Finally got me a wooden leg. Made of Real Pine. Varnished and polished and smooth. Solid brass knee joint, bends in three directions and fits, extended, inside a velvet custom case (with handle).

I keep the leg on a shelf in full view of the road. School children see it. So does the mail man. When I drive Father MacAbbe home each Sunday, I swing past my house – entirely out of the way- and drive real slow past the picture window.

“What leg? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father. All I see is a very happy, well-run home. No I don’t have any family to speak of but I hardly think that should stop you from supporting my bid to become Alderman.”

Then I’ll stop the car and if the humidity is just right, I’ll lean over and whisper:

“Quiet! The snails are listening.”

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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