The blame game
Charlie has acquired henchmen. That's the only term that really fits the large network of useful stooges he's painstakingly built over the last couple of months. To a one they are brave, loyal, and ready to take the fall for him. And, as it happens, inanimate.
It's not that Charlie thinks plain, unflavored milk — which we have taught him to call Milk Classic — is boring. No, that's Godzilla's problem. Charlie's just reporting. "Godzilla would like some chocolate milk," he confides, poking me with his hard plastic action figure as I'm making him a snack. And then, adopting the higher-pitched voice he uses when he's imitating me, "That's a good idea." Yeah, get Godzilla a MacArthur grant. That monster's a goddamn genius.
And it's not Charlie gleefully wrecking things just for the manly rush of it. It's that bloodthirsty stuffed sonofabitch Babar. Babar, I am told, "wants to knock down a tower." Then Charlie, as part of a minuscule but sincere coalition of the willing, helps Babar over to the newly built foam block citadel, takes Babar's hand — if indeed that is the correct word for the featureless stump protruding from his emerald green velveteen sleeve — and assists him in an act of destruction so staggering that never again will the French be called peanut-eating surrender elephants.
It is Snoopy who needs a diaper change. Sock monkey who "wants to put on boots and coat and mittens and go outside inna dark at nighttime yes." Bert who wants to read the 2003 Fine Cooking holiday baking issue. (I can't really blame him for that. Would you want to get roughed up for failing to pay proper tribute to Cookie Monster?) And it's evil Bendy who is really fucking sick of listening to Steely Dan's Aja every time he gets in the car so could he please listen to something else? And, no, he does not mean Can't Buy a Thrill. Jesus, he'd almost be tempted to believe you'd never heard of a little thing called Kindermusik.
I find this development more than a little troubling. As yet, Charlie shows no inclination to finger his accomplices for his own misbehavior. It'll happen, though, as soon as it occurs to him that Babar, having no discernible mouth, can't rat him out; Godzilla leaves no fingerprints; and evil Bendy, possessing neither eternal soul in mortal jeopardy nor anything resembling court-admissible DNA, is the perfect plastic patsy. And then maybe, if Charlie can keep his own trap shut, he'll get off completely scot-free.
But, listen, don't get cocky, son. Judith Regan and Rupert Murdoch eat kids like you for breakfast.