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Des Informations, des Idées, et des Opinions Suspectes - rarement mises à jour et de qualité douteuse.

No Big Deal

To set up this next story, you need to know something – I bought a new car recently and I love my car. It’s a 2004 Toyota Echo, so it’s not technically new but it’s as new as I will ever be capable of owning and I treat it as if it just rolled off the lot. I am that guy parking at the very back of parking lots (miles away from the doors) when shopping and the guy who lovingly rubs wax on my car with a baby’s cloth diaper in the springtime. I love my car. I want to marry my car and have like ten thousand of its babies. You’ll need to know all that before I go on with this story, OK? “ Ich liebe mein auto.”

My beautiful 2004 Toyota Echo 5-speed hatchback that I loved with all my heart

Alright, here we go…this past Saturday I treated my 7-year-old daughter and my wife’s 4-year-old son to a simply lovely day. It was a picture perfect, cold and wintery day. And there was lots of snow so we were all really feeling the season. We started the day off with breakfast at the Peterborough Airport watching the planes take off and land – well there were no planes taking off or landing because it was too cold but we had fun simply looking at the parked planes while we ate. Then in the afternoon we went to my new company’s children’s Xmas party, which was a really terrific affair – the company pulled out all of the stops and the kids had an absolutely fantastic time. Late in the afternoon, when it was time to leave we packed up my car with the kid’s gifts and candy; my wife took my daughter out with her on some errands, and I took my wife’s son with me to Home Depot to pick up a part for our new fridge (also not technically new either but it’s as new a fridge as I will ever be capable of owning.) The drive to Home Depot was uneventful, even pleasant with me and the boy chatting away. When we arrived at Home Depot, I parked my gorgeous car, and got out of the beautiful car, and opened the back door of the awesome car so I could pull the boy out of his child seat. As I reached in to get him, that’s when he vomited.

Evidently projectile vomiting is something genetically inherited and not acquired by way of environment or nurturing because at only 4-years-old my wife’s son is already an old pro at it. He vomited a column of evil with such force that it must have looked to passers-by like a paint bomb had gone off in the car. For me, time slowed. I screamed: “OH NOOOO!!” and thinking quickly I stood rooted to the spot like a total moron while the just-tossed cookies soaked into the seats and my wife’s hell-spawn reloaded for another cannon blast - which he again ejected, achieving blanket coverage a house painter would envy. I might have wet my pants in terror but it was hard to tell because even though it was minus 15 degrees outside I was sweating like a stuck pig. I’m sure you could’ve seen my shoulders slump from space. Bellowing like a wounded wildebeest, I jabbed for his seat belt release and then not really caring whether he was free or not, ripped him from the car and stood him up in the parking lot.

My beautiful 2004 Toyota Echo 5-speed hatchback that I loved with all my heart

The rotten kid spent a minute in the classic position standing with his hands on his knees looking down at the ground spitting and catching his breath. Then he straightened up, looked down at himself briefly, then up at me and with a completely deadpan expression he said:

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Out of the mouths of despicable babes, eh? So I said to him (printable words only included here for space reasons:)

“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t give a _____ flying _____ what you ______ ______ mother- ______ ______ _____ you little _____ _____!!” … and with that good start I proceeded to weave for the boy the most intricate and elaborate tapestry of profanity, a true work of verbal art seldom heard by grown men 10 times his age. Then I picked him back up deposited him back in his own puke and we drove home, me grinding thousands of dollars of expensive dental work into powder the entire way.

We arrived back home and with a restraint I am now so proud of in retrospect, because I am sure Ghandi himself would have murdered the little b---ard, I placed the boy in the tub, stripped him down, showered him off, put him in his PJs and into our bed, put Family Guy on the TV, and deposited his dirty clothes, coat, and boots into the laundry tub for his mother to deal with when she got home. I then filled a bucket with boiling hot water and dish soap, grabbed some towels and my shop vac and headed outside to survey the damage.

Salvador Dali would have been proud of the boy’s use of his medium (chunk blowing) to create an abstract and surreal milieu. And his attention to detail was amazing. Not a single nook or cranny of the back of the car was missed. The boy’s choice of purple grape juice during the preceding Xmas party lent an almost berry bouquet to the aroma in the car and made the upholstery look almost festive. The chunks of hotdog added texture. I learned that chunder freezes within 90 seconds of hitting cold car seat at minus 15, and over the next hour I battled the elements to keep the wash water liquid long enough to vacuum it up. Despite this, despite my valiant efforts, despite my heroic attempts to reverse all evidence of the demon child voiding his rheum upon the only thing good and pure and sweet left in this world (my car), I am afraid to say I don’t think I was ever able to completely eradicate the horror from my backseat.

My beautiful 2004 Toyota Echo 5-speed hatchback that I loved with all my heart

So, exhausted, filthy and defeated, I put the car away and went inside to finish off the boy once and for all, ostensibly to stop him from ever perpetrating such a crime against anyone else ever again. I walked into the bedroom and saw that he had fallen asleep. As I kneeled upon the bed to deliver the final blow, he opened his eyes and with the most cherubic visage, with the most angelic expression he said to me:

“Did you bring in my candy?”

And I thought, “Hey, it’s only a car.”

No Big Deal

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Maybe read No Big Deal, a story I consider to be the very best thing I ever wrote.