Let’s start with some good news.
This person, somehow, call it divine intervention, call it dumb luck, call it superpowers, did not go blind:
The bad news that’s coming is so bad, so so incredibly mortifyingly horrible, that I think we should all jack ourselves up with some more positive news and thinking before I drop a bomb of despair on you.
Consider the following:
Every day, all over the world, kittens are born.
Giraffes do this:
It’s been a year since Nickelback has put out an album (and, luckily, Nickelback jokes never seem to get old!)
These guys were tearing it up on subway last night:
Some Bushwick turkeys survived Thanksgiving (they live to gobble another day!)
And the best news ever?
Mr. Snagglepuss has definitely–IT IS CONFIRMED!–been found.
I hope your happy and bursting with joy, because what I am about to write is going to affect you. You will probably cry. As of today, November 30th, 2012, it is official, John and Isaac Armstrong will not be finding baby alligators under the Christmas tree.
Despite winning the popular vote in the alligator election, some parental and legal issues got in the way of making this Christmas the most reptilian Christmas ever.
In effort to win not just the popular vote regarding my desire to purchase my younger siblings adorable baby alligators for Christmas, I contacted alligator experts asking them what they thought about two young boys owning alligators for a while before donating them to a zoo. This plan backfired on me more than the time when I was 10 and wanted to see what would happen if I smashed a .22 bullet with a hammer in my parent’s basement (mom, if you are hearing about this for the first time, I want you to know I was not harmed, was spooked, and learned a valuable life lesson).
These “experts” emailed me back with “facts” that corresponded to the no alligator column (a stance supported by my parents and more cold hearted siblings). Apparently you need a captive wildlife license to own an alligator.
While this would be enough to stop most families, I’m pretty sure my family has owned plenty of creatures in which we should have had a captive wildlife license for but did not (Case in point: Jacob Armstrong).
All legalities aside, since I would only be home for a week or so and then leaving, my parents technically had the final say. It was their house, after all. Since my parent’s friends tend to be older than 10-years-old, many were anti-alligator. Here’s a sampling:
“Dangerous” “Faster than you think” “Not a pleasant experience”
Although my sister Mary, one of the strongest advocates against alligator in the beginning, was eventuall converted to alligator,
The writing was already on the wall, and that writing said, “No Alligator.”
In the end, even me, the guy who walks around town in alligator underpants, sorta realized that the dream of alligators was maybe kinda dumb and on par with my 2008 idea to eat a dozen eggs every day.
As the saying goes, “life is in the journey, not the alligator.” So all and all, this was a lot of fun. It was fun texting back and forth with my 10 and 13 year old brothers, as we brainstormed ways to get my parents to allow an alligator into their life. My family is to fun as full grow alligator is to bite your hand off. This talk of alligator got my whole clan–mom, dad, all nine siblings–talking, texting, tweeting, FB’ing, and as a family that enjoys arguing about pointless things, we loved every disagreeing minute of it. No regrets from me. It’s making me look forward to Christmas when we all get together in Bismarck to bicker, argue and accuse each other of stealing money from Monopoly’s bank. We are all kinda loud, obnoxious rabble rousers, and like an alligator’s murderous instincts, we just don’t know any better.
