One Christmas, I got a little red metal flying saucer. A tiny tin pilot operated its fake controls from beneath a clear plastic dome. When I removed it from the box, it looked harmless. My parents breathed a sigh of relief... knowing the cad who gave it to me. Then I switched the little spaceship on. Not only did it make a sound similar to a European police siren but it was as loud as one, too. (I could tell that my parents were yelling at me over the din because I saw their lips move.) The spaceship would dart across the floor at breakneck speed, violently smack into a wall or object, spin around and then dash off to crash full force into something else. Because it had no rubbery bumper guards, it left little grooves in the floor boards and table legs. If it smashed into your ankle, you'd either end up with a bruise or a nasty cut. Turning it off was difficult because it moved so swiftly. Plus, the switch was beneath it. You had to grab it just right or its sharp edges would slit your fingers. It was earsplittingly loud, speedy, destructive, dangerous and my parents hated it. A toy equivalent to an A-bomb. A brat's perfect Christmas gift. I loved it!
Every day, I would switch the flying saucer on and allow my surrogate self to run free to terrorize the household. My wonderful little spaceship could be the screaming monster I always desired to be. (Its siren may be the reason I developed a ringing in my ears years later, though.) And, of course, a toy couldn't be punished like I would have been.
Or, so I thought....
