Way out in the Mid-West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of the Carp Hunter. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. The Carp Hunter he called himself the Carp Hunter. Now, the Carp Hunter — he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
The kids are alright, you know.
Their parents walked behind them for eighteen years with a pillow and a glass of water in case they got thirsty. They made sure every T-Ball game ended in a tie, and put sunscreen on them before they’d let them open the refrigerator door and get a blast of UV from the little lightbulb in there. They cut their meat until they were shaving.
Then the kids got a driver’s license, and all bets were off. Same as it ever was.
(Thanks to mega-friend of the BSBFB, Charles Schneider, for sending that one along)
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for yelling Cowabunga first this year)