The Rocket Man

Yesterday we went to a 50’s diner, and on the way out, my dad put the boys in a coin-operator rocket, circa God only knows.  As the rocket bounced around like a mechanical bull, I watched the boys, wondering if the fries, chicken nuggets, and chocolate milk shake were about to make a reappearance.  Tornado E looked especially sick as he was already running a mild fever.

When the boys were hauled out, poor Tornado E held his crotch.  My mother looked at him with concern.

Grandma: Tornado E, sweetheart, are you ok?

Tornado E: Grandma, it hurts!

Grandma: Where?

Tornado E: Here.  (He pointed to his crotch.)

Papi: Want to ride again?

Grandma: I think he hurt his testes.

Tornado E: I hurt my testes, Papi!  Let’s ride again!

At this time, I was doubled over in laughter to my mother’s disgust as she shot me dirty looks over Tornado E’s head.  I got control of myself, straightened up, and wiped the tears out of my eyes.

Me: Tornado E, love, we’ll come back it do it another time.


This morning.  My BFF (How cool does that sound?  And a million teenagers roll their eyes.) had taken pictures of the rocket ride and was showing Tornado E the pictures on her camera.

Tornado E: And there’s the yellow rocket where I hurt my testes!

Nod if you think Tornado E will say that every time we visit that diner.

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