“Mom, we don’t want to be a bad example. We have to show
little kids that we do things right.”
I’m sure the skeleton appreciated his attention to detail.
On the other hand, this is the same guy that will collect
pet hair tumbleweeds in his room until he has enough fur to reconstruct the
Chewbacca, the Wookie from Star Wars.
He’s probably planning a full-out attack on his brother’s room, The
Death Star. I’ve seen pizza boxes pulled
in that place liked they were caught in a stuffed crust tractor beam. I’ve never seen one leave.
But now I’m beginning to rethink letting the guys decorate
the house for Halloween. I imagined a
few fake spider webs, a smiling Jack-O-Lantern, and a stuffed scarecrow on the
front porch bench would do the trick.
Right now the front yard is strung with police tape and they’re
discussing where to hide the body.
There’s something about hearing a voice from the bushes
yell, “Mom, where do we keep the spare propane tanks?” that makes you
appreciate tissue paper ghosts.
It took me a while to realize: these kids learned about life
from video games. Call of Duty was their
instruction manual for life. They’re not
decorating the yard; they’re fortifying it against marauding invaders disguised
as gypsies, thieves, and Miley Cyrus.
I called a meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and scaled
back the Home Security alert.
“You mean you’re going to let the tiny humans walk right in
and confiscate our candy?” Son one brandished a Nerf Gatling gun that would
shoot more rounds than Shirley Temple has ringlets.
“We’re going to give it to them.”
A cheer went up. “Now
you’re talking!”
“I mean we’re going to give them the candy.”
“Without a major skirmish?”
“And without a police report.”
“What if the Zombies invade?”
They locked eyes. “Better put away our secret weapon.”
Son Two unleashed Danger Cat, the attack kitten from his
backpack.
Good thing. The Zombies wouldn’t stand a chance.
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