I’m not gonna beat around the bush here.
The coyote scared the ever living shit out of me when I was a kid.
As a matter of fact, I would’ve risked severing a finger or an entire arm to prevent the farmer from landing on the evil son-of-a-bitch coyote.
Who’s dumbass idea was it to mix frightening coyote howls with innocent pets and barnyard animals, and plop them onto a preschool toy, anyway?
That person was one sick fuck.
I guess it’s possible that the toy people got stoned one night during a pow-wow and thought it would be funny.
“We have dog, cat, frog, bird, cow… and a rabid evil one-eyed coyote from Hell!!”
Why not cut through the bullshit and just make it a flesh-eating zombie werewolf?
At least then, the children’s fears would be somewhat validated, opening up the possibility for lifetime therapy coverage under some sort of mental health clause.
Also, they would have peace of mind and the opportunity to play with their Farmer Says toy when the moons phase was anything less than full.
A SAFE period.
Quite frankly, I’m astonished that scary coyote actually made it into the year 2013, which happens to be a time synonymous with everything-that’s-politically-correct and a generation of coddled sugar-coated children.
It was probably an oversight.
In fact, I’m certain once the toy people-who-used-to-smoke-pot during pow-wows read this, they’ll promptly replace the coyote with a harmless butterfly or goldfish.
The goldfish says… Glob glob
The butterfly says… whoooosh??
The children would certainly be on the edge of their seats.
Cushy padded seats with seatbelts.
Just as I am, sitting here in my living room listening to the coyote mayhem coming from the woods across the street.
I live in Central New York and NOT Transylvania.
Same time every night.
Sometimes they just Ahh-whoooooooooooooo!!!
Which is fine with me.
Other nights, they yelp like they’re playing a game of drunken twister on a mat of hot coals.
My official Extreme Mom theory is- it’s grocery night.
Mother coyote goes shopping and brings home like a box of Hostess Cupcakes, Ding Dongs or Twinkies and the juveniles fight to the finish over who gets the last delicious chemical-filled spongy treat.
I know that’s EXACTLY how it went down in my house.
Survival of the fittest.
Grocery day was once a week in the 70’s.
When it was gone, it was gone.
There was none of this- running to the store every day because we’re out of Frootloops nonsense.
If you ran out of Frootloops, you ate cooked bread, which was also known as plain toast.
We were raised tough in the 70’s.
I still stand firm to my conviction that incorporating shrill coyote howls into a preschool toy was in fact hitting below the belt.
I also suppose it’s possible that the pack was squabbling over something wilder like a rodent or bird carcass, but I prefer to think not.
Lab created created pastries sound more appetizing, civilized and slightly less scary.
Although… and not to burst America’s imitation pastry bubble or anything, but chances are… road kill is probably healthier for you.
Someone should probably study the nutritional value of roadkill vs. processed baked goods.
Perhaps, launch a redneck reality show, kinda like Myth Busters, that attempts to debunk urban myths.
The concept would be similar, except with more balls and less brain.
This particular show would be the poster child for… Do NOT try this at home.
Also, beer companies would jump at this lucrative endorsement opportunity.
There are so many deranged possibilities, that I shall file this beauty away for an entirely separate post.
On a closing note- the hippy toy makers-who-smoked-weed during pow-wows left out a lot of worthy animals
I’d like to recognize.
Put your hands together for the monkey, elephant and jackass.
My top three picks, even if they don’t belong on a farm… because after-all, life’s a 3-ring circus.