Lamb Bacon, Wild Boar bacon, Bacon Flavored beer: Everything bacon

What is up with America’s obsession with bacon? Is bacon a food or is it a drug? Not everything needs to be turned into or wrapped with bacon.  If you decide that everything you eat must have bacon on it or in it, then you may need some sort of bacon related rehab. Because, everything bacon is not at all healthy for you.

I went over to a friend’s house, who is obsessed with homemade bacon. Well, this weekend, she decides to have a lovely homemade bacon party. I fully expected a few things to just be wrapped in bacon. However, she decided to step it up a notch and take the party into a whole other disturbing level.

Next to the TV sat an assortment of wild boar bacon and lamb bacon.  How that is made is a mystery to me. However, I could have survived not knowing that Wild Boar bacon and lamb bacon actually exist.  People in the party complained that the wild boar bacon and lamb bacon tasted differently than regular pork bacon. I guess they have a very refined bacon pallet. Bacon, no matter the animal, to me just tastes like salt and grease.

After the Wild Boar bacon and lamb bacon, she decided to make some bacon brownies and bacon ice cream.  The bacon brownies were okay; however, the bacon ice cream tasted really quite foul. I wouldn’t eat chicken ice cream so why am I eating bacon ice cream. My friend also told me that she had a variety of bacon dessert recipes that she wanted to share with me so that I could make some at home for my children. Do I want my kids to have high blood pressure by the age of 8? I’m not feeding them any of this!

To top it all off, there was bacon flavored beer and bacon flavored vodka. Again, why is that necessary? Alcohol is great all by itself! Why must you mess it up by infusing it with bacon? That should be against the law. Again, I wouldn’t drink shrimp flavored vodka. Why would I really want to drink bacon flavored?

By the end of the night, I wanted to throw up. I kept tasting the wild boar bacon mixed with the lamb bacon while I burped from the beer flavored bacon. Look, I understand. To some, bacon tastes fantastic. The crispiness and saltiness of homemade bacon is practically orgasmic. But, items such as homemade bacon ice cream and bacon brownies are really taking it to a whole other level.

Step away from the bacon. ..try eating a salad.

Avoid that Exploding Potato in the Microwave! Quit that Terrible Job

Have you ever hated a job so much that you wish some giant boulder would fall on your cubicle? Well, my current terrible job is turning me into a bitter, disgruntled, and slightly stupid person.  I used to be a smart girl. Well, I used to have average intelligence, above average if I lived in Mississippi.  Now, I think I lose 25 brain cells a day working around my coworkers at my terrible job.

The other day, some fool tried to cook a potato for ten minutes in the lunchroom. Guess what happened?  Suddenly there was an exploding potato in the microwave.  He stood dumbfounded, wondering why his potato suddenly exploded. Must have been a defective potato.

Yet, despite the hot potato incident, I have to sort his damn mail. Why? Well, because he has a pretty full plate, trying to figure out how to work his stapler.  I’m a firm believer that when you work around dumb, you get dumber. It happens, by osmosis or something, because the other day I seriously contemplated making a drink mixed with tequila and chardonnay. After coming back to reality, I realized that drinking a whiskey and coke at my desk would be a smarter option.

I am sick of constantly being asked to do bullshit that is totally not in my terrible job description. It sucks and I am not going to do it anymore. Sure, I am happy to have a terrible job, but at what cost?  At this point, I’d rather work at Taco Bell than have to work around this cast of characters any longer. Well, probably not Taco Bell because that place is disgusting, but I could definitely rock a hair net at Burger King. They could hire me to watch out for every exploding potato in the microwave.

It’s a New Year and it’s time for us all to make new decisions in life. It’s time for those who have been looking for employment, to finally get a job in 2013. It’s also time for those of us who have terrible jobs, to give the boss the middle finger, and find some other way to make a living.

If not, well then, watch out an exploding potato in the microwave.  

Beat Him, Jesus

It is yet another dysfunctional day on the Westside, where the birds seem to never out churp the hum of the Mercedes zooming up the mountain road.

As the moon emerges and after I manage to drag my economy sized car up the mountain road, I find myself standing in your typical, 8000 square foot house equip with flat screen TV’s, designer furniture,  undocumented maids, and  enough organic food to adequately feed one Ethiopian.

