Sometime soon, I am going to visit Menard’s, Lowe’s or some other Temple of Manly Gear, and buy a flashlight.
Not just a flashlight. A flashlight.
A monster of a flashlight. One that hums when it’s powered up, like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory machineries – cue Igor, bellowing, "It’s alive! It’s alive!" – and is so [censored] bright that anyone caught in its beam will end up like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters. The Luxor Casino in LasVegas will extinguish its beacon in shame and inadequacy when I illuminate the heavens with my new flashlight.
And no one will be allowed to touch it, except me.
(Clearly, my recent dental misadventures, coupled with the cold that’s currently immiserating my respiratory system, have unhinged my reason. Perhaps I should swig some generic nyquil, read a bit about Sidney Lanier – fascinating fellow, Mr. Lanier – then go to sleep before I embarrass myself further.)
Watching pre-Christmas ads on tv one year, Randy and I saw one for MagLite flashlights telling about what a great gift idea they were as well as the many functions they performed. Randy stated that flashlights were a horrible idea for a Christmas gift and he would “not be happy” if he got one. Needless to say, I arranged with the entire family to purchase as many different types and sizes of flashlights as we could and wrap them in varying boxes & amounts, some with other presents or alone. The fun came Christmas Eve when the final tally was in, he’d amassed over a dozen flashlights and let slip that he’d picked up a few colorful phrases at school…Lol
I still hold to the fact that I did not utter the words my mom thinks she heard that Christmas.