My sons room is jacked and I'm not sure what to make of this.  I am at a loss which is unusual for me.  There is no little awkward joke coming from me.  There is no smart quip that reflects the woes of society, nicely packaged in a one line zinger that I would say to the dog, my most trusted companion.  Except when he shits on the floor or eats the garbage.  Then I don't like him.  But most times, he's man's best friend and the eater of all things that fall on the floor, let us give thanks.

The dog and I are looking at my son's room.  I am speechless because I don't know what to say.  He is speechless because he is a fucking dog.  Regardless, we both just look at my son's room and decide what to make of this.  He farts.  He blames me.  The comedy breaks our silence.

"What the hell man??" I tell the dog who still decides its not the time to talk.

Being a father has shown me a lot of things in my time.  I have seen poop smeared on walls, I have seen crayons used on walls, I have seen gallons of snot used to create masterpieces on walls.  I have lost a lot of walls in my time as a father.  But this, this is a new one on me.

On my son's walls........

There is nothing.

But the horror doesn't end there. There is nothing on his floor either.  There is nothing on his bed, there is nothing here or there, there is nothing everywhere.

Now I know that it may seem like I have lost my mind or my sight.  You are probably thinking, Hossman, your son cleaned his room.  Great for him.  Go eat a hot dog and stop writing about stupid crappola.  

But if you read my blog, then you know such a thing is not possible.  Have we not mentioned the horror of the walls?

There are no posters on his walls.  I have no idea how he tore them down.  There are no books in his bookshelf.  There are no shelves in his book shelf.  There are no pillows on his bed.  There are no covers on his bed, there are no sheets on his bed.  There are toys on the floor, there are no toys in the toy box, there is no toy box.

I look at the dresser.  There is a lamp, a solitary lamp pushed all the way back to the wall.  But there is nothing else on top of the dresser.  There is no piggy bank, there is no school photo, there is no nail gun.  Not that there should be one up there but on occasion I do leave tools lying around where my children can get them and maim me while I sleep.  It's a game we play called "cripple dad".  I'm still winning but there have been some close matches.

I open the drawers.  There are no clothes in the drawers.  No pants, no shirts, no pjs.  In the top drawer though there is still some underwear but not as much as there should be.

In short, my son's room is bare.  It looks like someone just dumped a mattress in here and then took off on a union break.  All of his belongings are gone, everything, gone.

I have made enemies in my past, this I know.  I may have told a few people that they should take on as a tutor the local baboons so that they could learn some manners.  I may have inferred to some in my past that a tick on the ass of my trusted dog is a better companion.  Sure, I don't know when to temper it sometimes, but still, this goes to far.  My son's stuff has been jacked.

But of course I immediately go to my first suspicion, aliens.  I have killed more than my fair share of aliens.  I have round them up in the online gaming world and marched them into oblivion.  Aliens have no sense of honor though and they have decided that this is the only way to get back at me for the years of painful defeats I have put them through.

Then my son walks in and shatters that idea.  I do believe, Mr. Watson, that we have a lead.

"Where is your sister?" I ask him.  I know, my head shouldn't go there first, but c'mon, it's my daughter.  This is the type of thing she would do.

"At school"  he says.  Intriguing.  The plot gets thicker.

"Ok."  I say.  "Hey buddy......"

"Yea dad?"

"Where's all your stuff man?"

"Oh!" he says with a big smile on his face. 

"We hid it!" he tells me, still very excited.

"Who is we?" I ask.

"Daaaaaddddddddd"  he says.  "Me and my friends silly!"  he tells me like somehow I am now the idiot.  But it begins to make sense.  We had playgroup today.  He had his friends over.  They went to play in his room.  They were quiet, they were nice.  They came down and ate lunch.  They didn't say a word, they didn't act different at all.

He goes to his closet and tries to open the door, but he can't.  He's pushing on it with all his might and yet, it only opens about a foot and then stops.  He slips inside and vanishes.  I am intrigued and terrified at the same time.

I go over to the door and I push.  It doesn't budge, something is pushing back.  I get it open just enough to stick my head in.

And there it is.  All of his shit.  Everything in the world that he owns is right there, crammed inside a tiny little closet.  Every book, scrap of clothing, posters, toys, wall decorations, everything.  And on top of this huge pile of junk sits my son on his thrown of possession.

"What the hell man!" I say.

"Fooled you!"  he says.  "We hid it!"  I need to tell him to stop hanging out with his sister, she's a bad influence.  My nice little boy has become a criminal mastermind.  What begins as just cleaning out a room now will soon turn into cleaning out a bank vault and hiding in caves.   He will spend his ill begotten earnings on ice cream and power rangers crap.  I don't mind the ice cream but the power rangers stuff sends shivers down my spine.  That's no way for a grown man to live.

I tell the other families at playgroup what happened, how their sons may have corrupted my sweet innocent evil genius boy.  However, I leave one out.  A sweet little girl, Papascrums kid.  She's nice and respectful and mostly shy.  The only innocent in this debauchery of the jacked up room.

"Oh no she was in on it to!" Mrs. Papascrum tells me.  This is her direct quote:  "Want to make sure she gets the street cred she deserves"

There it is.  There is Soze.  And poof, she's gone.  

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