When I was seven, I got in trouble. That happened a lot with two little sisters around.
I consider myself to be of at least average intelligence as an adult, but I was a smart kid…
On this particular day, I was told to go to my cell, my holding tank, my solitary confinement, my padded crazy space- which doubled as my room. (The padded parts were copious amounts of stuffed animals- I used to make forts out of them).
My dad informed me to prepare for a visit, which could mean only one thing- I had done something really stupid and the pain wagon was rolling up to the stoplight.
So, in all my seven-year-old awesomeness…
One pair, two pairs, three pairs and squeeze a fourth on. And that was just the underwear…
I had sweat pants, church pants and MC Hammer parachute pants to top it off.
I was ready.
Needless to say, as smart as I was, my dad was smarter. After taking one look at me and excusing himself, and I think overcoming a bout of coughing or maybe labored laughter in the hallway (it was hard to tell with all my genius blaring), he returned to bring the pain/justice wagon to a full and complete bare -bottom stop.
Hooray for captain underpants.
So, you’re asking, “how did Captain Underpants strike again?”
That’s a great question. I have a great answer.
My son is seven- Captain Underpants strikes again!