Once again, the proper authorities have failed to consult me.
You know how rabbits are generally considered to be the best symbol of fertility and reproductive efficiency?
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Rabbits are quite prolific little dudes. But they are nothing compared to rubber bands.
To prove this, I voyaged into the wilds of our kitchen drawers to view the rubber bands in their natural environment.
Like most infestations, they’d wormed their way into some of the deepest, darkest corners and underneath all sorts of useful objects.
When I told Daddy I was going to declare open season on the R. B.s, he was not impressed. “We don’t have that many,” he told me.
I donned protective gear, left word with the station manager as to my coordinates, and dove in.
I scooped up a pile of rubber bands and put them on the counter.
“See?” said Daddy, “it’s not that many.”
“It’s an entire handful. More importantly, it’s just the first handful.”
I took a deep breath and dove back down to retrieve more.
And more. And more.
By the time we’d finally found most of the varmints who’d taken up residency in the kitchen, the pile was six or seven feet tall. And it was growing as we watched. Clearly, rubber bands have no need for privacy.
I pinned Dad with a Stare. A severe Stare. A Stare meant to convey the enormity of the rubber band problem.
“Whaaaat?” was his comment.
“Deal with it,” was mine.
I’m still waiting. Which worries me since (according to my calculations) the rubber bands will have taken control of our entire living space by next Tuesday.