Cartoons

“Do not hit your brother with wood!”

Right off the bat, there are a couple things wrong with that statement.

Firstly, my wife knows that there is way more than just a piece of wood in the basement. By now, she should know not to limit my daughter's options. There's a doll house, a suitcase, motor cylce helmet and a large screen TV. All of those should have been included in the warning.

Normally, my wife saying something like this to our daughter would have gotten me moving, or at least starting to call 911. But, after a weekend of cats and chinchillas, I was in the midst of a Benadryl induced coma.

When I was growing up, we watched wholesome shows like Tom and Jerry and The Roadrunner. I know for a fact my mother never shouted at me not to hit my brother with wood. (She'd probably say something unrealistic like there was never enough delay for her to shout the warning. But since neither my brother nor I spent that much time in the emergency room, she obviously has a faulty memory.)

“I said not to HIT your brother with wood.”

There was defensive mumbling from the basement.

“I don't care who started it. Do Not Hit Your Brother With Wood!”

I have to admit, it was hard to hear my wife over the giggling. (Apparently, Benadryl gives me the giggles.)

Now, you may be wondering what awful TV show they were watching? What terrible cartoon was subverting their natural brother/sister love and turning them into such ruffians?

After several years of having Netflix, my wife had finally joined the new-fangle fad of streaming video. She was so proud of her discovery of how they had “hours” of movies and shows the kids would love. (My son had already found all the videos from my youth. Nothing quite beats macaroni and cheese and Koolade on a rainy Saturday with Voltron. We'd spent many car trips singing the theme songs to Spiderman (Yes, I googled it.) and Scooby Doo (The real Scooby Doo, not the water-down rehash out now.))

I learned a lesson with Netflix and movies. My son loved the first Transformers movie. When I saw that Netflix had, what I thought was, a prequel to the Transforms, my son and I sat down for a night of popcorn and wholesome mechanical violence. After the first five minutes of the movie, my son was white and curled up in a ball under a pillow and I was morally scared. After that, I check to make sure the program is kid-friendly.

So... back to the question, what horrible show had my children stumbled on? With the amount of Benadryl coursing through my system, I figured it would be a medical experiment to see if I was as susceptible to the obvious subliminal messages as them. I made my way down the stairs (this is harder than it sounds, especially when the stairs were warped (last I remembered they were straight) and kept changing their angle. (Benadryl, apparently, also distorts my spacial perceptions.))

All I can say is after watching ten minutes of the new My Little Pony, I hate Rainbow Daze and can totally sympathize with my daughter for wanting to hit something. We've since watched every episode and I know all the pony's names. That information has replaced important memories I will never get back. At least I still remember peaceful, quality TV like Tom and Jerry.