I was hoping the boys, seven highly intelligent sons of detectives, a banker, a goldsmith, a stone fabricator, and yours truly, would erupt in emotion, would crowd around me and sing my praises and give me the keys to a brand new car. But that's not how it went down.
After the whole ordeal was over and the carefully crafted Chippewa Indian arrows were delivered into the hands of the cub scouts who'd earned them under my semi-neglectful tutelage, after the bags of awards had been hauled into their parents trophy wagons, and after the debris from Italian beef sandwiches and zitti had been scraped up off the auditorium floor, the Scoutmaster gathered his new protoges around him and welcomed them into his troop. He explained that they'd be having a lot of fun, that they would become a patrol and would need to make up a name for themselves (ie: blazing bluejays, pirates, dinosaurs). Naturally they were excited about this and started shouting ideas. But the scoutmaster interrupted them and gave them the god news that I would be following them over as their patrol leader.
Inside, I braced myself for my usual uncontrollable weeping fit whenever something even remotely noble or grandly traditional manages to come my way and I even started working up a little humility speech when one of the kids raised his hand and was recognized by the Scoutmaster.
"Can we vote on that?"
(Little %&$!@#, ingrateful %$^$#@, hyperactive opossum shavers. I hope they get tangled up in a stevedoer's knot. Sugar addicted monkey kissin' . . . freakin . . . dadgum . . . )
Please save me: my children are trying to kill me.
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