(Because of course when I said "tomorrow" way back on Thursday you know I actually meant "Monday" because I love to cause confusion and delay and also toy with your semi-half-interested emotions. I wish I could express that all in charm bracelet form.)
After Noah got back into the track-building action, there was a brief shining renaissance in the new and improved Sodor. Once again, getting from Point A to Point B involved crossing over an insane number of bridges and lots of going in circles, but the people liked it that way.
They also seemed fine with the fact that "Point A" and "Point B' didn't really exist either, because going specific places is not the POINT. The POINT, of course, is to chugga-chugga around in endless loppy circles for no damn reason while the nearby giants squabble over the blue train and the red train and the green train and the OTHER blue train that's mine THAT'S MINE THAT'S MIIIIIIINE MOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM.
Floors are the new train table.
A war had broken out between several competing track designers, apparently.
"Hector!" James cries. "Why did I never profess my love for you, Hector? Now we are all derailed and it is forever too late."
"KEEP AWAY," Hector blasts. "I SHALL ONLY HURT YOU, FOR MY HEART IS BLACK AS THE COAL I CARRY."
"It's happening again," says Thomas. "I can't go through this again. I'm not going back in that storage bin again, man. I'm old and chipped and faded — I won't make it this time. I'm gonna use this miniature Lego blaster gun and...and..."
"Shit," says Thomas. "I've got no arms."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the track, it's...
DEATH PROOF II: THE ZOMBIE ROTISSERIE CHICKEN MINIVAN APOCALYPSE
Not even Sir Topham Hat was spared when the picnic basket contents mutated and went on a rampage. And that's why you don't picnic too close to Ye Olde Genetics Mill.
And for what? For a little bit of money. Lego money, that isn't even to fucking scale.
I can't even begin to think of something clever to say about this one. There's an Ove Glove, a sippy cup and a visible plastic toilet. Some things are just to randomly weird, even for me.
I will say that "James' Tender" is totally going to be the name of my adult contemporary death metal cover band, however.
The Isle of Sodor has been granted refugee status and is presently allowed to stay above ground in the living room, provided it is properly stowed at the end of every adventure, because at least the children are playing with all this pricey bullshit again, right? Right.
(I predict I will step on something pointy within the next day or two and promptly hurl the entire lot back into the basement. Sorry, Thomas.)