The 8-year-old Hurricane boy was in a reflective mood. It is not often that a hurricane stops to reflect so I listened. “Dad, do you remember when I use to call the Piggly Wiggly the Pig Mart?”
“Yes, son, I do,” I replied.
“Do you remember when I use to call McDonald’s Old McDonald’s?”
“Yes, I remember that also,” I replied as I shuddered to think where in the world this was going.
“Yeah, that was back when I was young, probably 4 or 5,” said the Hurricane, “those sure were the good ol’ days back before I had all these responsibilities.”
I almost drove my car head on into a telephone pole. Say what? All these responsibilities? I said, “Exactly what responsibilities might you be referring to son?”
“Oh, you know, school and brushing my teeth, stuff like that.”
Man, it is tough these days to be an 8-year-old. I really don’t know how he manages to make it through the day. Of course, the way he approaches life, it is pretty tough ramming through everything and everybody.
Recently I impressed upon him (or was it my wife that did such a thing?) the need to use deodorant, especially when playing baseball, etc. He likes the idea that he can use stick deodorant just like Daddy and made sure his Mama got him some baking soda stick deodorant.
The next morning, he came prancing out of the shower, proudly announcing he was using his deodorant. He then proceeded to demonstrate the proper technique for deodorant application.
First, he lifted each arm and swabbed enough on to last at least until 2018. Then, he entered the second stage of application by taking the stick and rolling it over his entire chest and stomach. The child has a bright future as a house painter, but I would not suggest he enter the health care field.
On a positive note, he played a doubleheader and I don’t think a drop of sweat left his body. He also smelled like a third-floor hotel room on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.
Somehow, smelling like Bambi at the Gold Rush lounge, he made the all-star baseball team and plays in a tournament in Rochelle this weekend. I think he qualified because there were only 10 kids in town for that particular weekend and the coach knows that if we have any stinky kids no one will ever detect it over Mr. Arm N. Hammer himself.
To play everyone was required to produce a birth certificate proving they were under 9 years of age or did not turn 9 until a certain date. There went our chance to win the tournament by playing a few 12-year-olds.
I could not help but think that to play in a one-day tournament for 8- and 9-year-olds, I need a birth certificate, but according to the Supreme Court all I need to vote is to sign a document saying I am who I say I am. It appears to me that the president’s kids have no possibility of playing in any such tournaments because we all know how hard it is for him to produce a birth certificate.
At any rate, it is on to Rochelle we go. Hopefully, the Hurricane will not be overwhelmed with responsibilities and we can bring home a trophy.
Contact columnist T. Gamble at firstname.lastname@example.org.