Man Overbored

We’d done jumping jacks, we’d painted, we’d played every outdoor game that we could, we’d baked and crafted and read stories and had baths. I had run out of ideas.

“I’m also bored,” I said.

That stumped them. They suggested I do jumping jacks, and I managed 30, to rousing cheers. They suggested I do a handstand. I found, to my amazement, that I could still cartwheel across the room. My little audience went wild. They suggested that I paint the walls. I demurred; I know my children’s helpful inclinations, and preferred to tackle that particular task in the dead of night, undisturbed. They suggested I bake them treats, but didn’t have the patience to wait for me to actually bake anything. I suggested that I have a nice quiet bath. They said worriedly that that sounded far too boring.

We sat opposite each other on the floor.

“We’re boooooreeeed!” the children began again.

Inspiration struck. “You think you’re bored?!” I said. “You have no idea what it means to be bored! None! Let me tell you a story, an incredibly boring story, a story so boring that the person writing it can’t stop himself from continuously mentioning how unbearably bored he is.”