Juice Mug Glug
“Mommy, I’m thirsty.â? I would pip-squeak upwards to my tall, towering mother. The fridge door would whump open. Glug, glug, glug the jug would go.
“Here you are sweetheart,â? she would say.
I’d grasp the mug with both hands and drink with a protruding bottom lip suctioning as a ramp for the flow of juice.
Glikk, Glikk, Glikk I’d gulp.
I pretended that I didn’t know who reflected at the bottom of my empty mug. “Who’s that bad man?â? I’d mutter under my breath through syrupy lips messing up my pronunciation.
The person at the bottom of the mug looked sinister somehow. Maybe he just stole some money and then
purposely drove through a large puddle, soaking some well-to-do school children with his get-away car, I would think.
Or, maybe the bad man just pointed and laughed directly at a homeless man, continuing to belittle him with neanderthal gestures until he broke down and cried.
“Whadda bad, bad man.â? I’d say like Elmer Fudd—unable to express my thoughts clearly. Unrefined imagination.