Post Number Fifteen

“The Great Escape Junior”

All I could think about for the past week was my plan to liberate The Kids. Oh, did I say “kids”? Perhaps I should be calling them “BATTERY BABIES”– for that is what they look like, all cooped up in the Daycare Centre thusly. Chubby, little, roly-poly batteries. Full of spark, sure. Able to go on and on for much longer than other chubby, little, roly-poly batteries, indeed. Likely to explode if left in the sun too long, no doubt. But in the end, they were nothing short of short-life batteries, having only endured a “short”– “life” (as well as a “life” of being “short”. Like the miniature humans they are).

So how can (or could) Your Correspondent (me) tap into the energy of these battery babies, caged (as they were) behind the (non-alcoholic) bars of the Kiddy Koncentration Kamp? The bursting, bean-filled vibrancy of these bubs was too damn big to be cooped up, after all. It needed the bracing mountain air of The Street. Of course, I’m talking here about Mountain Street, which– in classic Australian fashion– has been called this  because of the large speed-hump there. (NOTE: In Australia– which is the flattest country on Earth– many speed-humps qualify as mountains. For tourism reasons.)

Every word I’ve said above is true (including the shit about tourism). Those young men and Womyns (age 0-4) in my care would never– could never– SHOULD never blossom in a cage. It was the blossom-friendly vibe of the wide open spaces, far from the noose-like apron strings of their alleged “care-givers” that these Youth of Today were yearning for– even if their kiwi-fruit-sized brains didn’t grasp it yet.

Now, “some” say it’s never too late for folks to learn, but my response to “them” (or at least “some” of “them”) is that it’s never too early to learn either. And so (bearing my own wisdom in mind) I decided that bright ‘n’ early in the morning was when the learning should be taking place. Of course, because all my clocks and my watch (and my sun-dial) were all set for Dooligan Savings Time, the early stage at which this learning was to occur would be ten minutes after the earliness of other learning times. Which means, while it wasn’t entirely true that learning according to Dooligan Savings Time was the same as learning your lesson too late, it was (however) true that learning according to Dooligan Savings Time was indeed learning slightly later than what you might arguably call “too early”… I think. But don’t quote me on that.

See, what I’m trying to segue into here is that a hard-nosed (yet soft-hearted) Revolutionary like myself is right (in the right way, not the wrong way– which is the “Right” way) to be outraged at the way “democracy” (as a pathetically small overwhelming majority call it) suppresses young people (ages 0-4) when it comes to their Basic Human Right to VOTE. Or not. If they like… And so– because day number two of my employment there at the Kiddy Kare Funhouse was a Saturday, and that Saturday was an election day– I decided we would storm the polling booths and claim that very same right (i.e. the right not to vote). And… um… (oh, right). We would be doing this “early” and it would be a “learning” experience. (Whew. Segue accomplished.)

So that was my mission. To gently coax the Youth of Today into getting UN-involved in person. For this my timing had to be spot-on, which kind of ruled out Dooligan Savings Time– but ruled in Kiddy Kare nap-time! And the thing that made nap-time the big open window of kidnapping (or “kid-not-napping”) opportunity that it was was the way the carERS joined the carEES in a few zeds also. And while the inmates and the screws (AKA child-care workers) were in the aforesaid nap-time stupor, I woke the Youth of Today with pinches ‘n’ punches, then herded ’em out the gate and onto Mountain Street where their teeny-weeny souls could be free.

Some o’ those young-uns were so underfed from life in the kamp that I had to physically carry them (and, yair, okay, that was because those ones weren’t actually “walkers” yet) and the ones I couldn’t carry myself (due to my limited number of arms) I simply delegated to three or four of the burlier three or four year olds. Once we toddled our ways to the curb, we asked a wizened old Geezer Guy which way the polling booth was.

“What for?” the Geezer wheezed.

“Because we plan on refusing to vote,” I replied.

“Well, you should’a done that last Saturday,” the Geezer crowed. “Cuz that’s when everyone else ’round here refused.”

DAMN!! The election was one week too early! Which meant we were (prob’ly) too late.

“Ah, well,” I reasoned at the time. “We’ll go there anyway and make believe we’re not voting.”

And so– because of this muck-up in the electoral system– the whole mission had been downgraded from a coup d’état into an excursion. I decided I would walk my kids (and they were technically my property at that stage, me being the only adult there, and all) around the block and back to the kamp where we’d be just in time for wakey-wakey time.

But there was one bridge we had to cross back over before it came to that– and the name of that bridge was Mountain Street. Busy… BUSY… Mountain Street. Yes, folks, this is where the excursion got ugly. Because when I stood at the traffic lights, I noticed something deeply troubling. Namely, the way that “society” expects us to walk when we see the Green Man, but stagnate in a pedestrian ghetto if we see the Red Man. The unspoken message here was loud and clear: traffic lights are teaching children COLOUR PREJUDICE!!

Well, I’m sorry, Roads ‘n’ Traffic Authority, but me and my gang of playtime-lovin’ comrades refuse to “play” along! The minute I saw the Red Man appear, I calmly told my charges:

“RUN, CHILDREN!! Run across the road! The Red Man won’t hurt you! He’s a person, just like me! Oh, and you… Almost.”

Aaaaaaaaand, give or take a few minutes worth of screeching vehicle tyres, this was (roughly) the point at which I got arrested. For thirteen counts of “Inciting to Jaywalk”. (Oh, and one count of “Mass Kidnapping”.)