The boys out back are throwing axes again.
Not my boys, mind you. They never do anything dangerous, at least within my sight. Long ago, I instilled enough fear and paranoia in them to keep them safe for a lifetime.
They can thank me later.
There’s a college rental kitty-corner behind us. Some years, the tenants are quiet. Some years, they’re not. It’s worse when girlers live there, since they attract unruly crowds of hormone-tortured boys. Male tenants tend to stay inside and play video games. They generally go off somewhere else to party.
“Girlers” is a word Son #2 devised long ago. That year, there were females in the rental who used to lie on the roof to sunbathe and flash their boobs at the heavy traffic on the street back there.
Of all the words we may have used to describe those young women, we’ve always been grateful that impressionable Son #2 came up with that one.
Thwack! Thwack! #^&*%@!! Thwack!
They’ve set a big plywood target up against a tree in the corner of the yard – thankfully not the one facing us. Errant axes won’t likely come flying over at me.
Sometimes, they throw knives.
I’ve not noticed any obvious maiming. And their dog hasn’t (yet) been struck down. They must be relatively skilled.
Come the apocalypse, those boys might prove handy to have around. I should take them a batch of cookies.
According to various End Of The World As We Know It sites, which I cruise in times of dire political stress, post-apocalyptic survival will depend upon one’s ability to contribute to society. If you have useful skills, others might share food.
So I can sew and knit. Those axe boys are going to need shirts and socks — and cookies. There! I have a plan for the future!