George screwed up and bought me a Taser.
I stayed home with the boy this past week and he did his little five-day turn to Laredo and back, while I secured Senior parking privileges and an abbreviated schedule for our son’s last year of “free” education. This required me to appear in person at the school, which in turn required me to change my t-shirt, because the shirt I had chosen to wear for the day had pictures of guns and skulls on it.
Apparently, the delicate psyche of every child present could have been damaged by seeing a picture of a gun on my shirt, and we’re not even going to go into the amount of therapy necessary if they were to see a (gasp) skull emblazoned on cotton and stretched across the chest of a full-grown woman. To have the three together in one place would surely cause afflictions I can’t even imagine. I’m so thankful we have the school board to guide our moral compass and keep us from exposing these youngsters to such filth.
(Side note: I saw more 16-year-old booty than I could ever want to in the 30 minutes I spent on campus. From what I gather, it’s “disturbing” for children to see pictures of guns and skulls, but it’s perfectly OK for Little Miss High School to wear shorts so tight and so short, the battle between anatomy and cloth is clearly won by anatomy. Because there’s never been a 17-year-old boy in the history of mankind who noticed or was “disturbed” by a giant camel toe. Never.)
I stayed home and took care of home business while George went to Laredo and this automatically equates to me getting a present. He always brings me something back, even if it’s just a bag of candy. He, and pretty much every other trucker I know who leaves people at home, always buys something for the family when he’s gone. It’s a little ritual — dad comes home, unpacks his bag and hauls out the merchandise.
Because I don’t collect thimbles, or tiny spoons, or magnets from the states, I tend to get a lot of t-shirts (that usually have pictures of skulls or guns or trucks on them). But this time, my gift didn’t come from inside the truck stop, it came from a truck that sits outside the truck stop, and those gifts are always mysterious and somewhat intriguing, because there’s a 50/50 chance they’re something stolen or, at the very least, outlawed in 49 states.
This time, it was a little flashlight that also happens to have a Taser-type capability. So I can illuminate the scene and watch a bad guy twerk on the ground after I shock the doody out of ‘im. Needless to say: Best. Gift. Ever.
I’ve had to recharge it three times, because I can’t stop sitting in my office with the lights off, pretending that I’m Nikola Tesla while I snap the coil. I’ve had brief thoughts of stitching the frog I accidentally ran over with the lawn mower back together and playing Frankenstein, just to see what happens. I’m fairly certain I’m going to hell for zapping an innocent cricket into oblivion, but I am not sorry for the burn mark in the carpet that used to be a wolf spider, and I never will be.
So the gun/skull-control folks can just calm down. I’m not carrying a sweet little .38 anymore; I’m now armed with the equivalent of a a P-37 Space Modulator, which has the flux capacity necessary to disintegrate a fly in mid-buzz and possibly throw a human heart into a potentially deadly arrhythmia. Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing t-shirts with kittens and rainbows on them. The world is definitely a safer place.