Putter was deaf and Putter was blind. Putter held a filthy washrag against his mouth and the dying cries of an innocent imbecile would never be heard - Putter would make sure of that. Hatred of Putter was a national pastime and the loyal viewing public cringed when Putter decided to take a nap.
But deep down inside we all loved Putter. Didn't you? Hell yes you did – don't lie. We all loved Putter because he was small, soft, and furry. We all love small things. We all love soft things. We all love furry things, and we all love things that are golden brown like the toasted shell of a roast marshmallow. Can't you just smell the caramelized sugar right now? That is kind of how Putter smelled when you got close to him...except he never let anyone get close to him.
When a deaf and blind Putter smelling of caramelized sugar smiles and retches and squints his sightless eyes hard against his skull you just want to squeeze the stuffing out of that innocent imbecile, don't you? Hell yes you do – don't lie. We all love to give such a little Putter a squeeze like that now and again. Some of us desire it daily and yet we are not ready to sacrifice the sport-utility vehicles and the lovely houses in the lovely subdivisions. We revert to our animal-like tendencies of gouging and ripping. We rip and we gouge and we gouge and we rip. The Putter is not forthcoming and when the Putter-apportioning authorities inform us of our need to sacrifice the amenities of a stable suburban life we bare our teeth and slink away...backing away from the downed gazelle, blood still on our teeth, backing away and keeping an eye on the bigger predator that has shown up on the scene of the kill. But we still want our Putter. The blood of that gazelle tastes so good on our teeth.
So good. So very, very good.