ready to get our drAnk on. Misha and Anne are completely mesmerized by how fun foam finger is—he really knows how to party. We all decide foam finger needs a thumb, so it can hold my beers better.

Before we know it, it’s game time. We are making our way to the stadium, when Anne and Misha see a kiosk that has foam fingers and the claw. They each buy a claw, and we are on our way. We were sitting in Anne’s seats, which are box seats—free food, alcohol, local celebrities and has been 90s musicians. Totally my scene.

So I’m loading up on nachos, hot dogs, beer, it’s a grand ole time. I notice next to us is a mom and dad and two pretty cute little boys. Misha, who is obsessed with kids, hands her claw to one of the boys. He is fascinated. I felt bad that the other little boy didn’t have a toy, so I offered to share foam finger. The dad says, “Thanks! We will give them back to you at the end of the game.”

Worst mistake of my adult life. And I’m only 25.

So both of the boys are having a blast with claw and finger. Anne comes back from the beer stand and says, “Lucky…you gave that kid your finger?”

“Yeah…well, I didn’t GIVE it to him. He’s giving it back.”

Anne: “But you hate kids.”

Me: “I know. I must be super drunk.”

The game clock is winding down to go-time and it looks like the kid nor the dad are going to return my foam finger. I tell Anne, “I’m scared the dad won’t give me back the finger.”

Misha: “Lucky, they’re kids. I’m letting them keep the claw.”

Me: “Umm I’m not Goodwill. That’s MY finger!”

Anne: “Don’t worry, I’ll just ask the dad for it when we leave, I don’t mind.”

So we get up to leave and Anne stays back to get the finger. I start making my way to the elevator, where there are ushers in suits. Anne meets me at the elevator, foam finger in hand.

Me: “You got it?”

Anne: “Yeah! I just said ‘hey can we get the finger back?’ and the dad said ‘yeah no problem!'”

Me: “Good!”

We are waiting for our turn to get on the elevator, when the dad comes running around the corner and grabs Anne.

Dad: “HEY! Thanks for making my kid cry.”

Anne: “What?”

Dad: “Ha! Yeah! You made my 5-year-old kid cry.”

I see this nonsense, and walk over to the dad.

Me: “Don’t yell at her. It’s my fault. I wanted it back.”

Dad: “Do you really care THAT MUCH about a foam FINGER?”

Me: “First of all…it was $10. Second of all, it’s not MY KID.”

The dad gets out his wallet and starts sifting through dollar bills.

Me: “No. You can have it.”

I throw the foam finger at the dad. He picks it up. Then, he lunges at me, THROWING the finger and the claw. I leave both of them on the floor, cross my arms, and yell, “FUCK. YOU.”

At this point, people are staring, and Misha rounds the corner. She sees the scene and tells the dad he can keep her claw. I get on the elevator, leaving foam finger without a proper goodbye.

I was pissed. I was simply trying to be nice to a kid, who obviously gets whatever he wants when he throws a temper tantrum. I can tell you one thing, if someone gave me a toy, my parents would give it back no matter what kind of fit I threw, because I’m not a spoiled brat. Secondly, if you have the money to sit in box seats, then fucking buy your kids the shit they want and don’t leave it up to college graduates living off beer and corn chips, ok????

There’s so many better outcomes that could have occurred. The dad could’ve said, “hey my kid is really loving the finger, can I pay you for it?” And I would’ve said, no it’s cool, keep it. Or the dad could’ve told the son, “hey buddy! You’re a spoiled little bitch so I’ll buy you one myself!”

So now, I spend my nights thinking about foam finger. Did he sleep under the covers with mini McFaggot? Does he miss the other foam finger? Is he in a toy box with foam claw? Poor foam finger. You lived a good life.

Later, when Misha returned, she told me when she gave her claw away, she told the dad “it was no big deal,” when he said he’d give them back. I said I didn’t give shit, I paid for it, and it’s not my fault he was having careless sex and had a kid that grew up to be a foam finger stealing asshole.

Now, I’m in the market for a new foam finger that little kids won’t need. Such as:

or:

Now that I’m equally pissed about foam finger today than I was three days ago, that will be all.

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5 thoughts on “Flip me the {foam} finger.

  1. Dennis Hong says:

    Or, fucking teach your fucking kid that he can’t fucking get every fucking thing he fucking wants.

    How’s that for an idea?

  2. […] morning, I read Lucky and Gizzy’s blog, just as I do every morning. Lucky wrote about a recent experience at a football game. In an act of […]

  3. […] recent blogs, I knew I was in for a treat. Once I giggled through lost my pretty. boy. sway and flip me the (foam) finger I was a fan for […]

  4. […] foam finger. God, I miss you so much. I sure hope things aren’t too bad hanging out with that snot-nosed […]

  5. […] little souvenir for myself since it was my first Big City Butts game. In honor of Lucky, and her fallen ones, I come back with two foam fingers.  One for me and one for Anth.  And Anth was not too happy […]

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