February 23, 2005 - Wednesday | 8:12 AM, CST

With this entry, I intend on answering a question which has plagued mankind since the dawn of its creation. A question that has driven philosophers and Biblical scholars to madness and suicide with its impossibility. A question that, until now, rivaled the meaning of life in importance and magnitude. That question, my friends, is

"Why can't a grown man build himself a sandbox in his own back yard?"

Yes I said it. And its a good thing you're all sitting down. Now that I'm done shocking you, I have to ask, Why can't someone build themselves a sandbox in their own backyard? Since moving out of my Mom's house nearly a year and a half ago, I've wondered what sort of great and awe-inspiring things I could do now that I had a house of my own and nearly three acres of private wooded property. Building myself a sandbox was one of the first things that came to mind.

Back when I was a strapping young lad, our backyard contained an area of sand - roughly a foot deep and eight feet in diameter. In that sandbox, I dug out a series of holes, ranging anywhere from several inches deep to up to two and a half feet deep... all interconnected by rusty old pipes I had scavenged from the area. I called this creation Water World (this was before the movie of the same name was produced).

Anyway, at times I'd take the garden hose and stick it inside the primary reservior, watching as my homemade earthworks plumbing drained into each succeeding hole. Around the perimeter of these holes I planted tufts of grass and weeds, which I fancied would be the rival of the ancient, hanging gardens of Babylon (in minature, of course). There were fortifications for my toy army men consisting of barracks, fox holes, and furnaces. In some of the deeper holes, I carved out caverns into the sides in my rendition of Egypt's Valley of the Kings. I'd search the yard for dead snakes and toads, place them in plastic baggies filled with cheap Avon perfume, and seal them up with some mud and a flat stone.

Oh it was a sight to behold!

But unfortunately, Mom felt this presented some kind of tripping hazard to guests less accustomed to such a glorious creation, and I was eventually nagged into filling it in with dirt. Plus, washing the mud off your body before you go inside and fling yourself on the couch is not a ten year old's first priority.

Now, however, no one is standing in my way...

Soon I will be unstoppable.

grokkings

Bloomer enjoys vomitting.

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