Escape From Tyrannical Family Foiled

At random times my familial unit fancies itself a democracy, but I’ve never cast a vote. At nap, nighty, and veggie time I profess I’ve got no vote, no satisfaction and plenty of motivation to defect. When I saw my chance, I wasted no time in attempting my escape.
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We were out in the yard taking in the rays (while the soaked-lawn dwelling mosquitos took us in) when I saw my chance. The space was wide open, the parents were many, many feet away and my frollicy gait already had momentum. “Okay,” I thought, “let’s do this.”

My diaper kept my sprint to a frantic waddle, but excuses are for those who choose failure. I chose freedom and the guards saw it. “Brendan!” they yelled, “come back here!” but I’d passed the point of not much return. I played dumb and picked up what pace was left to be claimed.

I didn’t know what was beyond the grass of the yard but was eager to learn. A glance over my shiny shoulder told me dad had given chase. Too late to pretend goodwill, I kept the fence in sight and hauled all the butt I’ve got, panting uncharacteristically.

A grabby sensation around my middle and I was hoisted high in the air. My joggy stubbies treaded air where grass had been and I was up on forgiving daddy shoulders before I even knew I’d been foiled.

Stern words of warning only reminded me of the dictatorial ruling regime I must live under. Aside from education, public health, safety, and the aquaducts, what have the Romans ever done for us?

I can divulge little of my next plan except to say it involves a hot air balloon, a fake mustache, a false French passport, a Brendan body double, 17 mariachi singers, a power outage, 120 accomplices, four baby ducks and Ed McMahon. It’s a crazy plan but it’s so simple it just might work.


Almost made it too.

 

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