As I walk into the kitchen, it takes no time for me to realize, the mom has no idea where her kids are. She also exerts minimal effort to see if they are still in the house or even alive. Her only comment to me is “I haven’t seen them in hours. Maybe they are downstairs somewhere. Why don’t you go and look?” So tonight I’m not only a tutor but also a detective.

I go downstairs and after recovering from the pungent smell of dog pee, I walk into quite the peculiar situation. In the study, in between the Mac computer and a sweaty school uniform, this boy is beating his younger brother with a cross. Yes, a cross, like the cross of Jesus, which  was hanging on the wall but had been pulled off in a fit of rage.

After I told the child to stop beating his brother, I wondered a few things. Of all the objects in the room, why did the boy decide it was best to beat his little brother with a cross?  Was there nothing else he could have used to beat his younger brother with? I see a few belts on the ground. I see lots of cords. I see lots of books. Why not use those objects instead of a cross if you are going to resort to that sort of rough justice? 

Here’s a word of advice for all parent of kids on the Westside. When kids come home from school, you unfortunately have to watch them. You cannot let them run wild in your 8000 square foot houses.  If you do, you know what happens? They do stupid shit like beat their brother with a religious artifact. Talk to them regularly. Explain to them right from wrong. Eventually they will learn to not use a cross to beat their brother, when there’s a small chair nearby.

Attention Ivy League Porn Stars: Become An Academic Tutor for a Family in West Los Angeles

Apply to be an academic tutor on the Westside of Los Angeles! It’s really a very glamorous job! Definitely more glamorous than working as  Hollywood hooker or an Ivy League Porn Star

We won’t provide health insurance.

We won’t pay travel time or gas.

And when you get sick, we won’t pay you sick time or send you a card.

But what we will do is provide you with plenty of dysfunctional wealthy Los Angeles families with a plethora of issues, very little patience, and children who haven’t heard of terms such as patience, accountability, work ethic or integrity.

And for every client we find for you, we will take 50% to 60% of your hourly salary for “administrative costs”. But don’t worry, there’s an upside!  Since our clientele is located on the Westside, all of our academic tutoring clients will be diagnosed with ADD. But don’t you worry they will be on medication that will wear off exactly 15 minutes before you arrive!

When your clients become unbearable and you need us to mediate the situation, we will play both sides of the field! Hooray! We will trash the client to your face, and meanwhile suck up to the client behind your back.  You’ll never find out, we promise!

And the best part about the position, you’ll never need to take a bath because every house you tutor at has a dog that will jump on you, piss on you, and breathe on you with their hot nasty breath. And when they are done, they will lick you clean with their slimy tongues!

And you will diversify your vocabulary by learning words like bitch, cunt, whore, Hollywood Hooker, Ivy League Porn star, and slut because these are only but a few of the words you’ll hear some of the kids call their mothers, nannies and maybe even you!

If you are smarter than the average American yet have the abuse tolerance of a Hollywood hooker or an Ivy Leauge Porn star, then come on in, apply for the job of academic tutor. We promise you will love it!

Welcome to the Academic Tutoring World!

Welcome to the Academic Tutoring World! D in Algebra Best Alcohol Shot

If you’re lucky you’ll get a student who is just getting a D in Algebra. If you are unlucky you will get a client who is getting a D in Algebra, is addicted to meth, drinks vodka out of a water bottle every day at school, and his a habitual liar. If you are lucky you will get parents who care. If you are unlucky, you’ll be pulled into contentious divorces and experience parents who reward failing grades with credit cards and fancy Range Rovers, Bentley’s and Mercedes. If you are lucky, you’ll get kids who speak to their parents with no profanity. If you are not, you’ll hear a lot of “Mom you’re a bitch” and “fuck you dad”. On rare occasions you may even hear someone refer to their sister as a cunt or their brother as a dick. If you need extra cash because you are unemployed, try academic tutoring.

Then, every night come home and try the best alcohol shot:

D in Algebra Best Alcohol Shot

1 Part 100 Proof Peppermint Schnapps
1 Part Jagermeister
1 Part Tequila
1 Part 151 Proof Rum

It will help you forget your ridiculous students. It will also help you forget your name.

