Sunday, January 28, 2007

Roughhousing And The Dead Cat

Last night, the Veteran made an appearance. He spent the late
afternoon hours at the barn shooting bows with the boys. It was
about 10 degrees with the wind chill. Poor little #2 son had red
ears for the rest of the evening, into this morning, what with the
wind slicing through his sock cap. I suppose somebody should
look into sewing hoods onto those camouflage coveralls.

HH took #2 to the movies at 6:00. The Veteran ate a few slices
of the pizza that I had worked so hard to procure, and then
settled down for a heart-to-heart with the #1 son, who has
demonstrated less-than-exemplary behavior over the past
few months. By 'heart-to-heart', I actually mean 'butt-to-head'.
The Veteran sat on #1's head and farted on him, much the
same as #1 does to his little brother. He also showed the
troublemaker a few odd wrestling moves, and sat upon him
while dribbling a long string of saliva from his mouth, just over
#1's face. #1 behaved true-to-form, in that he sniveled and
whined. When he was let up for air, he made a beeline for
the bathroom to hide. When he came out, The Veteran and
I heard him talking to nobody. "I know you're there, waiting
for me! Just because I can't see you, don't think I'm going
to fall for it." Then he ran into the living room and gasped
at the sight of The Veteran sitting right there in plain sight
talking to me. That boy ain't right.

Normally, I would not stand for The Veteran manhandling
his little half-brother in such roughhousing. But that boy
needs to know what it's like to be terrorized by someone
twice your size. He may think it's a joke, but little #2 son
lives in terror every day. One minute he's lying on the couch,
eating a nutritious breakfast of little chocolate donuts, and
the next minute there's a big ol' butt in his face, spewing a
foul gas into the atmosphere.

As The Veteran observed during the bathroom break, "He
doesn't even fight back. He whimpers like a little girl." Indeed.
The boy is a softie. He needs to toughen up and quit using
his superior intelligence to belittle his opponent. Sneering
"Idiot!" at the hulking ape sitting on top of you, pinning both
your arms and attempting to drop drool into your mouth
from 24 inches above is not such an effective defense. He
knew better than to even say it. So he just whimpered, "I
have a headache. I have to go to the bathroom. I can't
feel my legs."

The little shaver fights back. He has a good strategy, what
with his limited height, and what target he can reach to land
the most damage. Not that it's right, or that I want my sons
to be fighters, or practice this stuff on each other. But they've
got to learn to survive, and not to bully those smaller than
themselves. #2 has taken to pummeling his big brother when
provoked. Oh, I stop it, but not in a big hurry. When #1
whines, "He hit me!" I tell him he deserved it, and to quit
farting on his brother, or dripping soup into his ketchup,
or shooting him with the Nerf dart gun, or sitting on him
while he is laying on the couch. Now he has had a taste
of what it is like. There has been only one incident all day
between the two boys, which is quite an improvement. I
don't know how long it will last.

Anyhoo...getting back to The Veteran's visit...He left about
7:10. #1 and I heard a noise. "What is that? It sounds like
something electronic." #1 looked puzzled. "Well, I don't
have anything on. I thinks it's water running somewhere."
The Veteran appeared at the door.

Uhh...does Dad have some tools in here? I think I just killed
one of your cats.
And you think that because...?
I tried to start my truck, and I heard a thump. Then a bunch
of white fur flew out from under it.
Not white fur! That's my favorite cat!
I didn't see the cat. But it must not have any fur left. It knocked
the serpentine belt off my engine.
Maybe it was the retarded cat.
She's gray.
But she has a white stomach.
We need a light and some tools.

I opened the front door for them to walk out, and there sat
the white cat on the front porch. She stood on her hind legs,
which means "Pick me up. Can't you see I'm a person, not
a cat? All these furry creatures annoy me. Come to your
senses woman, and let me into the home where I belong!"
I picked her up and took her into the house for a few minutes.
There was not a mark on her. She stretched out an laid her
head on my shoulder, purring and kneading my exposed
neck skin with her sharp outdoor-cat-survival-weapon claws.

The boys worked on the truck about a half hour. It was nearly
10 below zero by now, what with the wind chill. They came
in to warm up, and The Veteran called his uncle to come help.
"#1 could slide the belt on while I put on tension, but he might
cut off a finger. I don't want him to cut off any fingers right now."
I wonder what grudge he has against his uncle, and exactly
when will be the right time for #1 to cut off a finger. Anyhoo,
he talked the uncle through the various twists and turns to the
hidden Mansion, and they had the thing fixed within five minutes.

"I still can't find a cat. We heard growling under the porch, but
I didn't see any blood anywhere. I just knew I'd killed one of
your cats, and now I'm the a**hole." (An obvious reference to
HH running over the dog's head last summer). We still don't
know what was in his engine. I'm thinking it was that stray cat
that HH taunted with a broom handle, thinking it was our white
cat. It still has seven lives left, I suppose.

The best Seinfeldian reference I can come up with is the one
where George has the tables turned on him. He falls for that
bald model, and then she dumps him because HE is bald. At
least #1 son learned that it's not so funny when the fart is on
YOUR OWN head.

5 comments:

Chickadee said...

LOL! I hope no one was too close to the Veteran as he farted away on #1 son...it's funny how the smell from those things fills up a room.

MrsCoach2U said...

I was reading this picturing the same episode in our living room every single day. The kids always try to get the best of Mr.Coach but he always ends up being the "farter" instead of the "farted on". We Coach people are the epitome of class..

Hillbilly Mom said...

Chick,
I'm a practiced mouth-breather. It is unsafe to sniff in my morning classes. Those boys are OH SO PROUD of their gaseous expulsions.

Mrs.,
This would never have happened back in the day. My sister and I were not even allowed to say the word "fart". My mom would act all Queen Elizabethish, stick her nose in the air, and ask, "Does somebody have to go to the bathroom?"

Stewed Hamm said...

Hopefully, the lesson will teach #1 to... er, turn the other cheek.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Stewingwithbuttgases,
I hope he doesn't turn it toward ME!