Little Monsters Under the Bed – Curse #Brtzzzz123

Posted on August 19, 2010


When I was eight I bought a little monster for fifty cents at a yard sale.

“Great investment,” my Dad said. And that was great, because Dad’s approval meant a lot.

“Great investment,” I said to the little monster, which really boosted his self esteem.

We crawled under my bed and I told him that he lived there now. I fed him Jello pudding. While he inhaled it I stole a glimpse of his wicked fangs.

‘Wascally wabbit,” my little monster croaked. What he really meant was ‘thank you’, but he only spoke in Elmer Fudd. His previous owner only let him watch Looney Tunes for fun. I never asked why.

The little monster was hard to control. He chased the neighborhood kids and their pets. Once he ate the neighbors Pomeranian, but I swatted him on the snout, hard. “Scwewy wabbit!” he burped in pain. What he really meant to say was ‘ow, that hurt, Ass.’

After the Pomeranian confrontation, the little monster and I grew to be best friends. We were inseparable. We played childhood adventure games in ditches with sticks and boards. We ate popsicles till we puked all over each other.

‘Your monster is cuter than you!’ Daisy Doflo shouted from across the street one day. Even at thirteen Daisy was a flirt. My monster beamed with pride. The whole incident really boosted his self esteem.

I fell in love.

During high school dad grew sick. Me and my little monster had to take care of him. I would mow the lawn and my little monster would cook butternut soup for Dad.

It was my senior year that people started to talk.

“Is he ever going to get rid of that little monster? It’s kind of sad.”

“Yeah, I hear he still sleeps in G.I. Joe pajamas.”

“No girl will ever touch that.”

“I bet Daisy Doflo will.”

“Do you guys think that the little monster might be a representation of his fear of being alone, or without a mother, and thus projected here, in our world, in a merely metaphorical sense?”


“Nevermind. You guys are right. What a loser!”

Despite the rumors and numerous photographs taken of me with my little monster, Daisy Doflo agreed to be my date to prom. I dressed up in a nice suit I picked out from Costco.

“Great investment,” my Dad said. And that was great, because Dad’s approval still meant a lot.

My little monster tried to follow me to the door.

“No, no,” I said. I picked him up and carried him to our room, sitting him under the bed.

“Be vewwy, vewwy quite,” my little monster cooed. What he meant to say was that he didn’t understand. Why couldn’t he come too?

One half of the reason was embarrassment. Everyone already thought I was a loser. The other half of the reason was how my little monster stared after Daisy. Ever since that one time, back when I was twelve, he had developed a crush on her. I knew this because he would write her name with peas during dinner and sketch coarse pictures of her with green crayons all over the bedroom walls.

Two years after graduation Daisy and I got married. We bought dad’s house from the bank.

“Great investment,” I imagined my Dad would say, if he had still been around. And that would have been great. Dad’s approval was something I wondered about from time to time.

We kept my little monster. Once in awhile I caught stray glances towards Daisy, but overall he seemed to behave. I once caught him saying, “Im hunting wabbits.” I’m not sure what he meant by that, but he was still my best friend and when Daisy wasn’t looking we would watch Bugs Bunny or blow something up with fireworks.

Apparently little monsters have long life spans. Way better than the mileage you get out of a dog or cat or ferret. Years later Daisy and I would make babies and some day my little monster would live under their beds.