Flying Rottweiler!:eek:
A real flying dog: the lesser dog-faced fruit bat (Cynopterus brachyotis) of Indonesia.
My dad didn’t use monsters on me, or spank me either. He was sneaky and used reverse psychology.
Four year old Baker doesn’t want to go to Sunday School, and is acting up in class. So afterwards BakerDad doesn’t whack her, or yell at her. He says “OK, you don’t have to go to Sunday School. In fact, I’m not going to let you go to Sunday School! Remember the Christmas program last year, and all the fun things the kids do? You’re never going to get to do any of that!”
Apparently after that I wanted to attend Sunday School.
Okay, well, doggies with big floppy ears flying is a cute mental image.
LESSER?! You mean there’s a bigger one? I’m not sleeping tonight.
It’s adorable!
Adorable?! Has everyone gone mad?
Like this guy? (The lovely Vampyrum spectrum)
My three nephews were all pretty young (under 8) when Jurassic Park came out. One day one them was looking at my ring and asked, “What does it do?” I had to think fast…what can I say it does? How can this amuse him/them? Still looking for an answer, I smiled and said, “Press it and find out.” So he pressed it and I decided to bark. He grinned, pressed it again, and this time I quacked. So I kept this up with various animal noises for a bit, and the other two came to see what was going on. Now, they loved to be scared and I loved scaring them even more, so with one more press of the ring I jumped up, claws out, towering over them, yelling and screaming my head off. They looked like they were going to pee themselves. And then two seconds later, it was “Do it again! Do it again!” Sometimes the dinosaur arrived after two presses, sometimes after 20…the suspense was killing them but they laughed like little maniacs.
Okay, it didn’t scar them for life, but they’re all grown up now and we still laugh about it.
Adorable AND creepy ! I’m in love.
My paternal grandmother is a reverse psych black belt.
All of her 10 grandkids spent the summer at her house out in the country, with only her husband and sometimes a couple of the kid’s parents. She obviously couldn’t hope to control the mob adequately so there were only two hard, punishment earning crimes : going into Grandpa’s shed, and going down the cellar. Everything else would only get a mean look at the very worst.
All of us kids perfectly understood why we weren’t to go in Grandpa’s shed, and it had nothing to do with it being lined with bandsaws and power tools from floor to ceiling. But it was his secret place, where he’d go to be alone and do his secret things. Like fixing chairs and stuff, magical stuff ! Being kids, we all instinctively understood the sacrosanct need for having our secret places to do our secret stuff. Like setting toy cars on fire, or playing doctor. We all agreed it was a good rule, on the assumption that it was reciprocal. The Golden Rule concretized, in its beautiful and self-evident truth.
Oh, and it had nothing to do whatsoever with the fact that angry Granpa scared the shit out of us. No sir.
The cellar on the other hand, we didn’t quite get. It was nobody’s secret place. Plus, we knew (in a general sense) that there were amazing things down there. The skeletons of the people who died here during The War. A bottomless hole. Giant lizards ! It was obvious that we had to get in there by any means necessary. I swear, we tried everything. Machiavelli and Sun Tzu would have been proud of our mastery of tactics and subterfuge. Diversions, feints and counterfeints, twin pronged attacks, night assaults, brute force. All to no avail : the cellar door was an unassailable fortress, Grandma was its ever watchful Cerberus.
In time, we all grew up and eventually spent our summers our own ways. Holidays at Granma’s became a thing of the past, and the cellar door disappeared in the mists of time.
Until, a few years ago, I got back to the old house on some occasion (a wedding, IIRC). In need of fresh batteries for my CD-player, I asked Grandma if she had any. “Sure, down the cellar, second shelf on the left, go on and help yourself”. It’s only as I closed the door behind me, having found the batteries, that it hit me like a brick. I HAD GONE THROUGH THE CELLAR DOOR ! So I ran back down, and set out exploring. Disappointment was felt at every turn. No skeletons. No bottomless hole. Stacks of food tins, an old millstone. Cardboard. Wine racks. What the hell ? It’s just an ordinary cellar ? Not even one health hazard ? This don’t make no sense.
So I came back up and confronted Grandma. WHY ? Why was it so damn important to keep us away from the cellar ? Her answer, candid and nonchalant as if she was not owning up to being an evil witch and a nefarious child mind-fucker : “Oh, that ? Well, as long as you were trying to get in there, you weren’t out climbing trees and breaking your skulls. Did you find your batteries, dear ?”
Your grandmother wins the thread.
Decent child psychiatrists run around $100 - $150 an hour. You might want to start saving up now… 
POINT!!
Grandma wins!
I don’t remember a non-poster ever winning a thread.
Game, set, match.
What an angel!
Don’t be mean, lots of Australians like to get into bed with a clean sheep…
Whoops…sorry that was clean sheet…
Yep, Kobal2’s grandma wins the thread!
Evil Dad never had to tell us monster tales. He was scary enough on his own. My little friends would hear him at the back door, and they’d suddenly find reasons to go home. “Okay, see you later,” I’d say to their backs. Then I’d have to face him alone.:eek:
I’ve posted this here before.
When my kids were just learning to read and we happened to get into an elevator. . .
Otis elevators have their name written in the middle of the door threshold so it can be read correctly from the outside. When we were getting into the elevator I would point out the Otis name to my child and tell them to always trust the Otis elevator company. Then while we were inside the elevator I would tell them about the evil Silo elevator company and the shoddy construction methods they used and that they should never get into an elevator made by the evil Silo elevator company. Then when the door opened again, the word OTIS on the threshold would be upside down to us and would look very much like the word “SILO”. I would point at it and scream and run out of the elevator. So would they.
I did this with my kids too. My brother taught me to do it.