Child malapropisms.
They’re one of the few true joys of parenthood. Lest you think it’s insensitive to laugh at the nascent vocabulary of our young charges, may I remind you that as parents you’re grasping for something, literally anything, to help us get through the day without a mandated visit from Child Protective Services. You need a little chuckle now and again to distract you from the fact that the top floor of your house smells like the men’s rest room at Citizen’s Bank Park, and most likely will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.
Like most of the children born between 1995-present, my boys enjoy the cinematic stylings of Pixar Animation Studios. The first movie my oldest son saw in an actual theater was the weakest link in Pixar’s canon, Cars. If you’re not privy to the plots of recent animated fare, Cars is Pixar’s creepy talking vehicle opus to finding work/life balance. Of course, this celluloid exposure lead to countless viewings, a merchandise acquisition spree, and the unfortunate welding of Rascal Flatts’ re-imagining of Tom Cochrane’s “Life is a Highway” to one of my six available remaining neural pathways.
Cars stayed with my family for so long, that my second son began to show an interest in the movie and toys as well. He took a particular shine to the protagonist of the Cars universe, Lightning McQueen.
Only he didn’t call him that.
He insisted his correct name was Lightning the Queen.
I like to imagine a fully formed world inhabited by talking cars where Lightning the Queen leaves Radiator Springs and the warm embrace of Sally and moves to South Beach. Soon, he’s setting up house with a little Fiat voiced by Nathan Lane. Three’s Company style mis-understandings and hi-jinks ensue.
Now that’s a Cars sequel I would pay cash-money to see.
