Bad, Bad Company 'Till the Day I Die

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.