Opus is My Copilot

I keep a little stuffed Opus on my dashboard at all times. Besides being the patron saint of large noses, he's the perfect representation of my personality (vaguely confused flightless waterfowl.)

This particular stuffed Opus was randomly hurled to me by a kindly young pub-waitress the last time I was out on the town, approximately 350 years ago. She'd received it, so the story goes, from an unwelcome elderly suitor (the pickled variety) who'd won it out of one of those claw machines in spite of his arthritis and slow reflexes. He'd apparently imagined - erroneously - that such a choice bauble would allow him to score BIG TIME with the help.

So, you see, my little Opus had a story behind him before he even planted his Velcro tush on my dash. And since he arrived, though his back has faded from lustrous ebony to a pitiful and all-too-familiar varicose-vein purple, he's earned his keep.

Despite his diminutive size, Opus has become my "Great Equalizer." He's called swiftly into action (Hail Mary pass) on the rare occasions that one of my children successfully smuggles some forbidden toy or other into the car, thus causing a rift in the space-time continuum, or toy equality dimension, whichever. All toys are normally verboten in my car, because as you know, the primary purpose of toys in automobiles is to cause loud arguments. Followed closely by their secondary purpose, which is for pitching practice.

I'm happy to report that despite repeated juvenile effort, Opus has not once broken skin. But I digress.

More important than the Equalizer job, he's positioned perfectly to qualify as "copilot." With the minor copilot faux pas of facing the wrong direction (aft), which the kids haven't noticed yet. Opus' official copilot promotion took place one particularly raucous car-riding day, using a newly purchased yardstick as the royal sword. And despite his lack of *shoulders, the dear penguin exhibited an appropriate blend of modesty and pride commensurate with his new title.

Now, you see, I have a clear "out" every time my 5-year-old son offers me driving advice. Which happens about every 7-12 seconds.

Everyone who's ever had a 5-year-old knows that this is when the jig is up on driving. Kindergarteners are the absolute worst back-seat drivers in the world, on account of they have just learned that the world operates on a set of rules, and haven't yet reached the age (35) when they realize that all those rules are completely subject to political influence and personal agendas.

A 5-year-old automobile passenger is a prime illustration of the cliché: "he knows just enough to be dangerous." They get RED-YELLOW-GREEN down pat, and somehow they figure that qualifies them for a commercial chauffeurs' license.

Despite being a self-proclaimed superior driver, my son has never, to my knowledge, actually looked out the front windshield. He can't, since he's strapped securely in his ultra-modern 5-point-restraint fuel-injected car seat, which was dutifully purchased under the guise of safety (when we all know it's an incarceration issue, plain and simple, and God bless the inventors!)

He is convinced that he can drive, though he has no concept (for example) that the speed limit signs on side-streets don't apply universally, or that roads have LANES--so those lines aren't just for decoration. 

I'm always getting lectured in his most serious soprano voice about the dangers of unsafe driving. Namely prison, plague, and not getting any presents from Santa.

My easy out: "Max. Who's riding copilot?"

"Opus."

You  bet your sweet schnoz.