We got a new toy. Well, it’s “new” to us, which is code for “rescued from someone else’s chaos closet where toys go to plot their revenge.” Jack immediately struts in like he’s applying for a union job, slaps on the imaginary hard hat, and declares himself Garage Foreman of All Levers Everywhere. His first order of business? A mandatory demonstration of lever technique that looked less like Monster Jam and more like interpretive dance with plastic. Spoiler: the audience (me) did not clap.

The trucks are supposed to go up the slide ramp (not sideways, not upside down, not “Jack-style freestyle”). The monster-named vehicles must be in precise order—because obviously Grave Digger cannot fraternize with El Toro Loco until the crank says so.

Speaking of the crank: it has a personal vendetta against me. Every time I touch it, it squeals like it’s auditioning for a haunted house. Jack insists, “Just crank it one more time.” No. It should bend to my mental thoughts and know. This is not a democracy. This is Monster Jam law.

Meanwhile, Jack is staging his own garage rebellion, trucks scattered like crime scene evidence. I’m left narrating the sensory chaos:

• The plastic grind of the crank.

• The clack-clack of trucks falling off the ramp.

• Jack’s smug “you’re not doing it right” face.

And me? I’m filing a formal complaint with the Monster Jam union.