Fan, Males, & Just Desserts

"What? What?" he said.

He was hanging upside down from the ceiling, the light fixture swinging furiously. The small child's safety toothbrush dropped and bounced on the floor, leaving his limp hand.

"You heard me-" I yelled, over the ceiling fan," You're going to be cut to ribbons!" "Wheee!!" was the only response he gave. I knew he thought he was some kind of safety-first "Clyde", but I was only there to call him to dinner.

"It's time for dinner!" I cried. He motioned wildly and I finally understood that he wanted me to feed him Maybe he could suck up dinner through a straw. No, I guess it had to be a garden hose.

His butter-slicked naked body slapped wetly on the floor as he let go his precarious perch.

My son, God love him, had been fond of white-out, and now he was a fool. It was not my fault, whatever the case. I went for the hose as Ely wiggled around making angel shapes with the butter. He had enough butter on him to make about three.

That's when Paul walked in. He stopped and stared angrily. My husband removed his horns and cape & brandished his sitar languidly in Paul's direction.

"Methinks it's time for the turtle warrior to feel the sound of his bath!"

"You're not helping him," I muttered, "whatever the psych woman says" In truth, I loved Paul's patience, cause I didn't have it, myself.

Ely pulled some composure together and tried to stand. A mistake. He slipped and hit Paul in the suede boot with one of his feet. Paul fell on his sitar, crushing it to small pieces, one of which flew up and hit me in the left ventricle

"I've had with you two" I snarled. "You, Ely. Go back to your ceiling. Wriggle your white-out onto that stained spot. You, Paul - get those sitar pieces out of here. Hand me the hose - it's time for dessert and I'm not sharing.