My husband cannot be trusted to shop. Ever. Send the man to the grocery store for a dozen eggs and some cat food and he comes skulking through the front door an hour and a half later, toting fourteen bags full of fresh basil, curry sauce, spam and buttermilk. So last December, I was understandably apprehensive when he leaves with the Kaiser to Christmas shop and I don’t see them for eleven hours.
Along with a Vidalia Onion Chop Wizard, Fasta Pasta, two Ped Eggs and three ShamWows, the darling also found this, which is worthy of mention in the Creepy Kid Shit series:
First, the creators/packagers/marketing execs for this horrifying toy have no concept of verb conjugation. Secondly, it’s an atrocious idea. You hook the monkey paws, slingshot style, on your index and middle fingers. You stretch the thing out by its legs. Release. The monkey flies, flipping through the air and lands with a thud. And then—the ghastly screaming ensues. The shrieking (OOOOHEEEEAAAAAOOOOOH) lasts for a really lovely three of four seconds.
Is the monkey supposed to be screaming with terror? I’m not sure what, “Hear Me Scream!” implies. Like, the monkey has a cape (we were robbed of that), so theoretically the monkey should be having a good time. Right? Like a superhero monkey, dashing through the clouds to save a baby from imminent death. His scream does not, however, evoke any sense of gleeful excitement or reckless abandon. It sounds like someone is putting his tail through a meat grinder.
The first time Eleanor heard the painful yelping, she cowered on the couch, head behind a pillow, little legs shaking. The cats? The cats disappear for days when they see the toy appear. I’ve tried hiding it. I’ve thrown the loosey-limbed monkey in the back of the closet, stuffed it under a pillow, tossed it into a filing cabinet. It always comes back.
Resolution: Put monkey in husband’s golf bag and make damn certain the man never sets foot inside an As Seen on TV store again.