Toy making dude #1: (Holding up shitty plastic stegosaurus) "HEHEHAHAHAHAHAH! Dads of the world will cry out in lamentations when they step on this toy!
Toy making dude #2: "Dude, stegosaurus didn't have that many spikes on its tail. They had like four or something. Is that. . . .metal?"
#1: (Petting the toy now) "Yeeesss. Yeeeeeessssss! Tuuuuungsteennnnn! I've put tungsten in the tail spikes, and razor blades in its back plates!"
#2: "You're gonna get us fired. Why don't you just stick with using plastic like we're supposed to? It's just supposed to be a simple toy."
#1: "But tungsten will penetrate even the toughest callous! Perforate the feetses, it will!"
#2: "That's not right, man; that's going to fuck somebody up! You should be locked in prison for the rest of your creepy, screwed up life! You're insane!"
And there I was, on my ass on the carpet in the dark holding my wounded foot. With my head on the floor, tears were welling up in my eyes, which were shut tight like a lock; stars speckling the blackness. I had fallen prey to the toymaker when I stepped right onto his cruel sadistic trap with bare feet.
"Curse you, plastic moldsman!" -- Dwayne. LaFontant! From the movie Over the Hedge
I haven't stepped on a plastic dinosaur in a few weeks, but I did have one of those PETS toys take me down a few days ago, and yesterday morning I walked right into a large plastic plaything in the dark in the hallway while holding a kid, almost planting my face into a wall. I've fallen more times than I can count due to toys on the floor, and last night I told my wonderful wife that we need a 35% reduction in toys to make room for the ones we will be getting next month. My idea was met with the comment to not bother, that the kids won't be getting many toys this year, which is precisely what I have heard every year. I'm skeptical.
When I was a kid, I recall many times when I left my toys out on the floor or on the stairs. Leaving them on the stairs was a serious offense, and my sister and I would be playing in a bedroom when my dad would come roaring in, spanking assess like it was the end of the frickin' world. I never understood why he got so pissed off from stepping on some green plastic soldiers. The man is huge -- my big-buff-rough-and-tough-and-stuff father who could kill six bears with his hands gets mortally wounded from a small, inanimate object? Whaaaaaat?
Now I know.
I see myself very soon creeping stealthily about the house while everybody's asleep, like an angel of death with a trashbag, sweeping up all the toys that I loath. I will cast them in a fiery furnace and burn them into a brittle, black ball of charred plastic while I laugh maniacally at my work. Soooooooon!