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Tales from the Home Office...
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Whoopie Cushion Mania
Don't ever buy your 9 year-old a
whoopie cushion.
I have learned through sad experience
that little boys and whoopie cushions don't mix.
To set the record straight, it wasn't
exactly like I went out and bought a whoopie cushion for my
9 year old. It's more like it came to me - which only adds
to the unacceptability of the situation. It came carefully
packaged in a boxed set of "Captain Underpants"
books.
I suppose the fault is really mine.
I certainly should have been more suspect of a "superhero"
by the name of Captain Underpants. I mean I grew up with Superman
and Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk. But Captain Underpants??
Until now, I had never heard of such a thing. But if that
is what he wanted for Christmas, who was I to question his
preferences? And while it all seemed perfectly harmless at
the time, it will undoubtedly require many years of intense
therapy to fully rehabilitate my damaged psyche.
On Christmas morning, I watched
with some fascination as he rummaged through his wrapped presents
one by one - carefully shaking them, sizing them and generally
attempting to divine their contents. Finally his little hands
came to rest on the prize that he somehow knew awaited him.
Frantically he tore open the wrapping paper to expose the
edge of its boxed contents.
"Awesome!" he exclaimed,
"Captain Underpants!"
He continued to tear into the boxed
set with an uncanny degree of youthful exuberance. I was mildly
amused and more than a little satisfied to see that such an
inexpensive gift had inspired such enthusiasm. If only I could
have predicted this behavior, I could have saved myself a
lot of money.
It turns out that my moment of satisfaction
would be short-lived. As he emptied the contents of the box
onto the floor in front of him, the books were immediately
cast aside like yesterday's news. He went straight for the
free whoopie cushion.
No sooner had he pulled the cushion
out of its package and held it up for all to see than he was
surrounded by a crowd of eager siblings. His first demonstration
was met with a wave of riotous and approving laughter. I could
see right away that this little whoopie cushion threatened
to disrupt our entire Christmas morning celebration.
I immediately insisted that the
whoopie cushion be set aside until later, and we were able
to resume our activities. And by the time we were finished
opening presents the whoopie cushion was only a faint memory
to me. What I didn't realize at the time was that even as
we opened presents, my son's little mind was busy devising
a series of clever pranks to introduce Dad to his new "toy".
You must understand that my son
is innately mischievous. Add a healthy dose of imagination
to the mix and you can begin to visualize the possibilities.
Things were about to get very interesting around our house.
I certainly do not pretend to understand
the workings of a 9 year old mind. However, I quickly came
to recognize the emergence of a set of rules that seemed to
govern the pranks as they played themselves out over the ensuing
days.
Rule #1: Always make
sure Dad is involved in the prank.
Rule #2: Never let
Dad know that he is involved in the prank.
Rule #3: Make sure
that there are plenty of people around to witness the prank.
(it helps if they are perfect or near strangers and if they
are somehow connected to Dad's job or important to his sense
of social well-being).
Rule #4: Make sure
Dad is somewhat isolated from the rest of the group as the
prank unfolds. (This ensures that at the moment of truth,
there are no other possible suspects. Just Dad sitting there
alone with that silly, sheepish grin on his face.)
I should have known something was
up, when not long after receiving the sinister "gift",
my son came up and asked innocently "Dad, where are you
going to be sitting for Christmas dinner?"
Had I bothered to look up from the
newspaper before answering I undoubtedly would have caught
that special twinkle in my son's eye - which always seems
to be there just as something very interesting is about to
happen.
Instead, I instinctively replied
"Oh, in my usual place, I suppose."
"O.K. Good", he stated
with an air of deep satisfaction. Then he quickly turned to
leave.
Seemed like an odd question. "Why
do you ask?" I offered feebly from behind the newspaper.
Too late. He was already off perpetrating
the first of what would be a series of humiliating crimes
against his own father. Over the next several days, scene
after carefully choreographed scene would unfold amidst thunderous
applause and laughter - and all at the expense of good old
Dad.
Mercifully, the situation finally
came to an abrupt and fitting end. The whoopie cushion ultimately
became the victim of the same excessive exuberance which characterized
the entire sorry charade.
One afternoon, my son ceremoniously
inflated the whoopie cushion to the maximum allowable level
and placed it carefully in the middle of a queen-sized bed.
He then proceeded to climb onto the bed and stand over the
whoopie cushion with a look of unbridled anticipation.
Then with a bold announcement to
his younger siblings of "Hey guys, listen to this one",
he flung his 9 year old body into the air and came down with
his bottom squarely on top of the inflated cushion. There
was a loud rriiiippp! Upon further examination, the cushion
was shown to have exploded violently under the full force
of his weight.
And while there was a part of me
that was happy to witness the destruction of the dreaded cushion,
I must admit that I was almost moved to tears at the look
of saddness that spread over my son's perpetually happy face
as he examined what was left of his cherished possession.
My therapist assures me that these feelings of guilt and remorse
are perfectly natural and that in time I will heal. For now
I am taking his word for it.
- Christopher Dunn
Body
For Life?
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