To Family, Friends, Moochers and Freeloaders

Do you work for free? Neither do I! Yes, I can offer a discount but tutoring and educational consulting is how I make a living. I don’t care if you are my cousin. I don’t care if your husband won’t approve of my pricing for tutoring. I don’t care if you wiped my ass when I was 3 months old. I don’t care if I threw up on you at two. I don’t even particularly care if you cried at my graduation from college. Do you know what I do care about? Paying my damn rent! Eating three meals a day! Paying my student loans. So if your bad ass child needs tutoring, don’t call me expecting to receive free tutoring services. At most, I will offer you a ten dollar discount. If you don’t like it, find another tutor. I so don’t give a shit.

If you are broke....

I get it. It's a bad economy! We are all struggling. But there is nothing that pisses me off more than someone who will not pull their own weight and uses others, especially in a bad economy. I see it all the time on Judge Judy and it pisses me off. You know what bothers me more? Those dumbfucks who let it happen. So, here is a short guide for those who manage fall victim to gold diggers and parasites.

Don't repeatedly fall for the line "I don't have any cash on me or I left my money in the car". Just leave them on the sidewalk behind the velvet rope and go into the club by yourself. Don't even feel guilty about it.

Don't repeatedly fall for the line "I'll pay for your drinks next time." Just leave the fool thirsty. If you don't have any money, then your ass should be looking for a job, not your next drink.

Don't repeatedly pay for someone's meal. Top Ramen is 10 cents and if you are broke, then that's what the hell you should be eating. Nice restaurants are for people who have money, not broke people with a pallete for oysters.

Don't pay for anyone's rent, mortgage or car note. It's okay if it's once but it's just dumb if you do it all the time. They sell bus passes at all supermarkets. Everyone can go behind any store and get a cardboard box and call that home.

Do not put anyone on your cellphone plan. Most people who can't get their own cellphone usually have bad credit. If they won't pay Verizon, then they won't pay you. You will get screwed eventually and you will feel dumb when the scumbag doesn't pay for the phone calls he or she has made to phone sex operators, prostitutes, sluts, and their secret probation officer.

Don't pay for anyone's plane ticket expecting them to pay you back! If it's a family emergency, that's one thing, but if you are paying for someone to go to Jamaica, you are a dumbass if you think that person will pay you back. If you can't afford to pay for your vacation, then why the hell are you going? Just buy them a poster of Jamaica, and put that shit up in their cardboard box.

Lastly, unless you are related to them, don't let anyone move in to your house. They won't ever pay. They won't ever get a job. They won't ever leave. You'll be stuck with the person on your couch, eating your balony and soaking up your electricity. And it makes it easier for them to find you and ask you money for the club, their cellphone, and money for their car note.

Gas is High! Bring your Bottle to the Bar!

Okay so I read some story which stated that nationwide, the average cost of gas has now topped $4 dollars a gallon. I wish I could find some gas for $4! In my area, gas is $4.50. So, being broke and having tremendously poor work ethic, I have had to substantially alter my lifestyle to deal with the rising gas prices. Here are the 10 ways my life has changed since gas prices have risen:

1.Instead of traveling, I must drink at the dive bars down the street from my house. Sometimes, I just bring a bottle into the dive bar and start guzzling it at a table, to save money.
2.I can no longer afford to use air conditioning in my car, which means I show up to work and other places hot, sweaty and sticky.
3.I only drive to work and back. And, since my car loan is like 9 times my salary, I should just stay home and suck up air.
4.I seriously contemplated driving my bike from LA to Las Vegas.
5.I can no longer afford to get my plastic surgery, so I must continue to resort to socks.
6.I have decided to take the “how to be a gold digger” seminar at the local junior college.
7.I can only afford to eat top ramen. Occasionally I treat myself to bean burritos from Taco Hell.
8.Twice this month, I’ve had to push my car home.
9.I just bought gas off the black market the other day. Apparently it fell off the back of someone’s truck.
10.I have started to beg for loose change.

The night is still young...

Try a pickle juice margarita...

Dill Pickle Juice Can Be Very Useful!

If you are a country hick, this is the shot for you...

For all you alcoholics out there, here's a recipe that you would enjoy! I know, it sounds a bit vile, but trust me, it tastes just like chicken. Yum, alcohol and pickle juice!

Shot of tequila with a dill pickle juice shot chaser!

