Spare Me the Smurfs
I did not know how bad sumnwer would be. But it ended fine. I did good stuff. It was so much fun. I was wrong then.
I don’t know the somewhere in question, but it was probably a grown-ups house. If it “ended fine” it probably meant they had kids my age, toys, or a television for me to watch in private. Either way, a valuable lesson in reaping the rewards of low expectations.
In the morning I wach good cartoons. Sometimes I do not have things to do on Saturdays. But today I do have things to do.
These days, I never lament not “having things to do” on Saturdays; I love having stretches of unstructured time. Watching cartoons is never the yardstick by which I measure a busy day either (if only). Back then, if I didn’t wake up somewhat early on Saturdays, I’d be stuck with nothing to watch but the Smurfs. I never understood why they got their own 90-minute show when they were so repetitive and bland. Of the thousands of Smurfs, less than a dozen had names and personalities, and only one of them was pretty (Smurfette). I thought it must be lonely for her not to have any other girl Smurfs to go shopping or talk on the phone with. And that habit of replacing any word with “smurf” (“this ice cream is smurfy!”)? Downright lazy linguistics if you ask me.
I would have rather watched Thundercats for those 90 minutes.