Economy devistates children all over the world: The Toothfairy files Chapter 13


The Tooth Fairy Tats 2000

Image via Wikipedia

Well, well, well….times sure are tough folks.  Here is a great example of just how tough they really are:

My son lost his first tooth this week and boy was he excited.  For once, we did not have to coerce him into going to bed.  We didn’t have to tuck him in or turn out his lights or read him a story.  Nope, not this time.  This time, he hit the sack like a champ.  Lights out, tooth under pillow, and a gapped grin spread across his sweet little face.  This was pay day-Tooth Fairy Day!

Our son is only six, but he knows quite a bit about life and it’s guarantees.  He knows that if he cusses, he gets a spanking.  He knows that if he is good, he gets to play Xbox.  He also knows that the Tooth Fairy pays top dollar for bottom teeth!  Unfortunately, our son woke up rather disappointed on Friday.

I heard him rummaging around in his room early Friday morning.  I could hear him talking to himself and I could also hear him tearing through his sheets looking for something.  Not one to miss out on his strange antics, I got up and made my way to his room.  He looked very disturbed; angry even.  I could tell that he had something on his mind, so I asked him, “Son, what’s the matter?”

“I got stiffed Dad,” he said.

“What do you mean, you got stiffed,” I asked.

“The Tooth Fairy…she didn’t leave me any money,” he shouted.  He lifted his pillow to lay proof to his claim and sure enough, there was no money to be found.  The only thing that lay under his spittle stained pillow were broken dreams.  The tooth was missing, and so was the money.

Shocked, I tried to muster up some encouraging words of wisdom to offer my sobbing child.  I had nothing.  Never in my 30 years on this earth had I heard of such an egregious circumstance.  The Tooth Fairy failed to make good on payment due!  There had to be a logical explanation.  So, like any good Father, I looked to Google for advice.

A quick search for instances of Tooth Fairy misconduct yielded astonishing results.  I clicked on the first link and found that a young couple in South America had suffered through a similar experience.  Dios Mio!  To add insult to injury, the tooth was not the only thing missing from their young Daughter’s room.  It seems that someone had also taken the poor child’s Ipod.  Despicable.

I checked another link…same story.  Tooth gone, no money, and items stolen.  Alarmed by the eerie coincidence, I rushed to my son’s room for a quick inventory of his belongings.  Sure enough, it seemed that he too was the victim of a looting.  His prized copy of Halo for the XBOX 360 was missing.  In it’s place, there was a note.  It read:

“Dear Young Man,

I regret to inform you that due to dismal returns on my investment portfolio and a string of poor choices of a personal nature, I am unable to reimburse you for your lost tooth.  I have, none-the-less, taken said tooth; as it is my inherant duty to ensure that it finds it’s way to it’s final resting place.  It saddens me even further to inform you that I have had to take the liberty of ascertaining one of your video games.  I do hope that I chose one that you don’t often play.  I pray that you hold no ill feelings towards myself or any other variety of fairy.  Our people are in dire financial straights, as we do not qualify for governmental assistance or any social recovery programs.  I did, however, petition President Obama to support a program entitled ‘Cash For Molars,’ but he laughingly declined.  Do not discount the resilient nature of fairy folk.  We will prevail through these difficult times.  My uncle, the Toenail Fairy, has already seemed to have  had some luck in emerging markets.  On a final note, I hope that you are not overly fond of the upcoming holiday, Halloween.  I hear that the Pumpkin King has been incarcerated for selling bootleg DVDs.  It seems that he is unable to make bail.  Best Wishes.  The Tooth Fairy.”

I hope that the economy bounces back soon.  I couldn’t live without Peeps!

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Friday the 13th meets Cupcake Wars


You know folks, I didn’t even realize that today was Friday the 13th until I read through a few blog posts on the WordPress dashboard. Thank goodness that I have managed to survive. I consider this an amazing feat since I had no forewarning. Thanks FOX News. Thanks CNN. Thanks for nothing! Luckily I have escaped certain death and, being in Japan, I have already weathered most of the evil storm that you all in the states are going to go through over the next 15 hours. As long as I am able to hold it down for the next two hours over here, I should be good to go.

It would have been nice to have known a lot earlier today that somewhere out there lurks a masked killer poised to lob off my head at the drop of a fedora. That is the kind of information that I am looking for when I watch television, but there was absolutely no mention of this ominous date in the media today. Again, this could well be the fact that I am 13 hours ahead of EST, but that doesn’t excuse the media’s lackadaisical attitude towards the most notorious day of the year; not to mention their total disregard for my safety. Perhaps they should issue some sort of “Crimson Alert” type of thing when crazed psychopath killers are out on the loose, but instead of a cutting edge early warning system for serial murderer celebratory days, when I turn on the television, I see Cupcake Wars. Yep, you heard me folks; Cupcake Wars! I flipped on the tv and that is all I got. No warnings, no news, no political banter. Just Cupcake Wars.

For those of you who have never seen this ‘amazing’ television show, it goes a little something like this:
The audience is introduced to four sets of pastry chefs from all over the United States. Occasionally, the viewing public is surprised by an interesting import such as a French pastry chef or a Cambodian cupcake cook. Almost always, there is a contestant who is all tattooed up and is running an edgy bakery somewhere in Southern California. Probably pot cupcakes, but I digress.

These blowhards get all worked up competing against each other to create unique cupcake recipes that revolve around various themes, depending on the week. Unfortunately, there is only so much that one can do with a flipping cupcake. These “chefs” usually come off to me as self-indulgent windbags, especially the moron covered with tattoos that thinks that he is bringing something raw to the world of cupcakes. Newsflash dipstick. There is already something raw about cup-caking. It’s called eggs! Give me a break. You are an overrated caterer for children birthday parties and company potlucks. You make miniature cakes for crying out loud. You don’t even make big boy pastries!

