Tunneling upward out of the darkness where they had lain in wait for 13 years, the latest brood of Disney child stars reportedly emerged from the ground Monday, filling the air with their mindless droning.
Thousands of spunky young actors, part of the child performer population known as Brood D, were spotted bursting out of the soil en masse within the 51-acre Walt Disney Studios campus, where they wriggled through the grass on their bellies in search of a vertical surface to climb up and cling to. Earsplitting screeches were heard as the child stars frantically delivered lines from yet-to-exist scripts about surfers who were secretly werewolves, preteen mayors who could speak to animals, and triplets separated at birth and suddenly reunited at the same hip-hop boarding school.
I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.
-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a
~*Spiritual Experience*~
I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.
Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.
He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only
BARELY
enough space for the fireworks
and certainly none for his truck.
So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand.
This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.
He begins,
and this is crucial to what happens next,
by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it
unsecured
on his lawn.
Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.
His process for unloading the fireworks is to
1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls.
2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile
He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things.
3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed
4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup.
5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her.
6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house.
7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too.
8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate
9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed
10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.
Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man?
Answer: Absolutely Not.
There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else.
(This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual)
Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally.
Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.
I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.
However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up.
and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop"
And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."
For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."
I move under the eaves.
"Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled."
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not."
"Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."
Sometimes,
the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.
The Gods were not merciful today.
It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this,
But I got to see it today.
Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before.
Oh. I realized as it got closer.
That's RAIN.
Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say,
five to tent square miles,
is instead concentrated into an area of say,
my neighborhood exactly.
So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.
The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel.
Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge.
Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.
My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp.
They do not have a tarp.
They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.
Which is when the hail begins.
"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy.
"HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!"
"OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"
I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic.
The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor.
Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.
So.
I was raised Agnostic
-but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.
---
(If you laughed, please consider supporting my Ko-fi or preordering my book of Strange Stories on Patreon)
The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.
Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.
So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.
Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.
As the OP of this post, I’m going to threaten that if this gets to one million notes by the 10 year anniversary on 1 June 2026, one year from today, I will get a lower back tattoo of the loch ness bear monster.
Cats understand "naughty". In fact I think they're the only animal who understands it. Dogs know "good" and "bad" but not Naughty. Same with theft. Cats know what theft is. They know when they are thieving and you can see it on their faces. Squirrels are thieves but they don't know that. They know "take" and "have" but they don't comprehend what it is to steal. Nor do raccoons or coyotes or any species of rodent. They may participate in theft but they are ignorant of the weight of what they do, the full meaning of it. Cats know what crime is and they do it on purpose.
To appreciate this story, please understand that my child Bear, aged 9, is nonjudgmental and dreamy, and Mouse - aged 3 - is wildly charming, but above all things requires that OTHER people behave with DECENCY and DECORUM.
Today, Mouse’s principles had been compromised, because (among other things) I had allowed their two-year-old friend to finish eating an apple core that Mouse had not entirely abandoned (violating an ancient rule of chivalry) but when this was pointed out, I hissed privately that we had to let the baby eat the apple, citing some obscure law about ‘hospitality’. I had also asked Mouse to overlook this baby’s other crimes, such as chucking toy cars about, and flagrantly hogging a small balloon.
“That,” mouse says strongly, all propriety outraged, “is NOT sharing!!!”
Earlier in the day, after swimming, when Mouse’s best friend Bess acquired some gummy snacks, Bess did NOT trade them with a favourable exchange rate for Mouse’s generously offered cheese snacks; and one of Mouse’s other good friends, Syndy, has invited them over to play fire engines NEXT week. Attentive minds will instantly notice that this is not THIS week, when Mouse would prefer it to happen.
Syndy furthermore is persisting in having their birthday party in MARCH, not tomorrow - I DO hope you can understand the stress that Mouse is under. Also, Mouse has - in their own opinion- generously offered to forgive these crimes, by kissing and making up; but, although their friends often accept the snog, they continue the crimes. Thus, poor Mouse! The last defender of good manners! A parfait gentil knight! Is reduced to screaming: THIS IS NOT WHAT WE DO. That is TOO MUCH.
(Bess demonstrated being Too Much this morning by uncoupling their car seat and climbing into the boot of a car, and sprinting across a parking lot while their sire howled in anguish; while respecting Bess’s tremendous coolness and defiance, Mouse is the first one to condemn their wild behaviour, and the loudest voice to shriek: “NO BESS YOU ARE BEING TOO MUCH.”)
When Mouse, aged 3, and I came downstairs this evening - I had just had a Mouse-assisted shower- we found that Bear, aged 9, was watching Galaxy Quest with their sire.
Mouse watched with appreciation as a pretty lady on the screen snogged an attractive man. “Oh,” they said, tenderly, delighted.
The kiss deepened. “OH!” Mouse hooted, and coo’ed with approval, as someone who snogs their friends with almost-alarming lack of discrimination - they said, supportively, “oh good! A good kiss.”
The lady produced some tentacles.
“Oh, WHAT?” mouse said, aggrieved by this. “Oh WHAT!!!!”
The lady produced more tentacles, and helpfully dragged the man under.
“THAT IS NOT,” howled a beleaguered Mouse, “HOW WE KISSING.” And they proceeded to shriek in outrage; “NO LADY! That is NOT NICE KISSING! YOU STOP IT!”
The snogging continued. The man disappeared.
“MUMMY,” Mouse shrieked, “MUMMY, LADY NOT NICE KISSING!”
“Er,” i said.
“HIM SAD,” mouse said, feeling tremendously on the side of the gentleman, “THAT IS TOO MUCH.”
“Well, you see, Mousey,” I said, inadequately: “sometimes, some ladies are squids…”
I petered out.
Bear came to the fore. “And some boys,” they declared, with confidence, “are octopuses.”
can not recommend letting your child do a big scream when they are frustrated enough. Just straight up ask them like "hey do you need to do a big scream?" And if they say yes let cover your ears and say okay GO and let them scream because you know what eventually when you're really frustrated your little person with your face is gonna look at you with their ears covered and yell "HEY DO YOU NEED TA DO A BIG SCHREAM?!" and you can just... do a big scream and it won't scare them and you will feel better too
Hey this is literally great advice for anyone just warn the people around you that you need to do a big schream and do it, so they will do it back and it is very cathartic
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