MoGilly's Sister is a Punch Buggy Bi-atch

Growing up, (my sister) Amy's favorite pasttime was to play a game called Punch Buggy. For years, I thought this was a game of her own creation; just another excuse for her to hit me. As it turns out, Punch Buggy was not born of my sister's sadistic imagination; it's listed in Wikipedia.

Definition: "...a car game generally played by young children in which participants hit each other upon sight of a Volkswagen Beetle."

All these many years later, Amy has returned to our hometown and knows where every Beetle is parked, on every side street, in every driveway. When I'm home for a visit, she'll go out of her way to take these side roads in order to legitimize beating the crap out of me. I suppose it's her version of therapy. And though we may now be adult women in our 30s, this matters not to my little sister.

So this morning Amy calls to tell me about her trip into town with mom. Amy decides to take the scenic route and turns her car towards Outer Drive. (FYI: if you live in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, Outer Drive is the motherload of Volkswagen Beetles) Upon making the turn onto Outer, Amy swears she lost all track of time and space. She believes she crossed over into some kind of fugue state brought on by the site of a Volkswagen Beetle. Incapacitated of all rational thought, thorougly out of her mind, my sister proceeds to punch my 64-year-old mother in the leg.

(Punch) "Punch Buggy Red!"
(Punch) "Punch Buggy Blue!"
(Punch) "Punch Buggy Orange!"
"I'm winning! I'm winning!"

Now, I've been at my sister's mercy in this game. She's a lunatic and she's brutal. She doesn't tell you the game is about to begin. You're instantly at a disadvantage; robbed of any viable defense. And when she's in the zone, those eyes. Those crazy punch buggy eyes. Wild with adrenaline, darting left to right, right to left. Desperately seeking opportunities whereby she may hit you over, and over, and over again in the same spot because, "the biggest bruise wins."

But amongst all this brutality, my mother does not cry out. Oh no. Nor does she shriek, at all. Instead, Mom looks at her leg. Then she looks at my sister. Then back to her leg, where a huge knuckle-wide red mark is developing, a certain indication that vessels have burst and blood is pooling under her aging, alabaster skin. To my sister, my mother simply says, "You know.....this would probably be a lot more...fun, if I knew what we were playing."