I was to meet my wife and some friends in midtown last night after work, but reached our meeting spot way in advance (I'm chronically punctual). To kill some time, I ducked out of the rain into the sprawling F.A.O Schwarz on 59th street. I honestly can't recall the last time I'd stopped in there, but it can't have been within the last fifteen years. Peggy and I have yet to let our kids loose in the world's most famous toy store, let alone inform them of its existence. Suffice to say, had Charlotte & Oliver been with me, their precious little heads would have completely exploded. Even after all these years, it can still prompt even the most jaded adult to utter things like "gosh that's cool" and/or "why didn't they have these when I was a kid?"
In any case, as I was strolling about, I was struck by a something on the Smurf table. You remember Smurfs – those strange little blue, German gremlins who were all the rage back in the 80s. Who knew they were still making them? In any case, among the latest vocations the Smurfs have embraced (you'll remember that each Smurf was defined by his specific function in the Smurf community, except for the lone female Smurf – "Smurfette" – whose sole purpose was seemingly to incite rampant sexual hysteria among her frustrated Smurf brethren), I noticed some novel ones like "heavy metal drummer Smurf" and "Indian Chief Smurf". One stopped me dead in my tracks, though. I instantly snatched him up and walked to the counter to plunk down my four dollars for him.
Evidently, even the Smurfs have existential quandaries and believe in the personification of death. Ladies & gentleman, look upon his works and shudder as I present to you…..GRIM REAPY SMURF!
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