1 oz Tequila
1 oz dill pickle juice

or

Jameson and pickle juice shot
1 oz Jameson
1oz dill pickle juice

*Note*
1. Don't be a fool. Use dill pickle juice, not sweet pickle juice.
2. This is an AT HOME shot. Don't go to some super trendy Hollywood night club, asking for Jameson and pickle juice shot or a tequila with a dill pickle juice chaser. They will tell you to take your ass back to Louisiana.

It's the weekend, you are a drunk, get your drink on!

I'd rather sleep with Flavor Flav than be forced to watch Living Lohan again

Okay, so since I was unable to post bail because I am broke and unemployed, I remain in jail. As part of my punishment, I was thrown into solitary confinement, because for obvious reasons pickles are harassed in general population. My magnificent living quarters contain a lumpy bed bugged ridden bed and an old black and white TV. Roaches, rats and blood covered the floor. As part of my punishment, the guard informed me that at 10:00pm my TV would automatically turn on and I would be forced to watch whatever show was on the channel. At first, this didn’t seem like any sort of punishment. Boy was I wrong.

So that night I heard the alarm, and like everyone in solitary confinement, I did as I was told. I walked over and turned on the TV. And what appeared? Living Lohan, the reality TV show which follows Lindsay Lohan’s mother and siblings around. At first I thought I was on the wrong channel or that the guards were joking when they said I was required to watch this show. But, as I listened I noticed that everyone else in solitary was tuned into the same channel. Unfortunately, I was on the right station.
I’ve had a few ulcers in my life and have slammed a few fingers into doors. I’ve even walked into a few mailboxes and a few people have tried to make me into relish a few times. But never have I ever been in as much pain as I was in while watching Living Lohan. And I wasn’t alone. The guy next to me, started to violently weep and the guy across from me started to bang his head into the door. And, the guy two doors down from me. Well, he must have been in jail long enough to see the beginning of the season and the terribleness of the show must have really worn him down because during a commercial break, he demanded the electric chair.

So what did the pickle do? Well, I requested that the TV be removed and after the officers laughed at me, they informed me that they could not do that. In fact, I would be forced to watch the show every day until I was released from jail. So I immediately called my lawyer and told him I would plead guilty to all charges, whether it be disorderly conduct or prostitution. I didn’t care. I wanted out. So, today I have a hearing to confess to a crime I didn’t commit, just to not be forced to watch another episode of this awful show.

Walking into a mail box can get you arrested!

As I was walking to the mental clinic yesterday, past a drunk guy puking on the sidewalk, I looked forward and noticed LAPD, slamming some guy into the dirty pavement. The cop was slapping handcuffs on the poor guy's wrists and digging his boot into the guy's dumbo ear. He was being arrested for jaywalking.

So, as I was observing the situation and not paying attention to where I was going, I walked right into a metal mailbox. I hit the pavement with a big giant thud. A bunch of people passing by started violently pointing and laughing at me and one threw a beer bottle at my fat head.

Then the same LA cop walked away from the guy and started to venture toward me. I thought he was going to see if I was okay. But, he ended up arresting me...for disturbing the peace and disorderly conduct.

And since there are no jails for fickle pickles, I am being held in a small jar, awaiting trial.

Life is hard

Diamond Vixen, Ivy League Porn Star, has entered the building

When I go out at night, I like to lie. It’s fun and it provides me with some amusement! So when I was out with my friend this weekend, I decided to be Ivy League porn star Diamond Vixen, an up and coming porn star from Van Nuys. I don’t have big boobs or bleach blonde hair. I’m short and look like a Superficklepickle. So in other words, I’m a bit funny looking. So, naturally I thought, that no one would believe my porn star act. Boy was I super duper wrong.

So, I decided to try my luck on these two military men. I thought since they were in the army, they could read through my bullshit. Obviously I was wrong. They wondered what channel Ivy League porn star Diamond Vixen I had been on. They asked where they could buy my videos. When I told them, my footage was on you tube, they got especially excited. Afterall, on you tube, they could see me for free.

They even asked if my friend was also a Ivy League porn star. I told them that she was my apprentice and I was teaching her the ropes to be fickle pickle super duper Ivy League porn star (but between me and you, she doesn’t have the talent to be a top notch porn star).

Then I tried my luck with this goofy bartender. I told him I wanted him to be one of the contestants in this new porn game show I was going to be starring in. He asked me how much the gig paid. I told him it paid minimum wage plus a keg of stale beer. He agreed! I guess, everyone is trying to find their way into Hollywood.

