A BIT OF HUMOR

DIRECTLY TO THE MAILBOX 
By W. Bruce Cameron 

Someone once asked me, "if you could be any person in the world, who would it 
be?"  To which I responded without hesitation, "my eleven-year-old son." 

My boy's life is one where the less pleasant elements of reality rarely intrude.  
His eyes unfocused, his mouth emitting sound effects, he drifts around in serene 
oblivion, almost never concerned about anything. 

Last Saturday I interrupted his reverie and asked him to check to see if the 
mail had arrived.  He responded agreeably enough, though it took several 
reminders before he actually was out the door.  I went to the window to observe 
his progress.  He made a strong start, striding purposefully toward the mailbox 
at the end of our driveway.  Then something caught his eye and he stopped, 
frowning.  He bent over and picked it up:  a stick.  It fit into his hand like a 
Colt pistol, and he swiveled, eyeing the trees for enemies.  He spotted a couple 
and dove for cover, firing as he rolled.  Airplanes swooped down and he switched 
to ground-to-air mode, jubilating when the missiles hit their targets.  He spoke 
into his radio and did something to his forehead, probably putting on his night 
vision goggles.  I lost sight of him as he snaked around the corner of the 
house. 

Half an hour later he tromped in, exuberant over his military victory.  I 
stopped him in the hallway.  "Did you get the mail?" 

He stared at me blankly, and I wondered whether he even knew who I was.  "You 
were going out to get the mail," I reminded him. 

His focus cleared.  "Oh, yeah." 

"Did you get it?" 

His expression indicated he wasn't sure. 

"Why don't you try again," I suggested. 

Back out the door.  I winced as he glanced at a tree branch, but he didn't 
appear tempted.  His eyes acquired radar lock on the mailbox, and I sighed in 
relief. 

Lying next to the mailbox was a football which had drifted there at the end of a 
neighborhood game a few weeks ago.  He scooped the ball up in his arms and 
swerved, dodging tackles.  Touchdown!  I put my hands on my hips and watched him 
toss the ball into the air, calling for a fair catch.  First down.  He took the 
ball, fading back, out of the pocket and in trouble.  I shook my head as I was 
treated to the spectacle of my son sacking himself for an eight-yard loss.  He 
jumped up and shook his finger, urging his blockers to stop the blitz.  They 
seemed to heed his admonitions*on the next play he rolled left and threw right, 
a fantastic pass which found him wide open thirty yards downfield.  He trotted 
into the end zone and gave the crowd a mile-high salute. 

When I checked back at half-time to see who was winning, mankind was on the 
brink.  The football was jammed up inside his shirt, and he was struggling 
forward on his knees, looking like a soldier crawling through the desert.  He 
had pulled the lawn mower out of the garage, and as he fell toward it, gasping, 
he pulled the sacred pigskin from his shirt and, with the last reserves of his 
strength, touched it to the engine.  He died, but civilization was saved by his 
heroic efforts. 

No word on whether, with this triumph, mail would be delivered. 

I met him at the door, pierced through his fog, and asked him to get the mail.  
He agreed in such as fashion as to indicate this was the first he'd heard of the 
subject.  There was a skip in his step as he headed down he driveway, and he was 
making so much progress so quickly I felt my hopes growing, particularly when he 
reached out and actually touched the mailbox. 

Alas, he was only stopping to talk to it.  Conferring in low tones, he nodded, 
squinting into the distance.  He raised the mail flag, igniting the retrorockets 
strapped to his back.  He throttled to full power and then dropped the flag, 
firing off into space with his arms outstretched like Superman. 

He was nowhere in sight when, half an hour later, I went out to get the mail.

-----------------

From The Cameron Column, a free Internet newsletter: 
http://www.wbrucecameron.com/ 

============================

The sign on the neighbor's lawn said, "Caution: These premises are alarmed!" 
Just how scary ARE these people?

=======================================

MIKEYSFUNNIES.COM