The Inhumane Contents of My Pail

I always played at this one sandbox in the park. It was under a tree, away from the other sandbox, which was closer to the swings. That other sandbox was the happening sandbox. The sandbox the kids with cool toys went to. They had their little motorized toys and talking teddy bears, and I had my pail and spade.

While they were off playing with each other, I was building empires and destroying civilizations, torturing rebels to find the locations of hidden armies, defiling peasant women and forcing them to bear my child to breed the baseborn filth out of existance.

Then a leftist revolution led by a charismatic, compassionate leader would emerge. Slowly, the message would spread to the people and the reign of terror would end in a bloody coup. They established an agrarian economy, living peacefully off the land.

Then I imagined that the troops from my sandcastles were marshalling to destroy the troops in the other sandbox, to burn the bougeois filth and liberate their lands as well.

This was a plotline I spent an entire week playing out. Then, the following Monday, it rained. The Tuesday afterwards, I found that all the other kids abandoned the soggy sandbox near the swings for my dry one under the tree.

They were all just there, playing with their motorized bulldozers and remote control cars. And my kingdom had come to ruin, overrun by tourists and refugees. The revolution was crushed by overpopulation.

One kid, Tucker Knowles, I think, asked if I wanted to play with him and his dumptruck. I gave it some thought, then I dumped a pail full of weekend cat turds on his lap and went to go sit by myself.