Same Old, Same Old

Scene: A sunny yard. A clothesline is stretched across the yard, a basket of damp laundry rests in the grass. A stunning woman, with a perfect pedicure and hair that has absolutely been trimmed some time since last October, stands in a spotless sundress (as opposed to, say, a sweaty tank top with cheese on the hem). Also present: one toddler clad in a short-sleeved plaid button-down shirt and an overlarge bucket hat that eliminates all but approximately 78 degrees of vision, and one large, long-suffering German Shepard (not wearing a hat).

TODDLER: Da ya da. Da! ("Hm. This sand is fascinating. I could look at it all day, just watching the individual grains stick to my--hey! A dog! That dog I like! Is right there! I wonder if that dog wants some sand on her! I will go find out! At great speed!")

MOTHER: Tankbaby, stop. No sand on the dog, please.


TODDLER looks at MOM, making eye contact and nodding, while walking steadily toward the dog with a shovel full of sand, which he then dumps on the dog.

DOG: Um, a little help here?

MOTHER: Well, go lie somewhere else, then, dummy.

TODDLER: Eee-ee! ("Yaaaay! Sand! That fell out! Onto the dog! And got mama over here! Let's go do that agaaaaain!")


TODDLER walks purposefully back to sand table, chuckling gleefully while waving shovel wildly, occasionally whacking self in head, eye, or ear. After several attempts, manages to get twelve grains of sand in the shovel. Looks at MOTHER.

TODDLER: Ba! ("Chekkit, bitch! Got me some mothereffing sand!")

MOTHER: I see. You've got some sand. In the table, please.


TODDLER takes a few slow steps toward the dog.

MOTHER: Tankbaby...

TODDLER begins to run, inasmuch as he can, which is to say a very fast tipsy waddle, while shrieking, toward DOG.


DOG: Huh. Here comes that kid again. I sure don't want sand on me. I wonder if there's anything I can do to affect the outcome of this situation. On the other hand, I'm here now. And, you know, it's sunny. I like sun. Hey, do you smell something? I think I smell---


TODDLER dumps sand on DOG. DOG does not move.

DOG: --some other dog on the next block. Huh. Where did this sand come from?

TODDLER: Ba! ("Hey! I can raise my arm! The arm holding the shovel! And then can bring it down rapidly! On the dog!")

MOTHER (warningly): TANKBABY. No hit. Be soft with the dog.

TODDLER whacks DOG with shovel. DOG looks baleful, but does not move. TODDLER repeats whacking. MOTHER, who has approached unseen, grabs the shovel on the upswing, accidentally knocking the enthusiastic TODDLER off-balance. With renewed purpose and vigor, TODDLER lunges for the DOG, who finally decides to lie in one of the other twelveteen sunny spots in the yard. TODDLER drunkenly follows. MOTHER, who has so far hung one towel on the line, sighs. DOG lies down. TODDLER lunges. DOG gets up and walks elsewhere in the yard. TODDLER, after recovering balance from lunging headfirst at an empty spot, staggers after.

TODDLER: Ba! Ba! ("WHEEEE! HI DOGGY! HOLD STILL, DOGGY! CAN I RIDE YOU, DOGGY? CAN I HIT YOU WITH THE SHOVEL SOME MORE? WHEEEE! I HAVE FEET!! WHERE'S MY HAT! DOGGY!! HAT!! FEET!! WHEEEEEEEE!")

TODDLER wipes out, tripping over a tree root or his own feet or possibly a spiderweb, or a deep thought. Wails. MOTHER goes over, brushes him off, administers kisses and wise advice about not chasing the dog. TODDLER immediately resumes chasing the dog.)

End scene.



Showtimes: 10:15, 10:27, 10:39, 10:51, 11:01, 11:12, 11:23, 11:31, 11:40, and 11:58.