TWISTED TAILS

As a father of a toddler I'm often reading children's stories. Be they reworded short stories based on popular family films, or old favourites that I remember my parents reading to me many years ago, one thing is constant. The accuracy of the plot is irrelevant compared to the message of the story and the vivid illustrations.
 
One particular evening lying next to my son, reading a storybook from the 70s which had been discovered at Grandma and Grandpa's house, I was becoming irritated with the now glaringly obvious flaws in the story. Maybe I'd had a bad day. Maybe I was in one of my 'smart-arse' moods. Maybe the child inside me died last week and I can no longer enjoy the simple pleasures of a far fetched tale.
 
The book was a compendium of Three Little Kittens, Three Little Pigs, and Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
In my most animated voice I regaled my son with the first verse of The Three Little Kittens. A harrowing story of how three feline siblings were forced to admit to their mother that they had lost their mittens. "What! Lost your mittens? You naughty kittens. You shall have no pie!" Oh no. But those kittens love pie!  They were so desperate for the blueberry pie cooling on the sill that they began an extensive search of the area. Upon finding their mittens, they rushed to tell their mother the good news. And here's where the story takes an unforgivable twist.
 
Upon watching the children don their precious mittens that she had been so upset about them misplacing, that she threatened them with starvation, she then gave them pie. She didn't ask her kittens to remove their gloves first. Oh no. She watched them try to eat that pie, mittens still adorning their innocent paws. Then in one final attempt to crush their high spirits, she chastises them once more. Clearly a sociopathic personality, she is obviously delighting in threatening and belittling her children. I resisted the urge to call DOCS and ask them to pay her a visit and check her darling kittens for bruises.
 
The Three Little Pigs were next. A tale of the dangers of cutting corners. It teaches us that whatever we are doing, to always do the best job we can. 'What's wrong with that?' I hear you ask. We frown upon the first two pigs for their lack of effort in constructing their dream homes, but think about this. All through the story the Big Bad Wolf arrives 'just as the little pig was putting their finishing touches on their straw/stick house'. If those first two pigs had taken the time to construct a similar brick house to that of the third pig, they'd have had barely enough time to lay the concrete slab before the wolf arrived. Furthermore, the palates of bricks laying around would have provided the wolf with perfect ammunition to bludgeon those pigs to death. The third little pig should think itself extremely fortunate to have been called upon last.
We should not label the first two pigs as being lazy. We should commend them for their valiant attempt at constructing ANYTHING given so little time. We don't say "Hey! Aussie Diggers! Why didn't you build a concrete bomb shelter instead of those flimsy trenches. Lazy bastards." I rest my case.
 
The third story is about a young ivory skinned, blonde curly haired girl named Goldilocks. Generations of readers have ignored one simple fact. This girl is a home invader. She broke into the bears house with, it seems, every intention of stealing from them. Then, when all she could steal was some porridge, she started breaking furniture. She should be in prison.
And speaking of the porridge, I understand that the large bowl of porridge may have retained a lot of heat, but everything we know about thermodynamics says that there is no way the middle sized bowl could have become unbearably cold, whilst the little bowl was, and I quote "Just right". It's no wonder our kids are finding physics hard in high school!
And finally, Father bear, with senses so acute that he could tell a small girl had been sitting in his incredibly hard chair, then walks into his bedroom and doesn't realise there is a human sleeping in one of his beds until his little cub points it out to him.
 
So now I have to question every story I have ever read as a child. And each time I read to my son from now on I will feel the need to add an explanatory note about doing his best with the time he is given, to always remove his mittens before eating pie, to never break into someone's house, and finish with a few basic physics principles.
 
Until Then

BITING BACK

It's time to draw a line in the sand. To not just stand my ground, but push forward. To conquer, once and for all, a nemesis so complete in arsenal, and so focused in it's purpose, that a lesser man may crumble. I refuse. I refuse to destroy myself in a battle that has become a stalemate so unbreakable that I feel myself standing in a muddied French field. But as with all stalemates, something always has to break. It's foolish to wait for an opportunity that may never present itself. It's cowardly to accept a situation as hopeless. The only option is to prepare myself to take control. To become so powerful as to be irresistible.
In THE ART OF WAR, Sun Tzu teaches two important principles. For complete victory one does not destroy an enemy, but forces an enemy to bend to their will without confrontation. And for certain victory one must not only know themselves, but know their enemy.
And so as the boffins are despatched, and research begins, the complete picture of my enemy will be revealed. Meanwhile, preparations have begun. To fight the ultimate war, I need to become the ultimate warrior. To live life by a code of perfect health and extreme levels of fitness. Reconstructing my near comatose body into a tower of strength.
 
To transform myself into an unstoppable machine is, however, only part of the solution.
Bruce Wayne doesn't win the battle just by donning the hood and cloak. There is still a war to be won, and failure is not an option.
 
So, Lachlan, playtime is over. Your reign is at an end. Soon you will feel the sickening pang in your stomach that only those on the precipice of a plunge into insignificance feel. The frustration you will feel as your screams seem only to calm me into even more soothing tones will be unbearable. Shouting over me as I relentlessly read through the adventures of Bilbo Baggins will only serve my goal of seeing you tire. Your submission as I crush your will to complain will be complete. You cannot escape this fate. Your only option will be to accept me as ruler of your world.
 
In years to come, I sincerely hope our two great nations can form a prosperous relationship, built on mutual respect. With that will come a utopian world for both of us.
 
Until then.....prepare for war.