Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Curious George Gave Me Mange

My daughter thinks her mother is a witch.

Not a doing-magic-and-spells one either. For some strange reason she's just not pleased with her today. From the moment I went upstairs to drag them both out of bed she's been griping and making overly-dramatic I'm-Not-Happy-With-You faces at her mother. And as is typical she became entirely confused about the timeline of events and blamed the whole affair on something that occurred 30 minutes after waking up as the catalyst for the whole thing. That being choosing a background for Picture Day at school. Even an hour later whilst waiting for the bus she repeated that, "I was just mad that she wouldn't let me chose a background from a different row." I think she really decided a few days ago when she flat-out called her mother a witch. Sensing there may be soem double meaning behind it she clarified by cheerily adding, "I mean a Fall witch Mommy!" At which point I helpfully added that a lot of people at work had been yelling, "fall, witch..." at Mommy as well, so maybe it's true.

Recently my daughter was watching Curious George and exclaimed that she found it (and I quote) "ridiculous" that nobody thought it was odd that a man kept showing up all over the place with a monkey. Nary a blink or sense of dread from anyone recalling that awful chimp-mauls-woman story from awhile back. Well - yesterday even my son joined in on not being able to suspend belief enough for that show to work for him. This seems to have been prompted by reading more and more of the original stories and him witnessing me not being able to hold on how absurd it is that George breaks into a chocolate factory and literally nobody so much as flinches at the fact there's a monkey dicking about and instantly employ him to pack chocolates with his feet. I still find it difficult not to add the proviso for my son that - when George starts grabbing unwrapped chocolates with all his hands and feet - that he's probably caked in his own feces and now half of New York is about to contract some mutant Yellow Monkey Fever/AIDS/Ebola virus that will make the rapid death toll in 28 Days Later look hopeful.  Although thinking about that it would explain the source for the original recipe for Hershey's Kisses. In spite of the horrifying risk of spreading viruses, biting strangers or just the ridiculousness of no New Yorker turning George into a kebab my son still likes to pick out the books at the library. Mind you when consider what some of the Recommended selections are when we visit it might be a good idea to stick to Curious George.


Anyhoo - as is typical on the show the man in the yellow hat loses his monkey again. He really is extraordinarily careless. It's a good job he hasn't managed to nob that woman at work because he'd be atrocious with children. True to form he plans to head out with his monkey so just tells him that they need to take a train all the way across New York City to the museum. Moments later his monkey wanders off to take a train. But, as is bafflingly unexplained on this show, nobody screams in horror at the sight of George. Nobody reveals a concealed handgun and shoots him. Nobody even tries to touch him inappropriately. Which - being New York City - is quite likely to happen. Granted this is the New York City subway. The rule of which is don't look anyone in the eye - because even the ones not dressed like an escaped mental patient  may take your direct gaze as permission for them to abduct you, keep you in a well and make a neglige out of your skin. Anyone reading this in the UK has had an unpleasant moment trapped on public transport with a rabble of drunkards on their way to/from a sporting event. Or just with a strange tramp or unruly twat on board. My wife likes to tell a story about being on a train to Manchester when a bunch of people realized they were trapped around a table seat with a tramp. Who then proceeded to open up The Sun newspaper to page three and make guttural primal sex-beast noises before pulling out a large bottle of cider and pouring it all over the black-and-white tits on the page in front of him. For my own sins I recall being stuck on a the late bus in the deep-dark valleys of South Wales with a very very drunk and rowdy fat Welshman who claimed to be Elvis Costello. He made he audacious claim that he was in a disguise (a very convincing one, I can tell you) but could prove it by singing Welcome To The Working Week. Except without any of the correct words, with a breeze-block thick Treorchy-accent (surely part of his disguise that the Witness Protection Program would be envious of) and ending in him trying to jump me. I wasn't sure if he was trying to molest me or fight me, but the bus driver quickly pulled him off (steady on...) and - in true Welsh style - "gave him a slap" and told me he wouldn't bother me again.

Anyhoo - that sort of guff goes on constantly on UK transport but is nothing at all compared to the NYC subway system. Anyone, and I mean anyone can be on that thing. Still - Curious George is a freaking monkey. One of the people on the train would have at least tried to eat him surely? But no. Literally two minutes after the man in the yellow hat decides that his pet monkey can make it's own way across town the train driver finds him - doesn't shit herself - and then immediately says, "hey would you like to drive the train?" To which my son very loudly yelled, "No!!!!" at the television. And not in a warning kind of way either. But more in a "you expect me to believe this shit!?" kind of way. In that last exclamation mark you could hear my son evoke, "Twilight is more believable than this amateurish nonsense....."

Right - time to do laundry. Lets see if I actually put shirts on hangars or whether I convince myself that draping them in a massive pile on the ironing bird is somehow different than leaving them in the basket.

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