This morning, as I was trying to sneak a quick nap in the recliner before time to wake the boys, while Hitch enjoyed the prime shower time, I had the most scathingly brilliant idea.
I'm going to design an amusement park ride called The Screaming ZZZs.
The ride is a cross between a roller coaster and a haunted house. The cars will be shaped like recliners. As the bar closes, it will cover the thrill-seeker with a hand-knit afghan. Styles will alternate, with one car having an orange/brown/olive green loose-weave afghan, and the next having a cream, tight-knit, afghan embroidered with Master Teacher.
The track will not have outrageous loops, lip-pulling g-forces, Indiana-Jones-mine-car chasms, or record-breaking heights. The scare comes not from the fear of death by flying off the track. It comes from heart-thumping shocks to the system every five to seven minutes.
The Screaming ZZZs is a long ride, you see. Patrons have time to snuggle under the toasty afghans, close their eyes, coast themselves to sleep with the gentle swaying of the recliner-cars, and then all not-heaven breaks loose!
An ear-splitting tone startles the slumberers. Riders are rudely awakened by various alarms. A cuckoo here, a heavy chime there, a cell phone electronic beep, a Toby Keith song, a resounding clunk. The recliner-car passengers snap bolt upright. Their collective hearts thud in their collective chests. Their bugged-out eyes can discern no landmarks in the inky darkness. Slowly, they recover. And lean back. And drift off again. Until the next onslaught of auditory assault.
Or maybe that's just something I dreamed at 5:35 this morning.