..which, I guess...was the point in the first place.
Before I start on my "Post Traumatic Christmas Syndrome" rant, I need to mention a car that I saw on the ride to work today:
It was a box truck.
(on a side note, if I was a pimp running a prostitution ring, I wouldn't ride in a Caddy...Nooooo....I'd have this big white truck with the words "The Box Truck" painted on the side..and pimp my ho's right out the back of it)
My GOD...I'm f*cking BRILLIANT. I need to start writing these things down.
..okay..back to the truck...
The truck had it's logo and phone number on the back.
Here's what it said:
"ID MY DAD"
I kept picturing some poor five-year old kid spelling out the number as he dialed the phone...
"..if I could just ID my dad..."
I think I died a little inside today.
Then I thought of combining Boston Paternity with my Box Truck Mobile Whore company for simple, accessible, one-stop shopping.
Sometimes I amaze even myself.
Well...Santa didn't listen to me.
I sit here typing this with crippled, chapped and bloodied hands...
...remnants of the epic battle between good (me) and evil (toy packaging) that took place yesterday.
I hate China on so many levels it's not even funny.
My wife and I tried to avoid this by getting the kids only board games and - the super bonus - an air hockey table.
No jagged, razor-sharp, plastic shrapnel!!
Then came the relatives...
...with boxes of useless things that will hit the yard-sale in the Spring.
...and the massacre of the hands began.
Wires and plastic.
We need to bomb China.
There's a tossup here for best gift that the kids got.
1) Air Hockey Table
2) Optimus Prime Voice Changing Helmet
I played with both equally.
The air hockey table: fun.
The helmet: AWESOME fun.
I wore my son's Optimus Prime helmet for most of the morning.
My wife told me no less than FOUR TIMES to give it back to him...as it was HIS toy.
BE THAT WAY. TAKE YOUR TOY.
Santa would be ashamed of you not sharing.
...but if the wife and I ever get into role-playing, I'm SO wearing that thing.
She can be Sam Witwicky.
...as you can literally cut the sexual tension in the movie between Optimus and Sam with a knife.
...or maybe that's just the gay porn version I saw.
I'm still wearing the mask, honey.
Prepare for it.
Trying to Outsmart the Older Sister:
My daughter is 7.
This means she's right on the cusp on not believing in Santa...
...which is fairly depressing...
...because we really, really enjoy lying to her.
Actually, we can see her starting to put the pieces together...and the answers are getting harder and harder to make up:
Daughter: "How can Santa come in our house if the chimney leads to the furnace?"
My wife: "Well..we leave him this key."
(My wife then produces the "Santa Key" and tells her we leave it outside so he can come in)
My daughter looks at this key.
The key, although neat, appears to be able to only unlock the jail cells you see in "Pirates of the Carribean."
Daughter: "Well...how does it fit?"
My wife: "GO TO YOUR ROOM!"
I have no idea how my wife explained it.
Whatever - we got one more year out of it.
However, we also made the mistake of "Tracking Santa" using Google Earth.
This is fine, when your kids are young and believe that the world is roughly the size of Rhode Island.
...when your 7 year-old gets a World Globe, and can now actually SEE that Santa has spent roughly 20 seconds in Chile and has now jumped to Iceland...where he spends another 20 seconds before jumping to South Africa...
THAT'S a little tougher to explain.
Daughter: "How does he go so fast? He delivered ALL of the presents to ALL of the children THAT FAST?!?"
Wife: "GO TO YOUR ROOM!!!"
I don't know how they're actually tracking Santa, but I sure as sh*t ain't putting one of those tracking devices in my Box Truck "Mobile Ho and DNA Testing Rig".
...that's just asking for trouble.