A Story. About Scissors.

Once upon a time there lived a family.  There was a father, a mother, and three sons.  Though everyone in the family loved each other very much, they had an uncontrollable desire to irritate the ever-lovin' fire out of one another.

On one particular rainy day, the mother of the family was working on a very last minute project.  For the project, she needed her good sewing scissors.  The scissors being the ones that are placed in the mother's equivalent to Ft. Knox to keep them safe.  For the mother knows that if she were to leave her good sewing scissors within reach of her family, then they would inevitably be used for everything from opening packets of beef jerky to giving the family cat a haircut.  And this would make the mother want to scream at the top of her lungs and make unrecognizable noises.

So as the mother walked to Ft. Knox to retrieve her safely kept sewing shears, a funny feeling began to gurgle in her stomach.

What's this?  Surely the scissors are safe and sound.

The mother proceeds with extreme caution.  Surely her feelings are wrong.  Her beloved scissors with their pristine blades and sharp tips are most certainly going to be waiting for her. 

But, alas, as the mother opens up the cabinet and takes out the drawer which holds the majestic pair of cutivity, her heart sinks.  Then begins to pound wildly.  Where, oh, where, are the scissors?  No one knew of the sacred hiding spot but her.  Who could have done this?  Surely the scissors of such valued snippery were involved in some kind of cutlery rapture.  Anything but what she knew was horrifyingly a more likely possibility.

The mother turned slowly from the cabinet and drew in a deep breath.  With the breath, horns sprouted and fangs grew.  The healthy hue of her skin turned to a putrid shade of green, and steam became to vomit from both her ears.

The three sons who were presumably involved so innocently in a round of video games must have heard the stampede of terror that was heading straight for them.  Their faces turned to see their gargoyle of a mother figure forming words with her mouth, but because of her level of angst, no sound was made.  All three sons instantly threw up their hands in an "I surrender" position and then immediately ducked and covered. 

The mother began to regain composure as she questioned her offspring about the missing jewels of the clipper crown.  And though she hoped for a straight answer as to who had done what with the one thing that had, up until this time, remained sacred in her overrun-with-testosterone home, all she was met with were shoulders shoved up into earlobes and dazed over gazes.

The mother walked away to count to 3253 when she stumbled across something.  Something that made sheer panic squirm through every inch of vein. 

For there, on the table, were the scissors.  Those blessed slicers of wonder.  Covered.  In a hearty coat of tacky glue.

And 3 innocent faces claiming absolutely no idea of how such a blasphemous ordeal could have happened.

Oy.

Once upon a time there lived a family.

The living happily ever after part has yet to be determined.