Level Three, at Least

You know, back in school, Sister Mary Boniface would chuck an eraser at me almost every day, screaming, "Michael Logan! The devil's got a place for you, young man!" I just laughed - and ducked. I didn't believe in hell, and Sister MB was just talking out of her wimple.

Or that's what I thought until now. Somewhere, in a home for retired penguins, Sister Many-Bonyface is getting the last laugh. I'm in a toy store, four days before Christmas. I thought there was supposed to be a lake of ice and fire, not these plastic torture devices.

Cripes, who comes up with this stuff? Whoa, hey, Barbie's gotten a LOT sluttier than I remember her. Maybe the kid would like that...nah. I'm starting regret not going with my first instinct and picking him up a Ramones CD or two. It's never too early to start a Jackie Chan collection, either.

Finally, a clerk takes pity on me, and starts asking me questions, most of which I can't answer. Boy or girl, how old, developmentally advanced, motor skills, interests, favorite tv shows? Uh, boy, two or three, what? - we'll go with yes, how would I know, chewing on stuff, I guess, and kids that small watch tv?

I know what I don't want: that creepy red muppet thing that acts possessed, nothing that's gonna warp his mind, nothing potentially lethal, no firemen anything, and definitely not that...that thing that made the noise that made me want to puncture my own eardrums. I might buy it just to take it out back and shoot it.

I just went for basics, I guess, a stuffed dog and a drum. The clerk was awfully weird about the drum, though. Asked me like 5 or 6 times if I was sure. I got a gift slip in case he doesn't like it, and she handed me some coupons for aspirin, "In case he does."