Getting Good Help

 

It started with laundry.

Who knew it would escalate into . . .

Well, maybe I should explain.

Youngest Daughter and her youngest daughter (hereinafter known as Littlest Helper, or LH for short) were doing laundry (see above).

Generally, this included such things as: Sorting. Sitting on the floor to untangle various underpants from overpants. And giving the easiest jobs to almost-three-years-old LH.

Oh. And I should probably mention that LH was currently wearing her older sister’s snake sock puppet on her dominant hand.

Truth be told, said snake (or Mr. Snake as he came to be known) was the one actually doing the work.

Ahem . . .

At first all went well. The little pile of clothes on the floor in front of LH was steadily being dealt with by Mr. Snake, who proved remarkably knowledgable as to what went where and why.

Then, trouble.

Mr. Snake started having difficulties picking things up.

A true disaster when one’s only assignment consists of . . . erm . . . picking things up.

Mr. Snake received a stern and fairly volume-ific ‘talking to’, which in itself was—how can I say this?—humorous. Being forced, as he was, to face his accuser and submit to a firmly shaken finger.

Work resumed.

I really can’t say how it happened, but, by this time, not only was Mr. Snake struggling with his original assignment, he had adopted a rather cavalier attitude.

“SNAKE!!!” LH exclaimed, shaking him.

Finally, as no improvement was forthcoming, Mr. Snake was stripped of his increasingly dubious abilities by the simple act of being stripped from LH’s arm. Then, using the patented two-hand method, he was raised high in the air . . .

And dumped. In slow motion.

Just like that.

No notice.

No back pay or benefits.

Just . . . summarily relieved of his duties. Right there and then.

It was a crime.

Stories shall be penned of the outrage.

The unfairness.

Watch for them here.

 

P.S. Before you feel too sorry for Mr. Snake, however, you should probably know that apologies were forthcoming sometime during the afternoon, because by bedtime, Mr. Snake was in his usual spot—cuddled in the soft, dimpled arms of his mistress as she wandered happily off to Dreamland.

That is all.