Help! Help! Can You Get Me Outta Here!!!

by

I remember going to Cracker Barrel with my dad for dinner 9 or 10 years ago. We were looking around the store, minding our own business, when I heard something shake on one of the shelves and a loud recording shout, “HELP! HELP! CAN YOU GET ME OUTTA HERE!” I had no idea where the little guy yelling was located, and he sounded desperate, so I followed the strained cries for help until I came to a shelf in the toy section where several small plastic boxes (about the size of a Rubics Cube) were lined up. The boxes looked just like the wooden box that the Tasmanian Devil in the cartoons was shipped in with a small hole for his eye to peek through and traveling stickers all over the box.

The four or so other identical boxes remained perfectly quiet and still in their respective places on the shelf.  However, this one particular toy could not stop screaming for help. I thought it was quite funny at first. I mean, I felt sorry for the guy, but it was the WAY he yelled that made it funny. I even called my dad over to look at it. We both laughed. Shortly thereafter, we sat down for our dinner, and after dinner, we walked back into the store on our way out. He was STILL yelling for help to get out of that tiny box. This time though, I found it annoying. It was the 107th time I had heard the phrase “Help! Help! Can you get me outta here!” in less than two hours and I had enough. So had my dad. As soon as my dad paid for dinner, we left faster than you could say, “Help! Help! Can you get me outta here!”

All of this to say that now, I think I understand how he felt. Recently, my car (may it rest in peace) was driven to the junk yard to be scrapped. We have a bus system, but it is inefficient. We do not have a metro. My mom and sister use our two cars for work, and I am left at home with no way to get anywhere. I have no form of transportation other than my own two feet. Now, I feel like screaming, “Help! Help! Can you get me outta here!” and I do not think anyone is listening.

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