But the end of the night surpised me greatly. At my hotel, I asked the manager where I could get a tub of wipped cream, eight gross of cherries, some hot fudge and cookie crumbs, for a “video shoot” to be done in his hotel. He perked up a bit. He said he could drop off the items for free, if he could watch the filming and provide constructive feedback. I told him, it was a closed set, until he slipped me a fifty dollar bill. Then it became a closed set, with a budget of 50 dollars.

So, my question is, do I look like a Ivy League porn star or is it enough that I just said I was a Ivy League porn star. Are men that incredibly gullible? After all, I am just a Superficklepickle. Fickle pickles are usually not Ivy League porn stars. Fickle pickles don’t have jobs.

Sure Obama is sexy but my eyes are on Dick

Sure Obama is hot...in a classic pretty boy way but the Super Fickle Pickle has always liked the rugged unpredictable type. This is the reason why the Super Fickle Pickle has been setting her sights on Dick Cheney. He is like so hard core, kind of like a neighborhood gangster. Maybe I would call him OG Dick. I think its really hot how he can profit off other peoples misery. Maybe he could use some of that misery money and buy me a diamond necklace. From Africa of course.

If we were to get together, I'd move him into my swanky Hollywood apartment which has a breathtaking view of an overflowing dumpster, dead skunk and random piles of urine. We could take walks hand in hand together past the many homeless that live on the streets of Hollywood. On Saturdays we could even taunt them by walking by them while chopping on big juicy hamburgers. It would be a match made in heaven.

We could open up a business with our exploitation money and pay more people minimum wage so that they can't afford to live anywhere and thus live below the poverty line. We could even pay a select chosen few below the minimum wage just for shits and giggles and never offer them benefits or raises. We can offer creative incentives to entice high school students to drop out of school, such as a free hamburger, or free weed for a month. I have such plans for us. Let's leave all children behind.

The Super Fickle Pickle thinks that Dick Cheney is the man for her. She thinks he has some qualities that would make him the perfect companion. OG Dick, if you are out there, give the Pickle a call. For 5000 a night, we can have some fun.

Leave your Buketheaded, Divorced Friends At Home!

This Saturday some friends and I decided to go out in Hollywood. Last minute, my friend said she was going to bring her recently divorced highly critical, snobby cousin Bianca with us. Oh boy!

Bianca came into my house, complaining the entire time. She complained that there was no adequate parking for her BMW so I apologized. She claimed my apartment was drafty so I gave her a blanket. Then, she claimed the blanket was itchy and that it had lice in it. I then took it away from her and told her to take a few shots. She needed to calm down. I brought out the bottle of vodka. She said she didn’t drink cheap vodka. Then I politely told her that she could walk down to the local CVS and buy us all a bottle of Grey Goose. We would drink it! She shut up.

I was thinking, gosh it’s so strange that this train wretch is recently divorced. To me, she seemed like the perfect wife. So, the story doesn’t end here. So, what happened next? Bianca is a mess.

Next we went out to a bar and she continued to take shot after shot after shot. Toward the end of the night, she even started taking other peoples drinks when they weren't drinking. She even took a dollar out of the bartenders tip jar. Then, suddenly, she yanked off her shirt and began to unbutton her skirt, giving the patrons a strip tease. We ran to her to prevent her from stripping even more and took her drunk ass to my apartment to sleep off her drunkness. The next day, she woke up and screamed out that she was leaving. She needed to get ready for work. After asking a few questions, she informed me of her occupation. Little miss Bianca is a therapist!

No wonder crazy people never get better.

Go Ahead and Let Out the April Fool in You!

Today began like any other day for the Super Fickle Pickle. I woke up, scraped the crust from my eye, burnt a frozen waffle and stepped on a sewing needle. Everything was going well until I walked out of my house and saw a man with no shirt climbing up a palm tree. Apparently he was trying to get a coconut, in a palm tree… in Los Angeles. And then I thought about it. Maybe he is climbing up this dead palm tree because it’s April Fools Day. Maybe he feels like today is the day where he can act like a total utter fool.

