Isla brought this gem home today from daycare. When I asked her who he was, she said "x-ray man." Of course, duh. So, then I asked her what he was all about, why he was getting an x-ray. "x-ray man is looking for something inside his body."
"Oh, what's he looking for?"
"I don't know, daddy. He's just looking. Go get Mommy, so she can tell me a story."
"wait, I don't get to know what he was looking for?"
"DADDY! I WANT MOMMY!"
"Ok, ok."
Dammit. Now I have to imaginate for myself: This is Charles J. Markowski III. He had recently won a modest portion of the local lottery, and after being thoroughly impressed by the x-ray machine operated by the TSA at the Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix, decided to purchase his own machine. He quickly became addicted to seeing his insides at work - beginning with meals, then graduating to the expulsion of said meals. Every mundane aspect of life took on an exciting new glow, literally. Soon, however, the radiation caught up with Charles, and four months after buying the x-ray machine, he was found dead. His eyes were pasted open in an expression of perpetual surprise, and his hands held on to the edge like they had been glued there by a three-year-old child. His funeral was sparsely attended: an uncle, a former co-worker, and his mailman, whose daily conversations with Charles routinely made him late on the second half of his route. Prayers were said, a sad flower placed on the coffin, and his body let down. Charles would soon become the bones he loved so dearly.
You got all that from a little esquilito blanco. Poor guy.
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