Sunday, August 2, 2015
It was a teddy bear party.
The most awesome teddy bear party any of these eight close friends from way back had ever been to.
And they were real friends.
From way, way back.
Almost as far back as the part of the parking lot where the dumpsters would be.
Had they not been stolen by a gang needing a new clubhouse, despite membership being so down that a club house that could only hold two was both ample and sufficient.
And there were no cars parked the the day they all met there that day.
So spatially speaking it seemed even further way back.
Clutter being a space minimizer.
And that's an area where even interior decorators with an amazing eye for ornate detail fuck up.
And they'd been to a lot of teddy bear parties.
It was their thing.
Carefully developed over many years.
Until they were ready to spread their own rumors.
Rumors that were true.
That they played with teddy bears.
And these rumors spread like ants in an empty car park covered with bread crumbs after dumpster full of two day old bread was stolen spreading bread crumbs like solar energy discussion on a really bright, super hot, sunny day when the power is out, so air-conditioners aren't working, and someone has already raised the idea that it would be sweet to have an independent, self-sufficient, source of electricity so that one didn't have to rely on the often unreliable reliability of the normal power grid.
Yet despite this being the best teddy bear party any of these close eight friends had been to, something was very different.
Gimpy was sitting inhaling steam from a bowl of lemon and honey.
Merga was cutting out eyes from pictures in magazines.
Burps was eating antacids by the fistful and washing them down with ice-cream sodas.
Hails was sitting cross legged on the grass trying to summon out an earthworm.
Jerf was fructifying a jar of old screws and nails.
Funt was writing down everything he knew about places named Arlington so he could remember later exactly what it was he needed to erase from his memory.
Pog was working the grill, pleading for it to suck it up and just give him two more.
Slitle was stuck in a spiral of barbwire.
So that was all a normal. Everyone was up to their usual teddy bear party activities.
So why did everyone feel something was off?
Then Funt noticed something.
And it landed upon him like a huge bucket of bricks, dropped from a crane, that was supposed to be grabbing and returning the clubhouse dumpster from the McGunner gang, but had fallen for the decoy barbecue pit and grabbed that instead.
Merga was holding his teddy bear just like everyone else.
But his was upside down.
He must have been an imposter all along.
And had now gotten comfortable enough to be complacent.
Once the others had been nudged to look in his direction all hell broke loose.
They grabbed Merga by the collar and dragged him down to the parking lot where they had all met.
Eyes from celebrities from magazines scattered into the wind.
And Merga was left there.
And with his teddy bear forcibly sewed to his body.
The RIGHT was up.
'Milks, milks plural, not milk, did I say milk? DID I??? No I fucking did NOT I said MILKS' Roger screamed at the farmer.
Apparently there been a slight disagreement.
You see, from what I can gather, Roger had asked a question involving milks but he'd been given an answer only involving milk.
Roger was now turning over chairs.
Which, despite his tantrum inspired brute strength, was a decent effort, because those were heavy iron chairs, and they were covered in rust, and I am no doctor, but my instincts tell me that rust may increase the risk of tetanus.
By the way, I'm guessing it was easier to talk kids into getting their tetanus injections during the heart of the Tetris craze.
'Hey Sammy, we're going to fit something small into a space that on the surface may seem unlikely to fit, but in the end turns out to be a snug and satisfactory hold, want to come?'
'Oh my god, Tetris, Tetris, Tetris? Yes PLEASEEE MOMMY'.
'It's actually pronounced tetanus Sammy.'
'Stop fucking correcting my pronunciations, I'm friggin' six, I haven't developed full control and command over my tongue and soft-palate yet you dick, it's not polite, now are we going to go play Tetris, sorry TEEETANUS, or am I taking a shit in your hand bag and pretending I thought it was potty again?'
'Oh we're playing tetanus Sammy, in fact, I might even tell the "games master" we're about to go to Malaysia and see if he has any Malaria "Inserts" for you'
'Is that the "correct" way to pronounce "Mario Cart" cause if so let's get in the fucking car you god damn fucking tease'.
Yep, it's pretty clear modern upgrades to gaming technology ruined parenthood.
Now you probably have to trick your kids into copping physical pain for reasons they can't understand with ice-cream or chocolate.
But where is the long term viciously held resentment and vow for revenge for parental figures supposed to be sourced in this brave new world?
It really is a crying shame.
Roger was now kicking a cow.
His little replica kids sized farm boots pounding it's buttock region almost to the point of being bothersome.
Sadly, burned butterscotch, Cherry Mocha, or even Roger's classic favorites Chocolate or Strawberry milk were never going to come out of this cow.
Little Roger's little brain couldn't understand.
He kicked and kicked and kicked, until, a now clearly bothered, cow walked three paces, and Roger air-swung his boot so hard he landed on his butt.
Seventeen years later Roger was asked by his then girlfriend if he'd ever tried butt stuff.
When he burst into tears for reasons he couldn't even fathom it really, really weirded her out.
And she ended up experimenting with butt stuff with a hairbrush instead.