Damn Useless Pieces of Plastic

Damn kids and their Legos.

I've just stepped, for the 1069th time, on a damn four-pegger lego piece that one of the cats has kidnapped out of the kid's room and played hockey down the hall with.

You walk down the hall in the dark night hours and feel the stab of some small piece of plastic-ass bullshit driving into the soft meat of your arch--and you immediatly pull your foot up wondering if you've stepped on some piece of cat vomit/cat shit/rusty nail, or one of the young buck's play things.

I usually have a 50% success rate of it being one of the kid's pieces of plastic bullshit. The other half of the time I end up with my foot in the hall bathroom sink washing something foul from between my toes.

This evening it was another Lego piece. The night before it was an Anakin Skywalker (Volcano Damage Version--Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith) that caused me to jump 3 feet into the air.

It takes at least 30 minutes to clean out the hall bathroom's bathtub when guests show up, as it houses a cornucopia of 'action figures' and their various accessories. The kid is 2 degrees past spoiled.

I blame his grandparents. Between my family and my wife's there was one family unit separation, which has resulted in, at the end of the day, 3 grandmothers for this kid. And the kid's the ONLY grandchild between the three blended families. My sis never had kids, nor did my wife's brother. He's the SOLE LONE GRANDCHILD. And you know how Grandmothers are, and you know how Aunts can be, too (my sister). Kid's spoiled more than a gallon of milk with last week's date.

This kid's nickname is "The Boy King" - He wants for nothing.

His Kingdom is the damn bathtub.

He knows not what toys he owns, as they number the thousands.

I was lucky to have a single GI Joe, a Major Matt Mason, and a half-dozen Hot Wheels.

But still, growing up has its advantages.
Bourbon.