Sunday, October 29, 2006
We have many nicknames for the boy. My favorite lately is Destructo, though Nibbler is equally apt.
The thing is, we have no right to call him this without first owning up, right here in front of the ENTIRE UNIVERSE to our own sordid, ruinous pasts.
Jonathan will go first. Because I'm the one typing, that's why.
He was 16. He was riding around town with friends, and they were in a boy kind of mood. One of them had a bat? I really don't know the details. Who carries a bat? Unless he's on a sports team, and he wasn't. What were they thinking? They hit the mailbox of friends of J's parents! Friends! Hahahahahaha.
I was 5. I was actually the one counting down as the little Camaro approached and then I let my arm down like a flagger in Indianapolis while RJ threw the rocks. The driver- a complete head of butt who was the jerk of the neighborhood- saw and assumed I was doing the throwing. Within minutes (minutes spent running full-tilt across our yard into the house) Mr. Dukes-of-Hazzard's evil cousin had called our parents and convened an inquisition. Spankings all around. C'mon, though. He deserved it, right. For being a jerk, for driving too fast, he was the next car around that corner. Right? We were simply the five-year-old hand of Gawd. Right?
We won't discuss the grasshopper incident of '78, or any other various events that may or may not have occurred.
How about you? Tales of destruction lurk in your past? Let it go, clear your conscience. Comments are officially.... OPEN!