It all began quite innocently. A harmless little show, broadcast at the same time as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, that came on right after Playschool. I never had to watch it, but somehow its message began to infiltrate through other forms of media, until the day came when I just had to see what all the fuss was about. I was looking after my little cousin, so I put on the real baby-sitter - the telly - and whacked on a video of T.T.T.E. After about ten minutes, I wondered if this was some kind of hoax because not only was I bored out of my brain, my four-year-old cousin had fallen asleep!
My fears began at around the same time as the global shift. Thousands of women, suffering from severe hormonal imbalance symptomatic of childbirth, began to name their sons after a train. My own mother gave birth in the middle of this craze, thankfully to a baby girl; or else, she might have ended up with two sons named Thomas when the drugs wore off. I began my devious plan of revenge from those earliest days, inculcating my infant sister into my private mission to smash the evil empire of the dreaded Tank-engine.
I had endured the school-yard taunts:
"Hey Tankie!"
"Toot toot!"
safe in the knowledge that my secret weapon was growing in power by the day. It wasn't long before little sis began Kindy armed with her innocence and sinister education. She was at once horrified by the mass-media-pop-culture-little-boy-drones repeating word for word the demonic catch-phrases designed by a paedophile Reverend and Ringo “I used to be famous” Starr to convert an entire generation into mindless working class slaves.
Then came the fateful day my sister uttered the phrase:
"Thomas the Tank Engine sucks!"
It was my proudest moment, but when the complaints of outraged parents mounted, we had to find her a new day-care centre.
Mum was volcanic with fury, but knew that I had planned this victory for years, so she set about debugging my miniature la femme nikita with retail therapy. A procession of Barbies, Little Mermaids and Princess Jasmines followed and Mum began to incubate the ultimate revenge.
My baby brother was born less than a year later and we joked that Dad was the Fat Controller and bought lots of Bananas in Pyjamas merchandise. But, the extended family couldn't help themselves, and before the year was out my little bro had the complete set of tank engines. By this time, I'd moved out of home and was powerless to do anything but watch in horror.
When his first word was 'Thomas', I was more than a little chuffed, but when James, Henry, Edward and Percy followed, Mum took him to see a psychologist. The quack said that it was common among little boys, although she had never seen such an extreme case, and it was her opinion that my brother could only associate people with T.V. shows. Therefore, he saw Mum as the Station-master, me as you know who, our aunty Caroline was a little red bus and as for Dad, well if you put him into pin-stripe trousers, tails and a top-hat, you'd confuse him for the Fat controller too.
As he grew, the little pecker manifested a prodigious strength, no doubt due to the fact that he carried a tank engine in each hand 24-7. He also became a petty-thief, tearing open packets in toy-stores, and dumping the loot down his nappy. One Christmas, when he was five, I bought him a little Michael-Angelo action figure. Mum teed him up on the telephone to say thank-you.
"Thom, why do you like Ninja Turtles?"
"Because their gnarly dude, totally bodacious
Cowabunga man!"
There was a brief silence on the other end before he spoke next.
"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are gay!"
Out of the mouths of babes! I wondered if I was too out-dated to be a big brother or if the evil regime had turned him to the dark side once and for all. In a desperate bid to rectify the situation, Mum put him in the local soccer team. He'd run around with Edward in one hand and Clarabelle in the other, pretending to be a train. Then the coach suggested that he play goalie, so Mum prized the engines out of his hands and replaced them with gloves. He was an overnight sensation, the best goal-keeper New Brighton 2nd division under sixes had ever seen. Mum got made team manager and the psychologist declared the whole exercise a success.
The side-effects on me were profound. I started going to Irish pubs, picking fights with English Football supporters :
"Ah hate Arse-an-all! Mah Moomz a better manager than yrs ez!"
So how, you might ask, did this ruin my life? Well aside from the fact that my siblings are still in the midst of impressionable adolescence, they now lead normal lives untainted by that damnable tank engine.
But, I have a few issues left unresolved. You see, forty-five out of every hundred new baby boys born in Australia are named Thomas. So, when I go out in public, I have to steel myself against reacting when my name is called out. But I still can't go down the lolly aisle at Woolies.
