I’m looking for the parents of the three little demons in brown vests hawking cookies in front of Harold’s Consignment. They wouldn’t let me leave. When I tried to walk past, they formed a wall with their arms and kicked my shins. The big one in the middle, couldn’t have been older than 9, cracked her knuckles and said, “cookies or punch” and she didn’t mean fruit punch. She gave me the ones with peanut butter, and I told her I was allergic, she said that sounded like a “me problem.” They finally let me leave, 14 boxes later. I had to show them the inside of my purse was empty. They belong in juvie, not Girl Scouts!
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