Till The Cows Turn Blue #18 – “Intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic”
Posted on July 16th, 2009 by headspook
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What happen puny blue man? Probably disappear in puff of logic or something. Pffft!
Grumble say welcome to terrible world of Grumble, where Grumble answer all question and fix all problem.
Now, what happen today? Not care. Grumble say about ants. Not think about puny ants much till get in places not want, like pants or Frankenberry. That when get attention. See two ants walk along side of pool, not care. Million ants in deep end a different matter. Change world.
You say, “How that happen? Grumble not know what talk about!” Grumble say shut hole and listen.
Long time ago ants come America where can make own life. They build towns, learn inventions, go church where want. After while, decide not like sissy king push them around, tell king kiss foot. This make king go bat-poo crazy.
See, terrible king of Angle Land like deep end of pool where he float without stub nasty toes. Not have to work. Just float around and boss all ants. He hate ants in deep end, so he make lots new rules, put red coats in charge. He think some coats scare ants, make them give up want freedom.
Terrible red coats smash some ants, but rest get together and say, “We in deep end ants!” Rest history.
Grumble like hear about history of country on Fourth of July, light pretty sparklers, eat tasty hot dog.
Hope have good In Deep End Ants Day. Grumble go see if find puny Spooky man now, make sandwich, pet dogs.
It’s the first really hot day of summer, but still early enough in the season that you haven’t smelled anyone light up a smoke bomb yet unless they’ve been saving it all this time, and that almost never happens. The Fourth of July is weeks away, sidewalks still tickle tender feet just starting to put on their seasonal skin, and summer is fresh like a brand new basketball.
In one backyard, sunlight filters through a huge green umbrella of a tree to cascade down and play over the ground in hundreds of gyrating spotlights. Two small figures huddle over something, sitting like a couple of frogs with knees up past their ears and backsides not quite touching their pile of sand. Dusty and growing warmer at the terminator line between green shadow and full sunlight, toy trucks and construction equipment fill the sandbox, but everything is motionless as if some big project has just ground to a halt. The two boys look as if they have unearthed a treasure.
White sunlight slowly creeps across the sandbox, pushing back the dazzling lights and turning the little dunes into a vast desert wasteland. A wavering chant rides the wind up over the garage.
“Mum-my curse is locked in-side,
If you’re smart you’ll run-and-hide,
If you o-pen up-the-door,
Mum-my curse is free-once-more!”
The boys jump back, startled, then flop down into the sand roaring with laughter. At the top of the sand pile is a plastic model crypt, its door flung open by a little plastic mummy. A ratcheting sound makes the mummy vibrate, its arms poking through the opening.
Soon the noise slows down and stops. The boys poke the little mummy back into its tomb and close the door. As they slowly wind up the toy, grinning madly, they begin their chant again, “Mum-my curse is locked in-side–”
I don’t remember exactly where that little mummy crypt came from; we might have swiped it from some board game. Saddest of all, I can’t recall my friend’s name. But the game we played was hilarious for a pair of 10 year old boys. And I jumped every time that door popped open.
