Hi there, guys and dolls! I’ve come to believe there’s one in every neighborhood. They walk around all furtive and shifty eyed, mumbling to themselves, ready to engage you in conversation if for good golly’s sake you actually forget and make the mistake of making eye contact. Why, I’m not talking about the poor souls who wander around after they’ve lost their marbles. I’m talking about the husbands who have too much time on their hands and imbibe in the harmful recreation of possessing just a little inaccurate knowledge. I’m speaking of the delightful breed of hobbyists known as the conspiracy theorists.
Oh, you know the type. They spend a little too much time on the model aeroplanes at a young age (perhaps it’s the aroma of glue….) and have very active imaginations. These particular characters then graduate to sci-fi and fantasy stories, while tinkering with their Meccano sets (or grow up to Erector, but that word makes me giggle, so I won’t use it, tee-hee), all the while convinced that beings from outer space want to kidnap us.
Take for example our fine Norma’s husband, Randall. He’s quite frankly a nerd. Tape on the horn rimmed glasses (no, they’re not broken, he’s just convinced that the piece of cellotape will keep the Martian deathray from penetrating the frontal lobe of his brain (he offered to fix up Norma’s pair just like that too, the protective, romantic soul that he is – Norma swatted him upside the head and told him to just act normal for once, but that didn’t happen, either…). Rumor has it he wears a pocket protector even with his pajamas, apparently to ward off yet another vital organ from the said deathray.
Anyhoo, I must admit that there was some big excitement Sunday morning when Randall (or Radon that he now insists we should call him) came running through the neighborhood exclaiming, “I’ve returned!” over and over, at the fine hour of five in the morning, while wearing what looked like aluminum pajamas (please note – the eyeglasses and pocket protector were not worn – perhaps, that was why this happened…).
Now, I have to admit, we did not even know he was gone. So out we all go from our humble abodes into the street in our various state of sleep attire (I was surprised to see how ratty Mabel’s bathrobe was and Teresa’s peignoir set was to die for), and the accompaniment of one or tow individuals sporting unknown about sleepover guests (now, I won’t tell, not even on myself), wondering what in Hades was going on.
Now Randall (er, Radon…) loves an audience. So off he goes, rambling and railing how that just as he was about to go up to bed, he saw a glow in the east, and the next thing he knew, he was on a space ship!
He doesn’t remember much of what happened, other than he was given this big glass space helmet and told to drink this protective liquid. Then he remembers them asking him questions and it was all a little fuzzy.
Then the next thing he remembers was waking up on the porch in his shiny attire and having one doozy of a headache, figuring it must be the alien probe…
Norma dragged him in by the collar, told him to stop wasting her tin foil and the next time he drinks out of the punch bowl head first, she’ll club him one.
We all stood around, a little deflated. Poor Radon, we’d love to believe his theory, but we’ve all sampled Norma’s killer punch, and must admit it’s out of this world.
How was your Sunday?
Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more posts. And don’t forget to give my Poppy Cove Mysteries a try if you haven’t already.
Toodles, Barbara Jean