Animal Instincts

Lest anyone worry that I'm lying dead in a ditch somewhere, since I haven't really been heard from in the blogiverse since last week's crazy Massachusetts tornado, rest assured -- I'm ok! A few readers actually emailed me to check, but have no fear! Boston, (and me!) is totally fine. My cousins, however, live in Wilbraham, and my sweet, sweet eighteen year old cousin was among those students whose PROM was actually happening in Springfield at the time of the tornado!

No, nothing to do with the weather; I've just somehow managed to be both boring AND insanely busy for the past week. Not that I expect anyone to care, since we all know that sometimes, life just happens and if we didn't live it, we'd have nothing to blog about!

As I was catching up on my freelance editing work doing some routine maintenance on my decrepit old desktop, I came across all of my old college papers/files, etc., and rather than doing what I was supposed to be doing, I started reading them. It sort of ties in, since I actually wrote this from a writing exercise I did with my friend C, and it was her novel I was supposed to be editing, but since I got a few laughs out of it, I thought I would share this fabulous little gem with you in my absence. Enjoy!

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Animal Instincts

When I was a young girl, there were few things I hated more in the world than Chuck E. Cheese. I don’t mean the restaurant – skeeball was and remains to this day a personal forte of mine – but that huge, ugly, Mickey Mouse wannabe that would roam around the party room harassing innocent children as they tried to enjoy their extra cheesy pizza and con their parents into giving them more precious tokens. I don’t know if it was the dumb animatronic microphone he held as he stilted awkwardly across the stage or the obnoxiously big, hairy feet, but goddammit, I hated that fucking mouse.

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It was my tenth birthday when my rage towards The Chuck, as I had come to think of him, finally reached its pinnacle. My mother, against my much more creative wish to celebrate the anniversary of my birth at a haunted house run in the old women’s state penitentiary, had booked my party in the same room where Chuck E. and his gang of over-sized stuffed animals rocked out with their insipid “country band.” To make matters worse, she had invited all of my friends, (including Chris, the fourth grade hottie to whom I was secretly engaged  but couldn’t tell anyone about, lest the news of my impending elopement reached my mother’s prying ears), and told them to wear costumes in honor of the fact that I was born a scant five days before Halloween. 

“Cool, a costume party!” Yeah, I know that’s what you’re thinking. And you would be right, if, by some intervention of satanic forces, your mother hadn’t ALSO decided that it would be the cutest thing in the world to dress you and your three brothers and sister up as the Power Rangers. THE POWER RANGERS. That’s right; my mother had spent four entire days painstakingly sewing patches of felt together so that I could be utterly humiliated in front of all my peers. Thanks, Mom. I still shudder every time I hear the phrase “go go Power Rangers.” Talk about scarred for life. But that’s another story for another day.

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So, there I was, wrapped in white and yellow felt, sweating balls and surrounded by chattering ten-year-olds, when I caught him lurking around the perimeter of the table. He was hard to miss, with that gargantuan crusty head and moronic beanie with the propeller on top. My spine stiffened as soon as I saw him; I knew we were in deep shit as soon as he started loping across the room, his band of merry moppets straggling along behind him. As the lights dimmed and that horrible music started to play, The Chuck gunned straight for me, the wire mesh cages where his eyes were supposed to be glinting where the paint had worn off.  But don’t worry. I was ready.

As his arms lifted and his body began to turn into a cartwheel, I swooped to my left, grabbing a pinwheel out of the centerpiece and preparing to do battle. The sudden movement threw him off; his huge furry bodysuit started tiling towards the right. “Oh fuck,” his look would have said had his stupid face not been painted into that insipid grin.  “Oh fuck,” I thought, watching him careen dangerously off course, right towards the blue felt child sitting immobilized in a high chair, his tiny features distorted into a soundless scream.

Nappy fur connected with smooth skin, the crash echoing throughout the cavernous “party room.” Parents rushed from all sides to make sure that the ignoramus in grey wasn’t hurt in his plunge into the table. My mom swooped in and grabbed the tiny blue blob, simultaneously apologizing to The Chuck for my “insane behavior” and “rash movements.” I pretended not to hear her as she yelled at me to say I was sorry to it, because I still had a score to settle. And so did the Red, Black and Pink Rangers.

                That fucking bastard had kicked our baby brother!

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With all of the chaos surrounding us, no one noticed the Red and Black ones stealthily gathering every straw off of the table, slyly inching closer to the epicenter of the commotion while trying not to spill the glasses of soda ensconced in their pudgy little hands. Likewise, the Pink one had managed to crawl virtually undetected beneath the table with a full armload of plastic orbs from that cesspool of bacteria, the Ball Pit.  And I was still brandishing my pinwheel in one hand, preparing to give the signal as soon as the time was right. The other hand, of course, was creeping further back onto the table behind me, reaching for the ultimate revenge.

And then, the time was right. My father had just extended a hand to The Chuck, though I prefer not to think about the fact that the flesh that tucked me in at night actually touched that rancid mess. The massive mouse had just righted himself, waving off any assistance while steeling me with that blank stare. I just couldn’t take it anymore – so I flung the pinwheel straight at his ridiculously pointed nose, thereby triggering an event that will be forever immortalized on film, thanks to the cinematic genius of Uncle Ed.

He didn’t even have time to react to the projectile pinwheel before the Red and Black rangers began spewing soda out of their straws, a virtual fountain of diet cola raining down upon the villain and anyone unfortunate enough to be standing in close proximity to his person.  Red, blue and yellow balls soared through the air, the arm of the Pink ranger working furiously to pelt him with every last ounce of force it could muster. My friends were loving this, joining ranks in any way that they could, hurling whatever lame party favors they could get their hands on and adding to the chaos with their screeches of delight.

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And then, as my parents and other assorted grown-ups attempted to quell the storm,  I stepped up with the piece de resistance.

It is my guess that even now, 14 years later, The Chuck is still picking pieces of chocolate Carvel crunchies out of his decrepit old costume. Sure, my brothers and sister were grounded for two weeks, and I for six, but I can probably guarantee you He hasn’t taken it upon himself to harass any more innocent children with his wily, child-molester type ways.  And as I said, the video makes for some serious entertainment at the annual family Christmas party, though my youngest brother still can’t understand why we think it’s so funny, most likely due to the undiagnosed mild brain damage I suspect he suffered at the hands (feet?) of The Chuck… though that can’t be nearly as damaging as the emotional scars inflicted upon that ugly rat bastard by our small clan of felt-clad fictional ninjas. 

Go, go Power Rangers.