WHAT: Señor Tortuga, a turtle puppet I’ve had since I was 12.
(And if anyone intends to start in on how juvenile and immature I am in keeping my old toys, they’ll be treated to a serious lecture on childhood keepsakes—and their importance in chronicling a young girl’s journey into adulthood—just before I whack them over the head with my Penny Brite doll.)
HOW: Unknown. Either Mojo learned how to open doors—or somebody is covering up a conspiracy to commit turtle-cide.
SQUIRT: (solemnly) Mom, I have some bad news about Señor Tortuga. (exhibits the remains)
HUBBY: Aww, honey, little El Torito got all chewed up!
BONNIE: That dang dog!
HUBBY: Little Señor Tortilla! He survived our boys, but he couldn’t survive the Mojo.
BONNIE: But he was in the closet! How did he get from the closet to the Bulldog Jaws of Doom?
SQUIRT: That’s the weird thing, Mom! I have NO IDEA.
(Mojo starts sniffing at the remains of Señor Tortuga)
BONNIE: Get away from there, you… you… TURTLE KILLER!
HUBBY: Aw, you can’t blame him for wanting a little Mexican food every now and then! And it’s not so bad. A little needle and thread, and your little Totoro will be as good as new.