"Thomas, put those chocolate biscuits back on the shelf!"
The first time this happened my bowels loosened and it was near thing to get to the Public Toilets. Nowadays, I just grit my teeth, suppress the urge to slap the parent to their senses and book an appointment with my shrink.
My fears began at around the same time as the global shift. Thousands of women, suffering from severe hormonal imbalance symptomatic of childbirth, began to name their sons after a train. My own mother gave birth in the middle of this craze, thankfully to a baby girl; or else, she might have ended up with two sons named Thomas when the drugs wore off. I began my devious plan of revenge from those earliest days, inculcating my infant sister into my private mission to smash the evil empire of the dreaded Tank-engine.
I had endured the school-yard taunts:
"Hey Tankie!"
"Toot toot!"
safe in the knowledge that my secret weapon was growing in power by the day. It wasn't long before little sis began Kindy armed with her innocence and sinister education. She was at once horrified by the mass-media-pop-culture-little-boy-drones repeating word for word the demonic catch-phrases designed by a paedophile Reverend and Ringo “I used to be famous” Starr to convert an entire generation into mindless working class slaves.
Then came the fateful day my sister uttered the phrase:
"Thomas the Tank Engine sucks!"
It was my proudest moment, but when the complaints of outraged parents mounted, we had to find her a new day-care centre.
Mum was volcanic with fury, but knew that I had planned this victory for years, so she set about debugging my miniature la femme nikita with retail therapy. A procession of Barbies, Little Mermaids and Princess Jasmines followed and Mum began to incubate the ultimate revenge.
My baby brother was born less than a year later and we joked that Dad was the Fat Controller and bought lots of Bananas in Pyjamas merchandise. But, the extended family couldn't help themselves, and before the year was out my little bro had the complete set of tank engines. By this time, I'd moved out of home and was powerless to do anything but watch in horror.
When his first word was 'Thomas', I was more than a little chuffed, but when James, Henry, Edward and Percy followed, Mum took him to see a psychologist. The quack said that it was common among little boys, although she had never seen such an extreme case, and it was her opinion that my brother could only associate people with T.V. shows. Therefore, he saw Mum as the Station-master, me as you know who, our aunty Caroline was a little red bus and as for Dad, well if you put him into pin-stripe trousers, tails and a top-hat, you'd confuse him for the Fat controller too.
As he grew, the little pecker manifested a prodigious strength, no doubt due to the fact that he carried a tank engine in each hand 24-7. He also became a petty-thief, tearing open packets in toy-stores, and dumping the loot down his nappy. One Christmas, when he was five, I bought him a little Michael-Angelo action figure. Mum teed him up on the telephone to say thank-you.
"Thom, why do you like Ninja Turtles?"
"Because their gnarly dude, totally bodacious
Cowabunga man!"
There was a brief silence on the other end before he spoke next.
"Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are gay!"
Out of the mouths of babes! I wondered if I was too out-dated to be a big brother or if the evil regime had turned him to the dark side once and for all. In a desperate bid to rectify the situation, Mum put him in the local soccer team. He'd run around with Edward in one hand and Clarabelle in the other, pretending to be a train. Then the coach suggested that he play goalie, so Mum prized the engines out of his hands and replaced them with gloves. He was an overnight sensation, the best goal-keeper New Brighton 2nd division under sixes had ever seen. Mum got made team manager and the psychologist declared the whole exercise a success.
The side-effects on me were profound. I started going to Irish pubs, picking fights with English Football supporters :
"Ah hate Arse-an-all! Mah Moomz a better manager than yrs ez!"
So how, you might ask, did this ruin my life? Well aside from the fact that my siblings are still in the midst of impressionable adolescence, they now lead normal lives untainted by that damnable tank engine.
But, I have a few issues left unresolved. You see, forty-five out of every hundred new baby boys born in Australia are named Thomas. So, when I go out in public, I have to steel myself against reacting when my name is called out. But I still can't go down the lolly aisle at Woolies.
"Thomas, put those chocolate biscuits back on the shelf!"
The first time this happened my bowels loosened and it was near thing to get to the Public Toilets. Nowadays, I just grit my teeth, suppress the urge to slap the parent to their senses and book an appointment with my shrink.
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