Sunday, October 16, 2011

Sometimes a story goes bad

theBoy and I do free form story telling where we each take turns (sort of) to change a living, struggling, wriggling story and try and bring it to a logical (and awesome) conclusion.

Today theBoy decided that he was tired of Synibattybatbat, the top hat and monocle clad penguin that lives in an Igloo next door to Humpty and Stumpty, of having the only motorised furnishing within our story realm. To wit, Synibattybatbat's motorised bunk-bed.

So theBoy brought in his own machine.

'I race
Synibattybatbat with my motorised tea pot!'

Yes, a motorised tea pot. theBoy decided he entered from the side and a lift then took him up into the tea pot's lid compartment. I image the lid being transparent, his three sixty degree clear-view
alien space-perspex cockpit bubble.

So they were off! At first
Synibattybatbat took the lead because he'd swerved into theBoy's tea pot, causing theBoy to spin off the side wall, NASCAR-style, then spin around-and-around on the track until coming to an unsteady halt. theBoy sped up then yelled 'BEW', indicating that he'd remotely disabled Synibattybatbat's engine to make it slow (1) and that was the sound effect of the sabotage coming into effect. Synibattybatbat's bunk-bed came to a spluttering halt just before the finish line, only to have theBoy's tea pot zoom smugly past.


It was then that on a whim I decided to roll up my pants legs of my pyjama bottoms and tuck the bottom of my shirt through the neck so as to reveal my overly-ample abdomen, Daisy Duke-style. (2)

I danced, screaming 'Look at me! I'm a grid girl!' only to then realise that I'd done so in full view of the window that looks out directly into our cul-de-sac.

There were no neighbours visible when the full awareness of my having committed that unsettling ASBO-esq display occurred. However, who am I to know what they can and can't see from the privacy of their homes? (3)

Anyway, Watson, the game's still afoot. After reassembling my clothing to normal modest mode the story continued.
Synibattybatbat started marching over, yelling about sabotage.

'theBoy remotely disabled my engine!' yelled
Synibattybatbat. 'Therefore he cheated. He's a monster!'

What was theBoy's response?

'I take out my gun and I shoot
Synibattybatbat dead!'

Then, eyes furrowed and lower lip sookily-extended, he added 'humph.'

It was like that scene in the The Last Boy Scout where the football player, super high on drugs, takes out a semi-automatic and, as he runs for the end zone, shoots down defenders trying to tackle him.

Cough ... CoughCough.

(1) Usually achieved by him declaring 'I take the fast out and put in the slow!' He does that to Dash, from The Incredibles, quite a lot.
(2) I think I've talked before of that weird period in my life when I religiously purchased overseas-shipped copies of The National Enquirer. Anyway, for about two years in the mid-nineties, I did. And thanks to that I have retained vast chunks of now-dated celebrity-themed minutia. For example a story about how Sorrell Booke, who played Boss Hog, was having a house built and he used to hang around the building site, chatting with and entertaining the workers. Only he died suddenly while his house was still under construction. I think the workers were his pall bearers and they put tools in the grave along with the fistful of dirt as Booke was interred. Still, as we always say when such is embedded. It's good material.
Perhaps watching from the semi-darkness, the only light being the glow of their cigarette, which flares now and then as they take a slow inhale...


  1. That'll learn him...

  2. Indeed. Really, he was asking for it.


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