The incomparable Eddie Izzard did this bit where he was talking about serial killers, and how we don’t know what to do with them. We tend to put them on house arrest, which works for the rest of the world, “Just stay out of that fucking house, right?”
I was driving home from work yesterday to the sounds of the Cave Troll’s squeals, when I saw this sign. Now, the Cave Troll usually reads me a travelogue on the way home– “Mail box, mom.”
“That’s right, honey.”
“MAIL BOX, MOM!!!”
Oh yes–he needs to hear me repeat every freaking thing he says, lest I be giving him the same conversational gambits I give his older brother and sister– ‘uh-hm…yeah… no, that’s fine’–you know, the 1/2 a brain engaged sort of thing. “Mail box, honey,” I reply.
“We’re sharing, mom.”
“That’s good, you’re sharing honey.” And so on.
Except yesterday, he and his sister were NOT sharing. When Ladybug was small, the Cave Troll used to take his temper tantrums out on her by smacking her around in her car seat before she could fight back. (We stopped him when we caught him–Big T never dreamed of hitting Chicken–it came as sort of a surprise to us that a child would do this to his littler sister, but I imagine there are little sisters everywhere looking at us with exasperated expressions and a ‘Of COURSE big brothers beat us up–it’s their fucking mission in life!!!’.) Anyway, that’s probably why she’s so laid back now–he can scream all he wants, but as long as he’s not trying to beat the holy shit out of her, she figures life is good.
But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want a little somethin’ back, right?
So yesterday, he shared his (MY!)soda with her, and she didn’t give it back, and he was losing his little fucking nut over it–and she (the little shit!) had simply angled her body away from his and was clutching that can of soda to her chest. I saw her expression in the rearview, folks–she was GLOATING her chubby baby ass off, and I was laughing my big fat woman’s off (if only) and that’s when I saw the sign.
“Reptiles For Sale.”
WTF? Reptiles? What sorts of reptiles? Lizards that eat bugs? Lizards that are eaten by hawks? Poisonous snakes? Alligators that got too big to flush? Chameleons, iguanas, gila monsters…just what in the FUCK was in that house?
And really, the house didn’t look too sound. Would they escape? Did I have to worry about some horrific smuggled Australian snake (you guys have some doozies–I watch animal planet–the snakes in your country scare the hell out of me!!!) crawling into my house? I saw ‘Snakes on a Plane’–not pretty, people, NOT FUCKING PRETTY!!!
But then we passed a flock of turkeys, and I figured, “Hey–they’re fat, they’re stupid, and they’re free range.”
And I could sleep last night because the dead turkeys would keep us safe.
And by the time this thought eased up, we were home, the Cave Troll’s tantrum was over and Ladybug had relented, giving her older brother the soda he, in all probability, did not deserve.
A little imagination is a wonderful thing, folks, yes indeedy it is.