I had to watch myself with Allie's Monday night bedtime story. As usual I just started making crap up and realized I was delivering an old fashioned, semi-scary Halloween story.
Allie got a little freaked.
So when the little girl in the story (her name was Allie, of course) fell into a dark hole that had a monster lurking inside the monster turned out to be a helpful, fuzzy monster. The monster catches the little girl and, with a friendly smile, lifts her back on to the sidewalk.
I'm pretty sure you know how things would have turned out for the little girl in the story if Allie was, say, 12. It would have been a lot scarier. Maybe something like:
The little girl would have fallen into the hole and the monster would catch her and force her to sit with him in the dark, dank hole. The creature would warn her about hanging out with the wrong crowd. Next the monster would produce a host of charts that would clearly illustrate the importance of maintaining a high GPA throughout middle school in order to gain entrance to advance placement courses in high school. The monster would then move on to discussing abstinence from sex, drugs and mainstream country music. Next the monster would shred and devour a fluffy little bunny in front of the little girl after explaining that the bunny voted Republican.
Allie didn't particularly like her watered-down monster story so we moved on. She likes the story I tell about Bobo, the dog who likes eggs. Yes. I know there's a children's book about a farting dog. We haven't read it and I promise I didn't have it in mind when I made up Bobo. I was just telling Allie about a dog who loves eggs but unfortunately happens to have major G.I. problems whenever he eats them. Allie's job is to name something for Bobo to fart near and I tell her about the consequences of Bobo's egg fueled flatulence. Her favorite? Pretty butterflies that drop out of the sky and roll around choking and coughing in a cloud of misty green dog farts.