When my brother and I were little, there were always the special toys at Grandma's house. The toys that you couldn't wait to play with when you got there, because you never had them at home.
One of them was Candyland. There was just something magical about that old retro cardboard box held together with the brown packing tape that was smooth to the touch yet crunchy at the same time.
Yesterday, as I was volunteering like a good Samaritan at a toy drive, my brain stumbled upon this memory.
The memory of the little village.
It folded out to a full two blocks, with apartments, sidewalks, a little traffic light, and a hospital.
It was all very quaint and cute, if you didn't take into account the massacres.
Yes, that village was an instrument of extreme misfortune to the poor little people living in it. They didn't even have feet, just little stumps so they could fit into the cars, but they suffered nonetheless.
My brother and I could not wait to go get the village, set it up on the fluffy brown carpet in my Grandma's living room, and drop its inhabitants off of the traffic lights. We also pushed them out of windows, ran over them with cars, and staged massive automobile accidents.
But don't worry, there was a hospital. So it's all good.
Our favorite subject of attack was the ever-impeding, ever-annoying, ever-sappy ball of yellow feathers.
That's right. Big Bird.
If you thought that the rest of the village had it bad, then you may want to just stop reading now.
Or not. Because we inflicted the same hurt on Big Bird as we did all of the other unfortunate characters. He just was more experienced.
Try and make a happy lesson out of that, you stupid bird.
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