The pinata saboteur
My wife works with children. Specifically, she works with children in the library.
Today she gets to hold the pinata over their heads and help them tear its skin apart so that they can gorge themselves on its candy organs.
But her arm gets tired holding the pinata, and she shudders to think of the weight a claypot pinata of the original Aztec pinatas.
Here’s a fact I pick up from asking her about her day: kids are weak. They cannot break the papier-mache donkey and the hour grows late. If the kids cannot break the skin, her arm might fall off from holding the floating donkey of goodies.
As each kid swings, and fails, she pokes another hole in the pinata. Each hole releases some candy, and every candy bled out in this way lightens her load and appeases the sugar deprived children milling about the floor.
She is the pinata saboteur. Children beware.
felixnation :: May.05.2008 :: The Coal Mine, wife :: 3 Comments »
3 Responses to “The pinata saboteur”
What would be worse (and even alot more humorous) is if she just lifted the pinata up out of the childrens reach each time they swung.
“Oh …you missed again…how sad…you’re gonna need some candy to keep your strength up, too bad you cant get any…”
This makes me want to become a kindergarten teacher.
“Oh look children! Billy drew a picture of a…of a….ummm…he drew a picture of a molten turd about to eat his emaciated, malnourished stick figure family! Wow, Billy! You’re going places!”
As you can tell, I don’t celebrate mediocrity.
“I celebrate mediocrity and sing myself.”
After that misquote, I am sure he already is.
Here, lets just make complete mockery of him while we are at it.
I celebrate mediocrity, and sing myself,
And what I shall be unremarkable you shall be unremarkable,
For every sloth belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loaf and invite my soul,
I lean and loaf at my ease observing the ordinary.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this substandard soil, this routine air,
Born here of unexceptional parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in pathetic health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back awhile sufficed at their average merit, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Formulaic and undistinguished nature without check with original lethargy.
Jeez, amazing how a few adjectives and minor replacements really make Whitman the most dreary writer known to mankind.