A few years ago, I arranged a deal whereby I got him out on home-monitoring. I had the house set up with wireless internet. Really, it's marginally better than the office. He's still working all the time, but he doesn't have to wear the pinstripes or the uncomfortable shoes when he's at home. In exchange, however, they have required him to wear the prison gear to outings like Father-Son basketball practice. Johnny Cash would be proud; Ryan's "got stripes, stripes are on his shoulders..."
The kids and I have had enough; we're bustin' him out. Maguire's the mastermind, and Gan is the muscle. Roj and I are in charge of supplies and, for obvious reasons, the getaway car.
I can't go into all the details, because I don't want WP (aka the Word Processing department - their first line of defense) to have time to prepare. But Gan's backpack is loaded up with his Nerf dart gun and two 48-dart refill packs. Maguire is loaded up with rubber bands and hair ribbons, in case we need to take prisoners. My preparations are slightly different, more organic, so to speak. I'm going to feed Roj two jars of baby pears. (If you've read my previous posts about Roj and baby food, you'll know this is no small feat. It's gonna be over 20 degrees tomorrow so I think I'll do it outside.) Why pears, you ask? Well, have you ever smelled a baby diaper after the baby's had pears? If so, you wouldn't be asking the question. The diapers will serve as our grenades. We're gonna canvass the 38th floor with them to smokescreen our getaway.
We're comin' for you Daddy. Just hang tight.
Momma T and the Mighty Murphys
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