Things I Cannot Explain

Well, boys in general.  But in particular...

You'd think I was trying to kill them, asking them to write a two paragraph summary of what we've covered in history.  Or getting them to write much of anything.

But in the thirty minutes I spent checking email and reading blogs before school this morning, the three of them jointly wrote a story.  Granted, it was not exactly a literary masterpiece, but GOOD GOLLY MISS MOLLY it was seven pages long!  In usual testosterzone fashion, it was an action-packed, globe-spanning epic.  There were the inevitable explosions and militant rabbits and battles and nuclear-whatever and odd runway vehicles.  And priceless gems, such as this:

The seats were tossed about, funneling Irish* Indiana Jones fans through the windshield into the Wiener-Mobile.  It crashed through the wall, Irish movie-goers clinging to all parts of the thundering hot dog.

But write about Indira Gandhi?  Or taxonomy?  Surely you jest.

* (No Irishmen were harmed in the telling of this tale.)

P.S.  Can I just tell you, in the midst of all the raw BOY-ness of their story, how adorable I find the way Gunnar uses the word presently?  He's been reading The Secret Garden again.