As I was trying to make dinner last night (and by dinner, I mean fish sticks and frozen corn – don’t judge, that food pyramid thing was just heresay , right?), my children were playing under the kitchen table so nicely together. No crying, no yelling, just laughing and enjoying being siblings. Until I heard a loud shriek. My daughter then started bawling her brains out and yelling, “No, no, she’s gone and he did it.” I run over and say, “Who, sweetie? Who’s gone?” as I comfort her and try to help her through what looks like a painful moment. ”RAPUNZEL!”, she yells and points to this scene:
The dude in the truck is Bob the Builder. I’m not sure he is that actual toy but that’s what we call him in our house. It seems that Bob ran over Rapunzel then threw his arms up in the air as if to say, “Hell, yeah, got another one! Power to the Construction Workers!” As I tried not to laugh in the face of my crying child, I looked over at her brother who was taking the truck and making it run over Rapunzel repeatedly while manically laughing. This wasn’t getting any better.
Needless to say, my daughter quickly grabbed Rapunzel, who now had tire marks imprinted into her plastic skin, and said to me, “Bob is a bad, bad man. Who runs over a princess??” Ah yes sweetie, you simply can’t trust a man who has no last name. I must admit though, Bob did something I have only dreamed about doing. I have fantasies about taking all those Barbies and princesses and putting them in the exhaust pipe in my car to then watch them shoot out across the street with soot all over them when I turn the engine on. Kinda envy Bob. The dude has balls, gotta give him that.