“You know what I don’t understand?” Daisy asked Margot, as they sat next to a crackling fire, under the stars.
“Daisy! I’m disappointed. I thought you were gonna understand everything when that acid started to kick in.”
“Oh, jeez, Miss Margot, everything is a lotta understanding. I don’t think I took that much acid. But maybe it will just keep rising, and I’ll turn into one of them Buddhist monkeys, and become one with the universe.”
“You’re too young and pretty to become a Buddhist monkey, Daisy.”
“Aw, thank you, Miss Margot, You’re so sweet.” Margot smiled, but said nothing. Daisy filled the sonic vacuum, “I don’t understand how people don’t understand kids. I mean, everyone was one, once upon a time. If I turn into a three headed, purple buffalo tonight, I’m gonna remember what it was like to be a three headed, purple fluffalo tomorrow, and every day after, for the rest of my life, so how hard can it be to understand children?”
Margot wondered if she had ever turned into a three headed, purple fluffalo when she was tripping on acid. If she had, she’d forgotten all about it, and the possibility made her just a little sad.
Daisy was too far inside her own head to be pondering what Margot was pondering in silence, so she moved a few degrees to the left, and continued, on a tangent. “People spend a lotta money on child psychologists, trying to figure out what’s wrong with their kids. But they’re just pissing away their money, ‘cause what the Hell does an adult know about being a kid? Sure, they was one once, but like the rest of the grown-ups, they forgot all that stuff a long time ago. They don’t teach anyone to be a child in university, so what the Hell? Why bother giving them all that money? They all just fakin’ it, the bunch of phony baloneys.”
“Well, what do you do when your child has psychological problems, Daisy?”
“Well, first of all, you gotta figure out if they actually do have psychological problems. So, you start by asking them, and talking to them.”
“I’m pretty sure every parent does that, long before taking the kid to see a doctor, Daisy.”
“Oh, I’m sure they do, too, but they ain’t doin’ it rigt.” Daisy turned her chair, so she could look straight into Margot’s eyes, without having to twist her neck. “The answer is real simple. The solution, I mean.”
“What’s the solution, Daisy?”
“Get the little shits drunk.”
Margot thought the idea both hilarious and brilliant. She wasn’t going to run for a seat on the local school board with it as a campaign promise, but she might vote for someone who did. “Because people talk about their problems when they’re drunk!”
“Boy, do they. You know it, Miss Margot. They talk and talk, and talk, and cry, and laugh, and cry some more. Then they have a few more drinks, and then they call their drug dealer. Then they get on Facebook and tell everyone they love them all, or hate them all, and tell them all, the ones they love, and the ones they hate, how they wouldn’t be so fucked up if their mothers had just bought them that pony they wanted, when they was little.”
Having done exactly that, once or twice, long years ago, Margot kept on laughing as she listened.
“I mean, what the Hell is Bailey’s for, if not for kids? You can drink a damn barrel of the stuff and not get drink, if you weigh more than fifty pounds, so whoever made it made it for kids. They made it to put all those phony baloney child psychologists outta business, prolly ‘cause one of ‘em prolly fucked their head up even worse, when they was a messed up kid.
“Wee Billy Bailey, the little Irish leprechaun lush, who’d had a real bad childhood, it was him. He invented Bailey’s, for to get the little kids talkin’ ‘bout what’s bothering ‘em.
“Feed the little shits a couple shots of Bailey’s, and the little shits will spill the beans, I guarantee it.
“The little shits’ll tell you all about the little boy, or little girl they have a crush on. They’ll tell ya, how the teacher be smellin’ like mommy and daddy do, the day after an Italian wedding, all the time.
“They’ll tell ya that they ain’t shit in a week, and have been fakin’ goin’ to the bathroom, ‘cause they don’t wanna get into trouble for not shittin’, ‘cause you’re supposed to do it regular like, and you’re bad if you don’t.
“And if you feed the little shits enough Bailey’s, and the little shits’ll drink it, for sure, ‘cause it tastes like candy, they’ll get so drunk they’ll shit their little pants, and half their problems will be over with.
“Then buy them the damn pony they want, with the money you’re savin’ from not payin; the phony baloneys, and everything’ll be fine with the kid.
“Or would be, if they could just figger out how to make the ones they crushin’ on fall in love with ‘em, and Bailey’s is prolly the answer for that problem, too.”
“Poo is very important, in oh, so many ways,” said Margot.
“Darn tootin’! And that you never know, until you cannot go.” The girl, who apparently had suffered from constipation at some point in her young life, looked up to the stars for five seconds. Then she looked into the fire for five seconds. Then she looked at Margot, and said, “We need a new superhero.”
Nodding her agreement, Margot agreed, “You can never have too many superheroes.”
“He comes from Planet Poo,” Daisy declared. “His superpower is that he can make anyone shit, at anytime.”
“Oh, dear,” Margot laughed, “you’ve really done it, this time, Daisy. You’ve cracked it wide open.”
“Yeah, I think so, too. Can you imagine? Can you imagine how much suffering he could save the world? Not only the poor people who can’t poo, but all those who end up being victimized by them, when they just can’t take it no more. I bet half the wars in the world are started by people who just can’t shit.”
“You know, I think I came across a Wikipedia page about that, a while back.”
“Yeah,” Daisy said, even though she hadn’t heard a word. “But Pooman, should we call him Pooman?”
“That will probably work better than Colonic Irrigation Man. Pooman is much more kid friendly.”
“Yeah,” Daisy agreed, although she hadn’t heard a word. “But Pooman, he can prevent crime, all sorts of crime. If a bad cop is about to give you a ticket for some bullshit, Pooman can show up and make the cop shit his pants, rigt then, rigt there.
“That cop ain’t never gonna bother finishing writing that ticket. His whole fucking mind is gonna freeze, then explode.
“The only thing he gonna be thinkin’ is, ‘Holy shit. I just shit myself. How the fuck did that happen? WTF do I do about this? I just shit myself.’ Then he just gonna walk away, mumbling to himself, and trying to figure out how can fix this shit, without anyone ever finding out ‘bout it, ‘cause he ain’t never gonna hear the end of it, if someone finds out he shit himself.
“And Pooman can to that to anyone, anytime he wants!”
Thoroughly amused, but just a little worried, Margot asked, “Do you need to use the bathroom, Daisy?”
Daisy found the question hilarious. After she stopped laughing her ass off, she answered, “I do! But I can’t poo! Quick, call Pooman!”
“You know where the bathrooms are, girl. Just holler if you fall in.”
Smiling, daisy replied, “No, I’m just foolin’ with you. I don’t have to go to the loo, to make poo. But I think I need to lie down a while. Just close my eyes and shut up for a bit, ‘cause I’m getting’ really high. I ain’t never been this high before.”
Taking the girl by the hand, Margot put her down close enough to the fire to be warm. “Just hang on a couple seconds. Let me fix a tether to you, so you don’t fly away.”
Margot pout both hands on Daisy’s head, and the girl said, “Wow, Miss Margot, I can feel you inside my head. Oh, it feels so good. Thank you! I can feel you. I can feel you keeping me safe.”
Removing her hands from Daisy’s head, Margot said, “Okay, you’re clear for lift off, Daisy cosmonaut. If you feel like you’re slipping away, or if you feel afraid of anything, just holler, and I will pull you back to me.”
132 -GABBA GABBA GOTCHA 1
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