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Archive for August, 2008

Chapter 1

It Was The Best of Tims, It Was The Worst of Tims

Tim Taylor, 35 years old, possessing the wit of a man twice his age yet the wisdom of a man with only half his years, stood proudly in the living room of his quaint, suburban home. The icy Detroit winter night could hardly be felt inside, where Tim and his 3 sons each stood in anticipation of their nightly, masculine ritual.

“Alright, I’m gonna show you how to do a reversal from the down position,” Tim instructed. Then, boldly pointing at his eldest son, Brad, who just this year had shorn his boyish frame and was beginning to blossom into a sprightly young man, Tim made his elegant prediction. “I’m gonna pin you in about 3 seconds.”

“Huh, that’s real fair, Dad. You weigh, like, a ton more than me,” Brad responded. His statement, while playfully hyperbolic, stung the elder Taylor’s heart. He was sensing a rift forming between he and his first born son, with each of Brad’s barbs like repeated stings to the same wound.

“A Ton? O.K., if that’s not fair, why don’t I just take on all three of you?” Tim replied, who’s cocksurredness suprised not one of his 3 sons, as they had all seen him repeatedly take on challenges far beyond his cappabilities seemingly on a weekly basis, and fail nearly every time. “C’mon, you bunch of little girls!” Tim commanded.

Before a single eyelid could be batted, Brad and his two younger siblings, the cuddly Randy and the impish Mark, were upon their suddenly overmatched father. Each boy grabbed a limb and began to push, prod, poke and pull while Tim grunted and groaned, flailing his arms and legs with little result. The rythmic wrestling of the four Taylor’s in the center of thier living quarters was like a violent ballet. Finally, Tim could take no more and ceased to move under the combined weight of his three offspring.

“One, two, three. You’re pinned!” shouted his middle son, Randy, who then punctuated the sweet yet inevitable victory with a strong and sturdy punch to his father’s shoulder.

“You lose!” proclaimed Mark, the youngest Taylor boy, with an amount of unrestrained joy that shocked his recently defeated father. Tim then sauntered to his knees and hung his head in what appeared to be in tiredness and in shame.

But it was a ruse. If only Brad was able to sense the mischeviousness and trickery in his wiley dad’s eyes a moment sooner, he could have avoided the fate bestowed upon him and his brother Randy. Tim rose like a Phoenix off of his hands and knees and grabbed Brad and Randy, forcing them into a headlock and holding them betwix the underside of his shoulder.

“Yeah, but not the second round!” Tim shouted as he held their heads tightly inside the pits of his arms, pits that held the grease and the sweat of a hard-working laborer and craftsman living in America’s rustbelt; pits that had lived the American Dream.

“Dad! It smells under here! Seriously!” Brad cried out to his father, who looked him in the eye and made sure that he knew who’s house he was in. Tim then proudly pronounced his acheivement.

“It’s the Tim Taylor Half-smelly Nelson!”

[to be continued…]

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