As I strolled through the bookstore the other day, minding
my own business, like I always do, I came suddenly upon a shelf display that
sent my mother’s voice pinging around the vast hollow spaces inside my skull. “Choose your friends carefully,” her rather echo-y
voice admonished, “because I’m going to have to tell you that I told you so
when they get you into trouble. You can’t
say I didn’t warn you and it will be your own fault. Those kids are disrespectful and they’re
going to be a bad influence even if you don’t think that’s true and when you
end up in jail you just better not try to blame me or your father and we’re not
going to bail you out either. You can
just sit there.”
While her voice continued on in that vein for a while, I let
my mind drift a bit, recalling the story of young Fred and reflecting on his
sad fate.
He was a nice boy, Fred.
Bit of a troubled soul, but still – that’s pretty par for the course
these days. And his mom was a nice sort,
devout. He had plenty of, uh, friends. He liked animals.
But then, like so many kids do, he fell in with the wrong
crowd. At a bookstore, as it
happens. On a shelf.
Well, he started running around with pop stars and psychiatrists, poltergeists
and tiny yellow Cyclopes. Pretty soon these
new friends had him cutting class and smoking in the boy’s room, sassing his
mother and staying out late. And, just
like that, before you could say “Bob’s your uncle,” he was a Psychotic killer spirit
with a crazy laugh, murdering children both in their dreams and out of them and
goodness knows what else.
I’m not sure we can chalk that one up to coincidence.
Fortunately, on the very next shelf were these fine defenders
of law and order.
And, in the middle, a blonde with a bowl cut.
Though it was clear to me by now that a pretty tough crowd
ran in this bookstore, it was equally clear that one or another of these
paragons of virtue would be able to handle any situation that might arise
concerning the safety of innocent shoppers nearby. And naturally, by “one or another of these
paragons of virtue” I do mean “Chuck Norris.”
Chuck Norris makes onions cry. And
Freddy Krueger.
The moral of this story: Be mindful of the company you keep,
but, should the worst happen and fictional serial killers of any sort have your
back against the wall, call Chuck Norris.
Bonus moral: Your mother is always right. Even when she chooses to let you rot in hypothetical
future-prison for crimes you are not likely to commit. It’s for your own good.
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