A Farewell to Pooh
Two weeks ago I went up to CT to help my parents move into their new apartment. While the movers carried the numerous boxes of electronics, books, clothes, kitchen utensils into the apartment, I asked Dad what he ended up doing with Pooh.
A couple of weeks before that, while he and mom were getting ready for the big move from MN, I had asked him the same question. He had said that he would probably have to sell Pooh because it would be too much hassle to move it. Although I didn't want to lose Pooh, I had to agree with Dad. It just wouldn't make sense to spend more money shipping it from MN to CT when I had already spent money sending it from CA to MN.
"I sold it to a Palestinian family who lived nearby for $40. I didn't want to tell you because I felt a little guilty," Dad explained with an embarrassed smile.
Farewell my Pooh!
I can still remember that fateful day when Sachin, Jason and I went to Six Flags in Vallejo with the free tickets we got from some AOL tech deal, milled around the park totally bored with every pitiful thrill-less ride, and then came upon the ring toss booth lined with you and 5 or 6 of your big, fluffy yellow brethren. I remember how flimsy the red plastic rings felt in my hand as I took aim at the bottles. I remember the beautiful "clang" that reverberated in the air when my first ring (out of 12) landed miraculously on a bottle neck and stayed there. I remember being a greedy bastard and trying to win more Poohs for me and Sachin, but missing not only my 11 remaining rings but Sachin's 12 rings as well. I remember the other, wounded Pooh the Ring Toss attendant handed to me first, which was bleeding little foam balls out of a slit on its neck. I remember carrying you on my shoulders as I paraded around the park with a 5-foot pooh bear sitting on my neck, basking in the glory of victory and feeling the attention/admiration/envy from every kid. I remember sitting in the backside of Sachin's Audi with you, getting almost suffocated by your gigantic velvety ass. I remember most clearly of all, the sharp pain I felt in my neck the next day as a result of having you sit on my neck.
There were other memories after that one fine day of course. Like the time a Branner frosh asked politely to borrow you for a stunt for Secret Santa and then later proceeded to commit unspeakably vile sexual acts against you in the dining hall to the amusement of everyone (oh you immature frosh and RA's, may God's wrath rain down upon your house!). Or those other times when Spanky and other rogue members of Branner's infamous Penthouse ghetto kidnapped you. Or all those times Sachin punched you in the nose or your pot belly out of jealousy because all of his pussy stuffed animals put together could not match your fantabulousness.
Maybe it is better for you to bring joy to some poor Palestinian kids whose relatives' homes might have been bull-dozed by Zionist thugs. Maybe it is better to spare you the indignity of being stuffed in a brown box and shipped half way across the country yet again. Maybe it is preferable for you to spend your golden years feeling the loving embrace of kids with their little greasy, sticky, booger-covered fingers.
Live on my sweet Pooh!
A couple of weeks before that, while he and mom were getting ready for the big move from MN, I had asked him the same question. He had said that he would probably have to sell Pooh because it would be too much hassle to move it. Although I didn't want to lose Pooh, I had to agree with Dad. It just wouldn't make sense to spend more money shipping it from MN to CT when I had already spent money sending it from CA to MN.
"I sold it to a Palestinian family who lived nearby for $40. I didn't want to tell you because I felt a little guilty," Dad explained with an embarrassed smile.
Farewell my Pooh!
I can still remember that fateful day when Sachin, Jason and I went to Six Flags in Vallejo with the free tickets we got from some AOL tech deal, milled around the park totally bored with every pitiful thrill-less ride, and then came upon the ring toss booth lined with you and 5 or 6 of your big, fluffy yellow brethren. I remember how flimsy the red plastic rings felt in my hand as I took aim at the bottles. I remember the beautiful "clang" that reverberated in the air when my first ring (out of 12) landed miraculously on a bottle neck and stayed there. I remember being a greedy bastard and trying to win more Poohs for me and Sachin, but missing not only my 11 remaining rings but Sachin's 12 rings as well. I remember the other, wounded Pooh the Ring Toss attendant handed to me first, which was bleeding little foam balls out of a slit on its neck. I remember carrying you on my shoulders as I paraded around the park with a 5-foot pooh bear sitting on my neck, basking in the glory of victory and feeling the attention/admiration/envy from every kid. I remember sitting in the backside of Sachin's Audi with you, getting almost suffocated by your gigantic velvety ass. I remember most clearly of all, the sharp pain I felt in my neck the next day as a result of having you sit on my neck.
There were other memories after that one fine day of course. Like the time a Branner frosh asked politely to borrow you for a stunt for Secret Santa and then later proceeded to commit unspeakably vile sexual acts against you in the dining hall to the amusement of everyone (oh you immature frosh and RA's, may God's wrath rain down upon your house!). Or those other times when Spanky and other rogue members of Branner's infamous Penthouse ghetto kidnapped you. Or all those times Sachin punched you in the nose or your pot belly out of jealousy because all of his pussy stuffed animals put together could not match your fantabulousness.
Maybe it is better for you to bring joy to some poor Palestinian kids whose relatives' homes might have been bull-dozed by Zionist thugs. Maybe it is better to spare you the indignity of being stuffed in a brown box and shipped half way across the country yet again. Maybe it is preferable for you to spend your golden years feeling the loving embrace of kids with their little greasy, sticky, booger-covered fingers.
Live on my sweet Pooh!
posted by Gary at
10:50 PM
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