Monty Python and the Moley Grail

Okay, enough already.  No more making mountains out of molehills! (Get it, molehills. Ah, sometimes I crack myself up.)

And that goes both ways. 

And vice versa. 

Anyways, maybe it wasn't even a mole that ratted me out to the proper authorities.  For alls I know it was just a poor, defenseless ferret.

Alas, I'll never know, but no worries! My Sponge Bob lips are sealed.  

I, CTD, heretofore pinky promise to keep my trap shut. From this day forward.  

Mums, the word.  Now, and forever more.

la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la



But can I just say one more (teensy weensy) little thing first? For the record?

There are no, I REPEAT, NO, wild Thornberries in my ward. 

But if there were any wild Thornberries, (hypothetically speaking) they would be on my list of people (in theory) to hang out with (if I wasn't so DELUSIONAL).

As Uncle Kracker would say, they make me smile.

I take that back, they make me LOL! I lub it when they come home teaching.  And sometimes, in between visits, I even drop by their house and make them home teach me again. 

And again.

And again. 

I would say Bro Thornberry (if there was such a man) is almost as good as my hub at the whole Chris Farley thing--except he's just pretending. He's an actor.  

My hub really does live in a van down by the river.  (But please, please, please don't turn him in to the proper authorities.)  

The Thornberries (If there were such a family) tell the bestest stories. I like the one about their chicken who just made my daughter's soccer team.  

"Now that's something to blog about," I told them. And they agreed. Then they laughed and compared themselves to . . . the wild Thornberries. 

That's right! I plagiarized the comparison. 

But I did it because not only can I relate to it, I can trump it. I can take their measly chickens and iguanas and raise them a bunch of snakes and rats. 

Who's the Thornberry now?  Huh?  Huh?  Huh?

When I was growing up my next door neighbors, Ruth and Red, built a huge fence between our properties and boarded up their windows facing our side of the house.  

 

I'm here to tell you that good fences don't make good neighbors.  And neither do large sheets of plywood. 

Ruth and Red said they only boarded up their windows because we had pet snakes and rats, but I think they just didn't like us.   

Looking back I can see now that we were freaks, but during the 70's I thought it was perfectly normal to reach into the dryer and pull out a garter snake, or to reach into the hall closet for a towel and grab a python.  

My dad's favorite snake was a boa constrictor named Strider and his favorite pet rat was named kitty, but he should have named them Harry and Houdini because they were both escape artists. 

Strider would usually curl up in our heating vents and under our couch cushions and I have many fond memories of blood curdling screams cutting like a knife through the entire neighborhood as strider slithered out of nowhere into my Gigi's lap. 

I remember one particular occasion trying to keep a straight face after suddenly noticing him winding his way around the curtain rod behind the couch where my mom's visiting teachers were giving a lesson.  

It wasn't one of our finest moments.   

Imagine being 11 years old.  You wake up one morning and stumble to the bathroom to do your bizness.  Just as you get settled, you glance over into the bathtub.  

NO!  

Yessssss!  

Noooooooo!  It couldn't be!  

But it was! Filled with baby King Cobras!  

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!  (can't believe I just told you that.)

Long, true story short, I had to make my own t-shirt that said, "My dad went to India and alls I got was this lousy king cobra." 

Case in point?  There are three people on this blog who understand the Wild Thornberries. 

ME! MYSELF! and I! 

Hey, btw, it ain't that bad wearing a muzzle while you blog.  

I always knew I could post with my eyes closed, but now I know I can do it with my mouth closed too! 

YAY ME!