I promised my ornery Pops that I was going to post anecdotal evidence that he’s a big cheater cheater pumpkin eater. I present the evidence to the court and ask that the jury consider the facts and hand my dad the “go straight to jail, do not collect $200” card.
As a small, but loveably gullible child, I thought, like all small children, that My Daddy had my best interests at heart, especially when it comes to the dog-eat-dog world of Monopoly. Games like that could determine one’s ability to be a cutthroat businessperson, and I believe you will see in this case how my father’s actions prevented me from doing so. I ask that the court awards me Park Place with three hotels out of the Old Man’s private stash, so that I can once again find a way to get ahead in the business world.
Well aware of my love for the color pink as a child, my conniving father convinced me to give up all of my “ugly black and white” railroads, and “poopy green cards” in return for all his pink cards and the occasional purple. On one occasion, Pops’ sister caught him playing the one-for-you-one-for-me game in which his light fingers doubled his stack of Monopoly money and diminished mine while he diverted attention by claiming that he was distributing the cash fairly. A cheater at Monopoly is a cheater at cheating, and his little worn shoe playing piece must be put away posthaste.
Around the time I was three, my parents handed over a hand-me-down tricycle. It was made around the same time the corset went out of fashion, was a subtle rust color except where bits of intrepid red paint still clung desperately and inexplicably to the frame. The tricycle was in bad need of oiling, but my parents, perhaps sensing how much wander-lust I already possessed at such a young age, never quite got around to taking care of that. My herculean efforts to turn the pedals barely propelled me along, and the flattened front tire inevitably ended up buried in soft soils, pitching me forward like a bronc rider. I was also only allowed to ride it on the lawn and under adult supervision. I was, after all, a child of the stranger-danger era.
On one such outing, the defendant, here known as Daddy, stopped by in the truck he was driving for the county. I can’t be sure of proportions, since my literal knee-high stature tended to make everything look gigantic, but I’m sure this was probably the largest work truck in the history of the world. Dad looked down at me from the cab, and stuck out his sunburned arm while I furiously pedaled, tipped over, righted myself, and started the whole process again. Seeing his child struggling in the throes of obstinacy must have tipped him off to a challenge, for before driving off, he challenged me to a race. My sense of competition outweighing my burning calves, I nodded determinedly, gripped my handlebars, and pedaled as fast as I could. By the time I made a rotation, he was already out of town.
His cavalier attitude evidenced in these cases and his obvious thirst to win at all costs prove his guilt. I ask the court to use this evidence to convict the criminal, Aliases: Pops, Daddy, or the Old Man, of criminal cheatery in childhood activities.