LAUGH LINES : All He Wants for Christmas Is a 1-Piece Toy
Although authorities have yet to pinpoint the exact day, American know-how disappeared sometime during the Eisenhower Administration, probably during the first term.
This becomes especially apparent this time of year as fathers across America struggle to assemble their children’s Christmas toys.
Armed only with a screwdriver--though some prefer a double-malt Scotch or cold beer--a father will head to the quiet part of the house where he will cuss and sweat for three hours before finally coming to the conclusion that his wife is to blame for buying such a %&$”!@+! complicated toy in the first place, and why didn’t she just marry a mechanical engineer or something?
The wife, meanwhile, will be astonished at her husband’s lack of manual dexterity. She clearly recalls when they were first dating, and how quickly he was once able to unhook a brassiere--on a moonless night, in the cramped back seat of a car, after too many beers.
The same fingers that could perform that task in milliseconds now take several hours to do something as simple as snapping a hood ornament onto a Barbie Mustang.
In dad’s defense, it should be noted that there are several factors that complicate toy assembly:
Factor No. 1: One piece of the toy or its fasteners is always missing. Always. The scientific explanation--stop me if I’m getting too technical--is that every Christmas tree has an invisible force field that sucks toy parts up into the tree’s internal organs, never to be seen again. Unfortunately, this force field will never suck up fruit cakes or really ugly neckties.
Factor No. 2: Toy assembly directions are totally useless. This is because all directions are written by nerdy engineers from the planet Zygor and then translated into English by students at a mail-order correspondence course on Guam. This can result in several possible misinterpretations. For example, in Zygor, “Some assembly required” actually means “You will have to put together several thousand pieces, none of which are numbered or even included, then apply decals and paint. Please allow yourself two years. Lots of luck, pal.”
Meanwhile, some of this misinterpretation can be avoided. One way is to hold the directions up to a mirror and squint while you read them. Another way is to drop to your knees and pray.
Or you can do what I do: Throw the directions away, have another beer and assemble the entire toy using rolls and rolls of duct tape.
For example, I once repaired a racetrack circuit using duct tape, a broken Christmas ornament and a piece of mildly damp chewing gum.
A couple words of warning here:
* While duct tape is your best friend, there is such a thing as too much. If you’re not careful, a roll of duct tape--super sticky and super strong--tapes itself to itself. As you try to straighten it, the tape gets all over your fingers like some sort of lethal cotton candy.
I once became so entangled in a wad of duct tape that I fell over and got stuck to the living room carpeting, creating a sort of Velcro situation. I had to be freed by several paramedics using crowbars and a Jaws of Life.
* Warning No. 2 is that while an alcoholic beverage sometimes smoothes out the toy assembly process, there comes a point where it becomes counterproductive.
For example, if you find yourself slow dancing with the Christmas tree at 2 a.m., it’s probably time to switch to coffee.
If you end up in that situation, and I know at least one father who has, my advice is to simply put the tree down and walk away like nothing ever happened--before the tree sucks up your wallet with its invisible force field.
But the most obvious answer to this entire assembly problem--an idea that someday will sweep the toy industry and for which I now hereby claim the patent--is this:
All toys should be put together with brassiere snaps.