The big shots that run network programming need to get a grip. How the hell is a cinnamon ginger jalapeno cupcake going to stop Jason Voorhees? Perhaps he is a sucker for red velvet, but I highly doubt it. The only red that he wants to see is the blood that he squeezes out of your jugular!

Brother, this one’s for you!


I figured that I would tell you folks a little about my twin, Jeremy.  He, after all, inspired the name of this blog.  There are many stories that I could tell, but I’ll just share one today.  First, a little background information…

Twenty-nine years ago, I shared a tiny room with the young fetus that I now call my brother.  For nine long months, our budding elbows and knees fought turf wars in the womb of our dear mother.  On a glorious night in October of 1980, I bid my womb-mate farewell and entered this world, leaving him to his own devices.  One hour and twelve minutes later, he followed, stealing the spotlight for the first of many times.  It seemed that his arrival was much anticipated, even the doctors cheered as he emerged from hiding.  A side note:  I have always been a practical type and cannot quite understand why our lovely mother bears no ill feelings towards him for procrastinating so, while she lay miserable, on a hospital gurney.  He can be quite charming, I guess.

Throughout our younger years, Jeremy and I were practically inseparable.  We didn’t even call each other by name.  We simply called each other Brother.  Cute, huh?  He was, I admit, a little bit smarter than I, though I was no dummy.  I just seemed easily suckered into his penchant for mischief and tomfoolery.  Jeremy has a devilish twinkle in his eye that, to this day, could lead me straight into the oncoming traffic of trouble.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  Jeremy is not evil; not even close.  He just inspires that little red dude on your left shoulder to prod you with his minuscule pitchfork into doing things that you know could end poorly.  Here’s an example:

When I was about six, my brother and I saw a show on television that was all about the space program.  It had astronauts, moonwalks, space shuttles; things that would excite any kid.  I remember wanting to be an astronaut so badly that I could taste the moon rocks.  I would sit in my room at night and pretend that my bed was a space pod.  I spent hours zipping past alien planets, rescuing little ladies from moon bandits, and doing all kinds of cools space stuff.  My brother had gotten pretty keen on my infatuation and he decided to twist it to fancy his amusement.  He convinced me that the dryer, which I didn’t even know existed in our cramped family laundry room, was a tiny space shuttle, one of the Kenmore fame.

“Just look at the air tight space hatch on this baby.”  My brother was smart.  He pulled the square door open.  “There is no telling where you could go in something like this.”  He was one heck of a salesman.

“You know what Jeremy, ”  I said.  A dim little light bulb flickered over my cow licked head.  “I’m gonna take this thing for a spin.”  How true that statement ended up to be!

I donned my space helmet, a vegetable strainer, and tumbled into the dryer.  Before my brother sealed the air lock, I reminded him to give me a proper countdown.  “That,” I added, “is very important.”

“Ten, nine, eight, seven…” Jeremy counted very well for a six year old.  “six, five, four, three, two, one, BLASTOFF!”

Nothing.  I heard him fumbling with the controls on top of my shuttle.  Finally, something began to happen.  I could feel gravity shifting all around me.  This is amazing, I thought.  Very quickly, it began to get hot inside of my exploration vehicle, probably from breaking the sound barrier.  I remember getting very dizzy.  Moments later, limp as a sock, my mother was pulling me from the dryer.  I remember getting a spanking as my brother explained that he tried his darnedest to stop me.  He also mentioned that he feared that I was ‘slow’ and should be held back a year in grade-school.

Thanks for that one Jeremy.  I still get nervous around laundromats.

Today I learned that I am a Hobbit


I have always felt that there is something about me that is special, something sensational.  Today, I have found that something.  Allow me, if you will, to explain.

For years I have attributed my short stature and hairy extremities to genetics.  After all, both of my parents are of average height and my father can sprout a goatee at quite an alarming pace.  For those reasons, and a few more that I will not delve into, I have always considered ‘who I am’ to be a sort of hand-me-down from my folks; a gift of genes from two loving parents.  Boy was I wrong….

While cruising the internet today, I stumbled upon a truth that has shaken me to the core.  According to this website, I am Saradoc Brown, a working class Shire hobbit!

The site also provided some additional information:
“You share your Christian name “Saradoc”, with a Saradoc “Scattergold” Brandybuck: The father of Merry Brandybuck, Saradoc was Master of Buckland during the time of the War of the Ring. He is a first cousin to Frodo Baggins, and his wife Esmeralda Brandybuck (née Took) is the sister of Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire. His nickname, ‘Scattergold’, implies that he was very generous with his wealth.”

Wow!!!  I did some further research into my lurid past and also found out that I attended Bilbo Baggins’ birthday party in 1401; Hobbit time, of course.  For those of you who aren’t in the ‘know’, that is the party at which Bilbo up and disappeared, leaving his precious ring behind.  I’m sure that it was quite a shindig.

I also learned that Hobbits are Christians!  Thank God for that.  I can’t imagine trying to grasp the concepts of another religion…not at my age, anyway.

I had to take a moment to let all of this information wash over me.  For years, I believed that I was a normal person living a regular life.  Now, I find out that I am a Hobbit.  I can only assume that an evil enchantment of sorts was placed upon me by a bothersome wizard or something to that effect.  Otherwise, I cannot explain how I never knew the truth of my past.  Whatever the reason, I find myself at the proverbial fork in the road.  On one hand, I can forsake my known family and search for answers to the questions of my past, or I could just keep on truckin’.  Whichever path I choose, at least I know where I got these hairy feet.  Now if I could just find a magic ring, I would be in business.