Bad Puns and Good Ice Cream


It began, as things usually do, with me asking what we should watch on Netflix.

“I dunno,” Moira said. “Pick something.”

“Like what?” I asked. I slumped farther into the green couch. Moira sat in the red armchair, concentrating on the charcoal masterpiece she was drawing. She had no time for my indecisiveness.

“Well, there’s Hercules,” she suggested.

“We watched that just recently, though,” I whined.

“Fine. Not that then. I dunno, what is there?”

I scrolled through the titles. Finally, I clicked at random.

“What’s this?” Moira asked.

“Pin-knock-io.”

“You mean Pinocchio?”

“No, I mean Pin-knock-io, as in the knock-off!!” I shrieked with laughter. Moira giggled.

“You need  a nap.”


After having given up on Pin-knock-io, after only three minutes of horrifically poor CGI, and a carriage pulled by mice, we turned to “The Brave Little Toaster.”

That didn’t last eight minutes.

“Ugh, why was this movie even made,” Moira said.

“Why does the radio not have a face??” I grumbled. “All the other appliances have faces.”

“That’s because it only has a voice,” Moira explained patiently.

“But lamps don’t have faces either. And there it is,” I complained. The lamp under scrutiny jumped from a window and hopped down the street.

“Ugh. Lamps don’t even jump like that.” Moira huffed in disgust.

“When have you ever seen a lamp jump.”

“In the Pixar logo, silly.”


Upstairs, there was ice cream. So, naturally, I had to gravitate to that too. After all, migratory animals follow the food.

After sitting down to some cherry ice cream, I listened to my grandma and mom categorize rocks together. Mom had finished her bowl, and was instead peeling oranges and eating them slice by slice. She offered one to me. I took it, but it was too sour after my ice cream and tasted bitter. Mom took the shucked peels and began carving groves into the pebbled skin with her nails. Soon she had quite a pile of zesty rinds. She rubbed some on her wrists.

“Mm, smell.” She offered.

Moira was busy arranging some spilled cereal into an orderly fashion. Each granola crumble was stacked smallest to largest, in a marching line.  Grandma was still explaining the rocks.

“This has iron in it. See, you can see it here. It’s got quite a bit in it. It might even be an iron-ore,” she told us.

“It looks a lot like Tiger’s Eye,” my mom said. “With all the lines.”

“Yes,” grandma said. “And if you get it wet, you can see it better. If I were a real rock buff, I’d lick it, but I think, as for me, I’ll use the kitchen sink.” She went to the faucet.

“Just spit on it,” grandpa smiled.


 

Moira had begun playing the Pirates of the Caribbean theme song on the piano. Her hair danced with her fervor as she pounded away. It made a fantastic and dramatic soundtrack to this everyday evening.

Mom peered over my shoulder.

“I’m writing this down,” I told her. I had decided to write a post, which meant everything had to be recorded in detail.

“”Arranging the granola in order of size?”” she read. I pointed to the granola, neatly lined up. She laughed.

“This is going on my blog,” I told her. “No conversation is safe.” I continued my scribbling. Lifting my pen, I paused to spell out a word. “Muti… muti… muta?”

“MUTANT NINJA TURTLES,” my sister yelled from the piano.

“NO,” I bellowed back. “MUTILATE.”

“What.” my mother said.

I showed her the pad. ‘mutilating orange peels’, it read.

“Hey!”

“What would you prefer?”

“I was getting the extract out of them to use as perfume,” she told me.

Fair enough, I thought. I left mutilated anyway.

The charcoal drawing and some melted ice cream. Alongside, the granola in descending order, and my hastily scribbled note. The Chicken in a Biscuit have nothing whatever to do with this post. Although I suppose they do now.
The charcoal drawing and some melted ice cream. Alongside, the granola in descending order, and my hastily scribbled note. The Chicken in a Biscuit have nothing whatever to do with this post. Although I suppose they do now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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