It Lives! The Family of Morons

A while back, I might have mentioned that the Hillbilly
family is not the brightest pack of Dry-Erase Markers on
The Devil's Playground pegboard. We have recently
seen a resurgence of our moronity.

Just last night, as I was standing in the kitchen, cutting
the cheese, I heard a noise. Let it be noted that I was
literally cutting the cheese, a 16 oz. chunk of sharp
cheddar, so that it could be grated using smaller chunks.
I thought the boys were out in the yard. They pooled
their money to buy a rocket thingy that runs on hydrogen.
Before you go thinking that we watched The Astronaut
Farmer a few too many times, let me point out that this
rocket was purchased from The Devil's Playground,
and changes citric acid into hydrogen fuel somehow.
I ain't teachin' chemistry next year for a reason.

Anyhoo, there I stood in the kitchen, placidly cutting the
cheese, when I heard 'ppffffffftttttttt'. Like a toy rocket
that runs on water-and-citric-acid-made hydrogen,
shooting into the air and spraying its chemical goodness
all over my boys and the yard. But my kitchen looks
out the back of the Mansion, so I had no view. I yelled
for #1 son, the idea being that if he didn't answer, he
was surely out front launching his rocket.

The boy answered me. "Yeah?" I asked where he was.
"I thought I just heard your rocket launching out front.
It was loud!" The boy answered me from the direction
of the bathroom, "No, that was just me. I farted."

Moving on to this afternoon...I had bus duty at Basementia.
My boys loitered around the main hall, waiting for me to
finish. Some little sons-of-teachers got off a bus, and went
to the teacher workroom. They often hang out there. Don't
worry, the teachers are long gone as soon as the clock
strikes 3:10. My #1 son started in the teacher workroom.
One of the little kids slammed the door in his face. "Don't
ever come in the teacher's lounge any more!" My boy was
a bit flustered, as he's not used to being told he can't go
somewhere. Especially by a 7-year-old. He related the
story to me. I thought it was kind of funny.

After bus duty and a visit to my aun't office, we went to
the car. Slammer and his buddy were playing around in
the buddy's car. My #2 son passed our car and went
toward them. "Hey! We're parked up here," I told him.
And I heard him tell Slammer, in a threatening manner,
"Don't slam the door in my brother's face again!" I don't
know whether to be proud or concerned. My just-turned-
9-year-old told a 7-year-old to leave his 12-year-old
brother alone.

And now, for the final act in this Moronic Trilogy...
We stopped for a bag of ice on the way home. It was
81 freakin' degrees today. I usually have my coat laying
about in the back of the large SUV, and we wrap the
bag of ice in it for the 10-minute ride home. I have also
cautioned #1 son that when I send him in for ice, he
should wait in line and pay, then go get the ice out of
the cooler. That place is a cooker. They have a counter
where they sell fried chicken and other hot greasy stuff
right by the checkout line. I don't like my bag of ice to
melt into an iceberg that is OH SO HARD to crack
into pieces for my big recycled Sonic foam cup of
ice water that I make every night. The boys call the
bag of ice the 'ice baby', because we wrap it up in a
coat, and I have cautioned #1 not to carry it in his arms
like an infant, because his body heat accelerates the
melting. He complies, holding it by the 'hair'--that tuft
of plastic at the end of the bag.

Out of the convenience store came my son, holding the
ice baby by its topknot. He put it onto the back seat,
on one of his winter coats that he never wore all winter,
and put the other winter coat that he never wore on top
of it. We drove home, and stopped for the mail. #1
became entranced by a cardboard package of two
DVDs from Amazon. I told him it was NewsRadio
Season 5, and Dolly & Friends, the 80s TV show of
Dolly Parton. He grabbed my school keys to try and
saw it open. Lappy, his laptop, clamored for attention
from his resting place atop the dashboard. #1 had to
shove Lappy back from the edge several times.

Coming up the driveway, we saw that Tank, the 4-month-
old Beagle, was alive and kickin'. We have been leaving
him out, hoping that the doggy Ann doesn't dismember
him like a chew toy. #1 got out and called the dogs. I
parked in the garage, and #2 ran to unlock the door. I
went to pet Tank, who prompty peed on the porch. HH
has a fit over porch pee and poop. I rubbed Tank's nose
in it, shouted "NO" and swatted his behind.

Man, can that little dog hold a grudge! He refused to look
at me, or come over to the edge of the porch where I
called him. I petted two cats, plus Ann and Grizzly. #1
picked up Tank and brought him to me. He politely let me
pet him, then trotted off to the end of the front porch and
wouldn't look at me anymore. Just this morning, he was
chewing on my hand and whimpering for more attention.
What an attitude that little dog has!

I opened the back of the car for my phone, which I had
left in my school bag. I got my Sonic Cherry Diet Coke
and my purse and the mail from the front of the LSUV.
We went in the house, washed hands, and read the mail.
#1 got a card from his grandma congratulating him on his
Science Fair win. HH called to report that he had cancelled
his eye doctor appointment, and was on the way home.
I went to change from school clothes to Mansion clothes,
and it hit me. THE ICE BABY!!!!!

We had left the ice baby in the car all that time. Like,
30 minutes. Which is kind of like neglect of an ice baby,
what with the temperature being 81 degrees and all.
#1 son ran out to rescue the baby. He said, "Mom, my
coats are all wet. Look how full of water she is!" So we
took the ice baby out on the back porch deck. #1
dangled her over the rail by her hair, while I stabbed
her bottom three times with a sharp, black-handled
kitchen knife. We let her drain until her liquid essence
stopped flowing. Please don't report us for neglect.
We didn't know any better.

We are a family of morons.