alex has two toys of choice at the moment. one of them is a six foot inflatable alligator and the other is a three-inch high space-cowboy he calls 'cool guy'.

let's begin with the object that inflicts the most physical pain upon me, the life-sized gator. to date i've walked my groin into its upright tail four times. sure you'd think something this large would be easy to spot but it's a sneaky foe who is ever-moving. alex drags this monstrosity all over the house leaving a wake of fallen wall pictures, spilled drinks and toppled plants behind. it most often hides around unpredictable corners and strikes before i can stop my walk's momentum. and i know what you're thinking next, it's a blow up toy, how much pain could it possibly inflict? i have reason (and bruises) to believe that its tail is constructed from a dupont-manufactured under-carriage meant for deep-sea vessels (the water toy only being an early test run). and my genitals are not the gator's only victim. it has twice tripped me in the night bringing me full to the ground and one of those times after righting myself and attempting to kick it, i missed and drove my stubby yet frail toes straight into the victorian woodwork of a doorjamb. while my foot's swipe may have missed its mark, the barrage of obscenities the poured from me certainly did not.

when dealing with an opponent, physical torment may be satisfying but it is not in itself viscerally complete. and, this is where the mental anguish ensues. it's like i've been secretly programmed so a string of four simple words can unseat my mind sending it into complete disrepair. those words are 'where's my cool guy?'. its effects are amplified at 9:30 at night moments before little man falls asleep because let's be clear, i could find earhart, the cure to acne and that bic pen you lost your sophomore year more easily than i could lay hands on this miniscule, dull-grey figurine known simply as cool guy. i try to defend these late night attacks by saying "how the hell would i know alex, it ain't my cool guy? where'd you leave him?" but alex simply looks up with those dark doe eyes and gives me another dose; where's my cool guy daddy? more turmoil. i've decided the next time i see that molded-plastic piece of shit i'm spray painting him neon-yellow and spot-welding a CRT monitor to his lasso because if i spend another two hours sliding my living room furniture around looking for his bitty ass i'm going to let that six foot tube of green rubber finish the job it seems so intent on doing in the first place.

toys of choice come and they go, or rather get infinitely lost (which isn't such a bad idea), but there's solace in knowing my torment is temporary. that said, alex showed up the other day with a quite realistic toy fishing rod. i eyed it suspiciously thinking of the sorts of peril it held for me. my conclusion; lots. and while i'd love to regale you with my visions of punctured eyes and curse-laden battles with invisible string, i'm supposed to be looking for cool guy right now and the sooner i begin the sooner this vein on my temple will stop visibly pulsing.