Cyber Terrorist
Yes, the terrorist I refer to is my 11 year old son. I've mentioned him in many of painfully written blog. I grieve over my losing him forever, the child that once actually saw the light of day, smelled flowers on the way to school, giggled with his friends and---WHOA--cut the Hallmark crap and get on with it lady. OK. I've pulled myself together now. I just needed a moment. Seriously, the kid is spending every dime he has on Atari's and other old crap that frankly, wasn't that great at the time. He thinks DOS is cool. He loves Donkey Kong. He covets the first Pac Man games. I think his reincarnation from the 80's hung up somewhere. His millenium mind is stuck in a worm hole in time, forever writhing to the torturingly long ballads, forever frying in the light from monochrome screens, forever pelted by cheesy synthesied sounds from ping (or pong, hell I don't know.) ANyway, he spends his money on one thing, figures something is broken like a joy stick (duh, it's has a million miles of finger thrusts on it, whaddya expect?) and he asks for something else. Sure he spends his money on it, but we're talking eBay people. What a damn hassle. Especially if you have a foot that's been tossed around in a McCormick Reaper, then run over by a Peterbilt tugging a double wide mobile home. Last night he begged me to buy him the Windows Millenium edition. (So I don't know how to spell millenium, Ya wanna pick on a girl when she's down? Huh? Huh? Hell, I have trouble pronouncing the damn word.) By now he's broke anyway so I'm not lifting a finger. "But Mom," he says, "You have plenty of money. How 'bout you help me alittle?" "How 'bout no?" I reply. "I'll make a deal with you," he announces, you pay half and I pay half." Of course with the new math and all, that translates out to 20 bucks to him and 40 to me. He would have done better to say, "I won't take a sledgehammer to your foot if you spot me a Franklin.") I ask, "WHere you gonna get the 20$? You have zip, little brother." "But you can take it out of my allowance," he retorts. "Sorry, no advances." Why?" he whines. "Because Mommy can't spend money she doesn't have then tell the credit card company to take it out of my postdated check, so why should you be able to?" (Believe me, I tried and Amex was none too happy.) ANyway, when I nonchanlantly continued reading the paper after telling him I wasn't going to continue going in conversational circles without a double dose of Dramamine, he went ballistic. Last I heard before Pappa tossed him over his shoulder and carted him away to bed was "BUT (thump--as in head banging) YOU'RE (thump)MULTI (thump) MILLION (thump) AIRES (thump). If he were within an earshot I'd tell him that even if we were that lucky we sure as holy crap wouldn't be stupid multimillionaires. I bet the really mega rich didn't get that way by buying more than they could afford. And certainly not by buying Atari games. Hmmm. OK. I've vented now. Thank you. You can all go back to your comfy painfree lives now.