The Dictator and the Anarchist Throw a Parade...of DEATH!

Yesterday, people everywhere celebrated Father's Day with backyard barbecues, festive downtown running races (that just sounds awful), dinners out, and  neckties. We encourage the Dictator and the Anarchist to be free thinkers, so they chose to celebrate Father's Day in their own unique way. While the fathers in the house passed out and drooled while watching golf on TV, and the ladies roamed the garden and discussed weddings like Edwardian Jane Austen characters, the Morton children were busy at work writing, cutting, constructing and choreographing a lovely parade to crown the Father's Day festivities. The Dictator and the Anarchist were so busy putting together the exciting event that they almost missed dessert. Adorable!

My father, the Leprechaun,
watches golf intently while the
Bureaucrat drools.

Now, the Dictator is practicing hard to someday become the successful ruler of a totalitarian regime, so not only was there going to be a parade, but attendance would be somewhat compulsory, as we were made aware by the numerous flyers posted in every square foot of the house.

 

Yeah, that's right. Or else.

While my mom explained to the Dictator that false advertising is cause for legal liability, the precious children handed out homemade cloth tickets and jumped up and down in eager anticipation. Ah, the innocent joys of childhood!

Thump. She totally didn't make me rich or famous.
False advertising. Thump.

 After being herded welcomed upstairs into the "parade" room, the delightful ceremonies began.  In the recesses of the sweet little bunk bed that my parents keep for the girls we could make out a well-constructed parade of Zhu-Zhu Pets and stuffed animals, replete with miniature floats and banners. How cute are my kids?!

An adorable parade...

And then, my young, sweet girls began their sweet little parade...of death.

A festively morbid banner.

"Have a fun time in hevan, Nugget!"
Apparently, you won't be missed.

We miss you. (We're pretending)

A painstakingly-crafted float.
Because we miss you...just not that much.

So, apparently, in a move vaguely reminiscent of exultant Munchkins at the death of the Wicked Witch, my children's toys staged a victorious parade in celebration of the untimely demise of one of their less lovable fellow-toys. Ding-dong, the hamster is dead, etc.

Dead Nugget on parade. With flowers. And blood spatter.

I don't know what atrocities a motorized hamster could have committed to invoke such an extreme response to its very existence and maybe I don't want to. I think that the larger question here is really this: why are my children being so darned creepy?

The Anarchist laughs in maniacal delight
after dropping an effigy (yes, effigy) of
the mean dead hamster in a fit of zeal.

So...happy Father's Day, Bureaucrat and Leprechaun (and Pastor Grandpa, who was mercifully spared this unholy terror...until now). Your (grand)children got you a dead hamster...on parade. You're welcome. 

Just remember as you are forced to watch this macabre spectacle, these are at least partially your creepy, creepy morbid genes at work in my adorable little girls. So...maybe this horrific Father's Day Parade of Death is your own fault. But you have to admit, it could be worse. They could have just bought you another necktie.

Not another necktie.