1. a child with red hair, excessive energy, and fiery disposition. Also known as Gung-ho Ginger or Ginja Ninja.
2. Not to be confused with Cranky Pants, Turbo Ginger is full of life, emotion, and awesomesauce.
3. The most famous Turbo Ginger who ever lived: Chuck Norris.
4. Also not to be confused with the reverse – Ginger Turbo. (Don’t google it; you’ll regret it.)
5. Turbo Gingers are born, not made.
Take my 2.5-year-old, for instance. Such a good boy. But turn your head for half a second and he’s halfway to Bell Island in a stolen outboard motor.
A couple nights ago, we went throwing rocks in the pond; the poor bayman’s equivalent of SeaWorld. A thousand rocks would not have been enough for our lil’ stone-slinger. We had to drag him home. Literally. As literally as it gets.
Yes, that’s the dog leash. Please don’t call social services. Or the SPCA.
Maybe it’s a toddler thing. Terrible twos and all that.
Maybe it’s a boy thing.
All valid arguments. But I’m not buying it.
This is the essence of the Turbo Ginger. Feisty, strong-willed, and mischievous. This is who Max is, who he has always been. From day one.
I have the photos to prove it. Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?
His feet were the first clue. Canoes that said,
I will crush you. With my feet.
And his flexibility. Wow. Boa constrictors had nothin’ on my reptilian rugrat.
Dare me to suck on my toe? I totally can.
By two months of age, he was working out. His biceps…
One-thousand and one, one-thousand and two…
Just call me Ab Lincoln, b*tches.
And he was getting results. Flexing was like breathing.
Who wants tickets to the gun show?
His strength was astounding. He could lift the heaviest of creatures.
I am Turbo Ginger, hear me roar.
He could scale any obstacle.
Sir Edmund Hillary who?
He even slept with one fist at the ready. Wake him up before he was fully rested and – BANGO – black eye for you.
Go ahead, make my day, b*tches.
He bragged about his superhuman strength. And his manhood.
It’s this big, I swear.
He was fearless. A real daredevil.
Cirque de Son of a Gun
But by four months old, he had grown cocky. He started getting into trouble, as is common among the ginger subspecies.
He started experimenting with pot.
Anybody got a light? Garlic butter?
And cocaine. (Unbleached, whole wheat.)
Uh, I can explain?
Cocoa B. Ware, b*tches!
His emotions yo-yo’d, from the depths of despondence.
Damn you, Iggle Piggle!
To extreme jubilation.
I just shit myself. High five!
He began to let himself go, eating anything and everything.
Nom nom nom…
His arsenal of weapons was growing daily.
Back off or I’ll stir some shit up!
And at Christmas, he staggered home drunk and stupid.
Where’s the ho ho ho’s?
Passing out. Refusing to wear pants.
If you don’t like it you can kiss it.
Surely there was something wrong with our boy.
But then it all became clear, when his hair started to sprout and swirl around his head in a tornado of crimson glory.
Aha. Now it all made sense.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a ginger.
Red: the colour of my world.
Brace yourself, Self.
For high-speed chases.
And a love so fervent, it burns.