“Ah, Sigmund,” mused Charlie as he jostled the bobblehead, “What would you do about mother?”
“Dr. Freud can’t help you now, loser,” teased his brother Kale. The two lay on their respective beds, each one fully dressed on top of the covers. The morning sun hid behind a thick blanket of clouds presently pouring rain down on the county. The sky was so full of water, Charlie figured his fish could live as well outside as it did in its bowl.
“I don’t see why she’s so mad. I mean, we’re going camping. When else would I use a pocketknife?”
“Dude, that wasn’t a pocketknife! You had a friggin’ switchblade.”
“Technically, it’s a folding knife”, and not a switchblade,” Charlie corrected.
“I don’t think mom gets the distinction, doofus.”
Charlie sighed and bounced the racquet ball on the wall past his feet, “Not like it would have been a fun trip anyway, on account of the rain.”
“Yeah,” Kale agreed, “We’d probably wind up stuck in the cabin, singing songs, and dad would wind up in the coconut bra again.”