“I can fly Mommy!” Johnny squeaked.
“Of course you can” his knitting mother half-heartedly replied.
“No really Mommy, look!” Johnny cried with desperation.
“Yes dear, I heard you the first time.”
“But you’re not looking. You have to look, Mom. Just once before you die. It would mean the world to me.”
“Johnny, Listen to me. You’re 38 years old. You’re 5 foot 6 and pushing 300 pounds. You can’t actually fly. And on top of that, I’m not dying. Remember?”
“But I can fly Momma! Just watch! Just watch this one time!”
His mother sighed. She looked at him, exasperated. “Okay, go ahead Johnny. I’m watching.”
He smiled his biggest smile. He crouched awkwardly in preparation for his imminent ascent. Drew a deep breath. Leaped. Flew.
At that exact moment, an eighteen wheeler hit them both at eighty-five miles an hour, instantly killing them and their dog, Rastafarian.
And that, dear children, is why we don’t spend our free time in the middle of Vancouver.