So, since I am a Super Fickle Pickle I decide that I too will act like a fool today. I could decide to not match today. But then I thought about it. My clothes never match. I could cartwheel down the street…if only I knew how to cartwheel. I could throw ice cream balls at people out my window. I could send a roast beef sandwich to my vegetarian friends… and a tofu sandwich to all my meat eating friends. I could find my imaginary friend an imaginary friend. Of course that’s something I could do any other day.

And then I thought about it. I’m the Super Fickle Pickle! Without even trying I am an April Fool Year around. This a day when the world honors me and all the fickle pickles that have some “fool” in them. So, the Super Fickle Pickle wishes you and your fool friends a happy Fickle Pickle April Fool’s day. Go ahead and let your inner fool out!

Light Traffic on St. Patrick's Day?

In rush hour, normally it takes the Super Fickle Pickle like two hours to go from snooty ass Brentwood to dirty ass Hollywood. When the Super Fickle Pickle hopped in her dirty car to prepare for the long journey and she was amazed. It took her fifteen minutes to get through Beverly Hills and Bel Aire and twenty minutes to drive all the way to Hollywood.

So, I had to wonder, why was there light traffic that day? What was so special about today? And then I thought about it? It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

So did people actually skip work on St Patrick’s Day or did they leave early? And are there that many Irish people in LA or are there just a bunch of people who like to drink, no matter the occasion? And, those who left work early, what were the excuses they gave to their bosses? Did they say they had the flu? A cold? Malaria?

It’s interesting because I understand light traffic on Veterans Day or Memorial Day but light traffic on St. Patrick’s Day is certainly odd.

No More Talking to Myself...I Now Have Ernie

Apparently everyone has a problem with me talking to myself. Apparently, my friends think that sort of behavior is peculiar. Since clearly I am one who succumbs to peer pressure, I decided to break my addiction and stop talking to myself. And how has it been? Difficult! Impossible actually.

I tried talking to random strangers but that can be dangerous, especially since I live in Hollywood. And, I tried talking to my family but all they want to talk about is how I need to commit myself to the Hollywood Mental Institution. That’s not fun to talk about. I tried talking to the wall but it didn’t really respond back very often.

So, I decided to go to the store and get a plant. Plants are living things so technically I am talking to something that breathes. Plus, no matter what I talk about, the plant can never move. We had great conversations about everything such as current events, food, and fashion. He even helped resolve a few disputes I was having with my feuding imaginary friends. We talked about everything.

So, I decided that since my plant and I were becoming such good friends, he needed a super duper special name. So after careful consideration, I decided to name it Ernie, after of course my favorite Sesame Street character. Hours after naming it Ernie, my plant wilted up and died. So now I’m stuck talking to the wall, wishing that I had named the high maintenance plant Elmo.

Life is hard.

Tomatoes and Weddings Don't Mix

My friend is getting married and I promised to sit in the front row and cause a ruckus during the ceremony. During the entire wedding I was thinking I could do a bunch of stuff like sexually harass her future husband, bring a bottle of vodka into the church and have a few shots. I could steal the flowers from the flower girl, hide the ring from the ring bearer. I could even throw darts at her brides maids. She laughed. I guess the thought of me tormenting her wedding party was funny to her.

Then I said I could bring a few extremely ripe tomatoes and throw them at her instead of rice. For some reason, the thought of me doing that seriously upset her. She even asked for her invitation back.

So I can apparently torment her entire wedding party but I can’t torment her? That seems a bit unfair doesn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to have a white dress with tomato juice all over it? It would make for a great story to tell the kids. I don’t understand why she was being so unreasonable.

Oh well, I’ll probably show up and bring the tomatoes anyways.

Laughing at Babies

Two year olds are usually cute, especially if they don’t belong to you. Today I saw the cutest kid doing nothing except running in a circle. He kept running and running and running until he eventually hit a wall. He didn’t run out of gas. The two year old actually hit a white wall and fell like a brick to the ground.

So here is my question: is it wrong to laugh kids? Seeing him fly into the wall was actually the funniest thing I’ve seen in a really long time. Sure, he was crying and yeah he had the biggest knot on his fat head. But is it wrong to laugh? Two year olds laugh at me all the time. Why can’t I laugh at them?

So I’ll just tell you how this torrid story ends. I ended up laughing at the clumsy kid and the two year old began to cry harder. And, then the Super Fickle Pickle was escorted out of the store for mocking the kid and causing a ruckus. It doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?