While resting in the living room
The Boy: “Look, look, a centipede, coming out from that rock.”
The Boy’s Best Mate: “Wow! Kill it, kill it! Hit it with a stick!”
TB: “Hang on, I’ll get a brick.”
There followed some scuffling and the sound of muffled thumping.
TB: “There.”
TBBM: ‘Is it dead?”
TB: “I think so. Its head come off.”
TBBM and TB (together): “Cool!!”
That and asking the Younger Brother several hundred times if he needed to go to the toilet was probably the highlight of the weekend.
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16 comments:
I can't walk down a path without all maner of scurrying grass denizens getting detected and destroyed.
"Dad! A spider baby!"
"Cool, isn't he cute?"
"Yep" *stamp* "Got im! Allll gone now."
Ebil I tells ya.
You have a son, RG?
My kid, aged 4, watching Bindi the Jungle Girl:
Dad, how come Bindi's mum is always on TV but we never see Bindi's Dad?
Me:
Er. Um. How should I put this? He was horribly murdered by a terrifying, giant stingray.
Kid: Oh.
Ten minutes pass, Bindi throws to a clip of her dad wrangling snakes in Pakistan.
Kid: Dad!
Me: What?
Kid: Bindi's Dad's ok now. The doctors fixed him.
Me: Cool.
Had that happened at my house, I would have given all three kiddos a three hour sermon on the sanctity of centipede life
Lewd, hah!
Really Squib?
Blimey, you have more patience than me.
Bob, I would have said "He was horribly murdered by a terrifying, giant Tony Abbott".
Ramon, two Sons and a Daughter. 3, 5 and 7 respectively.
Which one's the spider stomper?
Riley, 3.
Also exclaims "Oh my GOD" loudly at the sight of diggers and trains.
Your boy did well Ramon. I've had a special hatred for centipedes since the great Cunnamulla centipede plague of the early '90s. Having one of those little pricks crawl into your bed/shoe/leg-of-your-trousers is something you can do without.
Consider it a blow struck against all centipede kind, Alex.
If they'd chosen the stick as their weapon, that would have killed (geddit, geddit) a bit more time.
I once made my Dad catch a huntsman spider he was about to squash and set it free in the garden.
This was a month ago... right after my 34th birthday. I think I came across as all kinds of weird.
In hindsight it would have been better to join in the orgy of squashing and yell out "Cool!!" with my Dad.
Where's our resident ex-buddhist monk?
I'm here!
But I wasn't a very good monk. I smoked cigarettes behind the temple.
When I was ordained, I had to take 227 vows, all in Sanskrit. I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
Which reminds me of the ordination... All I had to do was repeat after the other monk.
So he was sitting there saying, "Thritha di pali na na tarralith," and I repeated after him, ""Thritha di pali na na tarralith", and i could hear people giggling.
Turns out the guy had a lisp, and I was repeating his lisp, thinking that's how the words were pronounced.
Kettle, I do that too, except substitute Dad for which ever housemate is around at the time. My story is that they are too big to squish without making a really big nasty mess on the wall which has to be cleaned up. The same goes for the big black cockroaches which wander in from outside occasionally.
My dad used to hide behind trees and throw bugs at us children when we were small, so I would never risk getting dad to move a spider.
I like to think of it as a bonding exercise with The Boy.
That way, when he regards me solely as a fat weirdo with hideous musical taste who shouts at the television*, we'll always have the centipede squishing episode.
* ie, next week.
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