The Boy Scouts of America gave my son a cross-bow. A real honest-to-goodness marshmallow shooter. Granted, he earned it by selling lots and lots of popcorn, but surely they could have come up with something better to reward the kids with? A stuffed animal, perhaps. A yo-yo? How about some play-dough?
William came home from his cub scouts meeting with a big cheesy grin on his face, a bag of large marshmallows and it. The contraption that sends marshmallows flying across the room at mach 1. Nothing is safe anymore. The twins and I spent the afternoon in hiding. So did the cat. The only one brave enough to stay out was the dog. He was trotting around the house gobbling up marshmallows left and right. It was a fine afternoon for old Bailey B.
You know what this reminds me of? Over-dosing kids on sugar just before sending them back to their parents. Here little boy. Here is a marshmallow cross-bow just for you. Take it home. Have fun.
Meanwhile, in my tight hiding spot under the bed (he’ll never find me here), I have begun a letter. It reads:
Dear Boy Scouts of America, Have I got a bone to pick with you…