Time for the shovels to come out! We’re getting together a burying party! YAYYY!

What does this mean for your family? We get in this here van – original color: mountain green – and we drive around looking for things to bury without warning. We’ll probably start with lawn ornaments – bury them right where they stand. Move up to bird feeders then fish-shaped mail boxes and finally novelty cement creatures that adorn all the boarded-up ice cream shoppes.

And when we do it, we leave no marking. No headstone, no cross made of sticks, no drug store teddy bear as a memorial. We don’t even leave a dirt mound. If there’s extra dirt, we eat it. We keep our mouths shut. It’s as if the item just vanished! Gone!

If we have enough people – Gary’s gonna try to get the Jamison boys and maybe their little sister with the crossed-eyes – IF WE HAVE ENOUGH HANDS – we’ll find us a patrol car. Full of officers. On duty. Bury it down by the lake. They love it, the cops. It’s a thrill because we move so fast. And we try to speak and shout in foreign accents the whole time. They get the siren blowing and the lights flashing, and they shoot through the roof! WEEEEE!!!

Then we wait. Drinking 35¢ fountain pops. Usually red and orange flavor. And sure enough, up come them cops. Gasping and flailing. Like something out of Thriller. Making all kinds of gurgling noises. Their mouths full of river leaches. HOORAY!

Then the Mayor gives everyone in our party crisp twenty dollar bills and tells us to please just stay in our church and keep our customs to our people.


Because the town hall’s been burned to the ground! And there’s great big dinosaurs walking down main street and everybody’s using their left hand to greet ladies and it’s just a case of things not making any sense – GOD ALMIGHTY HIMSELF – He was right, this land is cursed: Build your farm elsewhere, Joshua.

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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