GRAPHIC VIDEO: Monkey Attack Caught On Tape

(Headline in the Huffington Post, 11/17/11)

I picked up my son Saturday morning. Outing with divorced dad. A beautiful day.

My son wasn’t mad at me, or bitter that I had moved out. We got along. He was excited to visit the new primate exhibit at the zoo.

We stood in line for tickets. Everyone wanted to see the monkeys. The new enclosure was extensive. A zoo is a jail, I suppose, but this jail, for the monkeys at least, was more pleasant than usual. There were many new apes, some quite wild. We spent a long time admiring them and their antics. Zoo personnel went in and out of the enclosure several times, always careful to keep the gates locked. No one wanted a wild ape running loose.

We took a break for some lunch. Spent a pleasant half-hour at a table in the sun, eating zoo food. Talked about mom and me and why we were apart.

As we were leaving, we heard some crowd noise down a side path.

His mom was waiting to pick up our son at the gate. We were friendly with each other, she and I, but a little formal. After she had pulled away from the curb, with the boy waving to me from the passenger’s seat, I turned and walked back to my new apartment.

Teens Discover New Ways To Hide, Consume Alcohol

(Headline in The Huffington Post, 11/15/11)

Just to be clear, teens invented alcohol, back in those prehistoric days when precious few of the tribe made it past the age of twenty.

For the same reason, teens invented sex, hunting, gathering, and fur clothing.

A fourteen-year-old girl, feeling rebellious like they do, had to take it out on her pet tortoise, which was the only thing older than a teenager in the cave.

How the alcohol thing happened was, the cute-girl clique went out gathering one day and came back with a collection of grains, fruits, and the odd root. They gave the rebellious fourteen-year-old with zits the whole mess in a fur bag and told her to prepare dinner. She dumped the bagfull of stuff  into a rock pot and left it sitting out in the sun all day. When dinnertime rolled around, and all the teens were lounging by the fire enjoying some major preprandial hemp, the girl poured off the fluids that had accumulated  in the pot and served it around, and everybody present got righteously tight on top of their high. Thus was born “drinking.”

Cut to the 60s. Girls hid nip bottles in their beehives. One reason the braless fad died out was the need for C cups or bigger to secret pills and cigarettes in.

Cut to nowadays. Parents go on interminably about their wine-tasting trips to Napa and the cases of fine vintage they’ve brought back. They keep fifteen brands of flavored vodka on the shelf. Microbreweries proliferate. Even Mormons are doing grape jello shots. What a bore. You’re a kid with a favorite? Just add your bottle to the shelf. By the time you sober up, you’ll be an adult too.

Dog Calms Crying Baby

Headline in the Huffington Post 11/13/11.

Congratulations to Dora, a hound.

The baby had been crying for a long time (check the Guiness Book of World Records for details). Having broken that record, the family now wished to go for the “Animal calming crying baby” record. Points are awarded for how long the baby has been at it, the age of the baby, the length of time required for the animal to do the trick, and, of course, the animal’s species.

In the running, a chimp (disqualified because it had been lobotomized), several dogs, a litter of kittens, a porcupine (parents arrested for child endangerment), and several animals, also disqualified on the basis of Dr. Kravitz’s reseach, which shows that children falling silent in the face of a roaring lion, a slavering, growling wolf, or a hissing cobra, are not in fact being “calmed.”

Dora is known to have hated the incessant squalling. She could see the secret measures taken by Mom and Dad to keep the infant howling. She did not approve. For one thing, her doggy ears are more sensitive to a baby’s screams than are those of parents whose senses have been dulled by alcohol and heroin. She considered tearing out the thoats of these two addicted child-abusers, but Dora comes from a long line of well-trained hunting hounds. Not for her the easy (and fun) solution.

What were her options? Licking the caterwauling baby into submission? Offering her  nine canine dugs to little Kyle (number of dog nipples varies and is not necessarily an even number)? Bringing the child a snack, such as Gerber’s Sweet Potatoes? Learning how to operate the family entertainment center so as to play the youngster some Raffi? Surreptitious threats (throat-tearing again)?

Dora, who was originally rescued by a monastic pound and trained by its acolytes, was well-versed in the art of canine communication with the Devine. Dog prayer, in other words. As is well-known, all dogs go to heaven; not so well known is that they have an open line to the place. Few use it because few are so intelligent and hand-trained in the Catechism as a monkish (or in this case, nunish) hound.

Dora knelt, on her knees feeling rather like a sheep, and prayed that the little monstrosity would first, clam up, and second, be carted off by Child Protective Services to a decent home. She also asked for a dispensation regarding the parents, whose lives she held in her paws, especially when they had just fixed up and were nodding. God granted the first two wishes but denied the third. It is not deemed Christian that a pet murder its owner, even with cause.

Guest Post: Concerned Mom

Thanks for giving me this chance to make a plea for advice.

I have a wonderful son named Tommy. He is very bright, but he wets the bed, starts fires, and hurts small animals. I’m told that these are the three clear indications that he’ll grow up to be a serial killer.

I took him to our family priest, but that’s when he started with the fires. I took him to a family therapist, but that’s when he started torturing kittens and puppies. I’d like to take him to a child psychiatrist, but I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll kill someone. Possibly the psychiatrist.

He’s a loving boy. When I ask him a question, he’ll say “Yes, Mommy Dear” or “No, Mommy Dear.”

He likes to climb into bed with us at night, and wedge himself in between my husband and me. Last night, however, I noticed that he brought a butcher knife along with him.

I want to sit down and hash this whole thing out with my husband, but I haven’t seen him in two days.

Helpful hints welcome!