Nor was it my concern over saving our precious planet from the enormous Yeti-sized carbon footprint of trade-deficit inducing, pieces of crap, decidedly un-green and unfairly labored Chinese-imported plastic badness.
I wish I were that noble.
Instead, I tossed some pieces of cardboard packing material into the recycling bin, more concerned about calculating my garbage day strategy than being virtuous.
The boys saw opportunity.
For mess.
Er, I mean ART.
One man's box is another man's racetrack.
The racetrack transformed to a beach that sharks could jump out of, or dinosaurs, or whales. "Race car" yelled Sam, so Max suggested that race cars could jump out of the ocean, too, if they are blue like blue whales. Or, white like Belugas. But not red, like McQueen, since whales aren't red. **
A born negotiator.
Ocean meets up with the jungle and a surfin' safari is born. A surfin' safari with big-engined cars. I think The Beach Boys produced a similarly themed album circa 1962.
Fun, fun, fun 'til Mama takes the paintbrush away.
** You're right, Max, whales aren't red, except when they're harpooned, I thought. But I didn't say that out loud. I'll wait until they're in kindergarten before I go all Greenpeace on them.
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