"Historically cemeteries were thought to be a haven for vampires as are castles and swamps. Sadly you don't have any of those."- Mulder X-Files

 

Yet another alligator. Doing whatever it is that alligators do, which I think includes swimming, sunning themselves while lazing in limpid pools of murky water, and mutating into gigantic creatures that eat European cars. Which is okay, because European cars are made entirely of sheep intestines. And kitten tears.

Yesterday was fun. We went off to the Houston Area Boy Scout Fair. This event is held annually at Reliant© Area, which is near where the NFL™’s designated victim team, the Houston Oilers Texans ®, play. So, instead of going to the Bridal Fair (who in their right mind would brave the hideous shrieking of a bridal fair – it would be like being forced to stay in a puppy-torture room) or Disney© on Ice™ (I think this would be interesting if it were Walt’s body, but instead I hear it consists of skating puppets).

The Scout Fair is an exemplar of everything that’s right about America. Admission fees? Nah, the Scouts have that covered. We went to a booth where you could (in The Boy’s case, poorly) throw darts at balloons. A Boy Scout was manning the booth, and offer The Boy a strawberry-ish drink. I think it was strawberry. The Boy didn’t have any. Pugsley did. Since Pugsley cannot talk, I can’t say if it did taste like strawberry. Pugsley had two glasses, so it was good, even if it was puréed marmot spleen or some such. Heck, Pugsley will drink nearly anything if there’s enough sugar in it, so it might have been marmot spleen.

We travelled up and down the aisles – none of the Scouting booths were looking for money – these were Scouts and Scout parents looking to help young Scouts learn something. There were also groups that deal with Scouts and Scouting values that were there – people from the Battleship Texas, a company that brought surveying equipment to teach Scouts about surveying. Everyone was there to teach Scouts. Or help Scouts have fun. Or give them puréed marmot spleen to drink.

The rain was pouring down, like, well, I can’t think of a marmot spleen analogy here, but you can imagine that I tried. We decided to go out to eat. The Boy exclaimed, “I don’t want to go out to eat, I already had m’lunch.”

The Mrs. and I concluded The Boy felt that he was about 80. When we got to the restaurant, I gallantly ran to hold the restaurant door (located conveniently under the awning) open while The Mrs. was drenched getting The Boy and Pugsley out of the car. Thankfully The Mrs. didn’t have to wait a second when they arrived at the door of Chili’s.

Thankfully, The Mrs. loves me even when she’s been drenched.

That night I introduced The Boy to vampire movies, watching a Vincent Price film called, The Last Man on Earth. At one point, I looked at The Boy and he was covering his ears with his eyes tightly shut. Which is entirely explainable because THE DOORKNOB WAS TURNING AND VINCENT PRICE’S WIFE WAS CLEARLY ON THE OTHER SIDE EVEN THOUGH HE JUST BURIED HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If only Vincent Price had been a Cub Scout. I think he could have tied her up better before he buried her.