When we last left our heroes, Joshua was on his way to be tortured with cheap clothes and cheap imitation toys as I sat there helpless without a plan to take him from these sorry Fashion Terrorists. I sat there, waiting when I heard foosteps coming closer. Welcome to Episode 4 of the Josh and Pops Adventures: "VOT IN THE VORLD!?" or "WHO IS YOU PLAYING WITH?"

So I sat there, waiting in this 20 foot corridor of boxes full of cheap toys and clothes. I'm trying to keep my breathing still but my heartbeat sounds louder than the footsteps?. Well almost. I creep slowly into the corridor, my back against the boxes when in he steps. Some 6'3" tall, caucasian blonde straight out of Alpha Male Magazine. Dressed in some uniform that looks almost Stalin like, he takes notice and takes aim. I stand readily, hands high in the air. I can tell he's nervous though, the barrel shakes as he tells me in some god awful European accent to 'FREEZE!'. He cocks his gun (excuse me?). He asks me what I'm doing there. I say defiantly, "Getting my son." I look him in the eye with a mean stare. "Hmph," he replies. I then reply, "Hey, nice boots." "You like 'em?" he responds, letting his guard down and starting to explain "you know, they are Armani imitations, pretty good, eh?" That's when I sock it to him like the sucker he is, breaking his nose. He begins to cry like a little baby and runs away. I shake my hand thinking "Dagh, those people are made of rock or something or I'm just as weak as they are."

Anyhows, I hear an alarm sound. Someone's on to me (duh! Isn't this clich�?). I run through the corridor of boxes and turn right. I see a doorway. That must be where they took Josh. I hear running behind me. I dash for the door! Too late. Four hunky, hot men from all kinds of incredible exotic backgrounds harangue me to the ground, grabbing me with their large strong manly hands, their breaths brushing against my skin. I feel their muscles ripple as they pull my arms behind me, and pull me up to stand. Ok, enough of that. I see their leader, a Hitler wannabe who just can't seem to get his glued on mustache straight. I say, "Hey, isn't your mustache crooked?" He yells back, "EET EES NOT CAROOKED! GET THIS CUR AWAY FROM ME. THROW HIM IN THE 88 WITH HIS SON!"

So these hot young hunky men then escort me with such strength, grace and power, it takes everything for me to hide my excitement. Ok, I said enough of that. They then throw me through a door marked PlayArea 51. I get thrown in and they lock the door. There's Joshua in Osh Kosh oh my Gosh and some lame looking Poke-herman toys laying around. He said he tried to make the best of it but he can't stand it anymore. Even pretending doesn't take away the bad taste of boredom from his mouth. "The endless minutes in here tears away at my soul, dad. I don't know if I can stand such torture, such terrible horror. It's worse than famine, war or pestilence. Oh, dear dear father, what can we do now?" Ok, so he didn't say that in so many words. He just said, "I HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT!" but a father can dream, right? So I look around the room to see one other kid playing as best he can with the toys that were given him. HotRods and LameBox cars are all he has, no track, no super speedway or garage, just these cars with wheels made of paper. I ask Joshua, "Who's that?" "Oh," Joshua replies, "That's Mark. He's my friend." "How old is he?" I ask. "Seven," Joshua says. I say to myself "For being seven, 4'10" isn't a bad height." Ok, so I think he's a gigantic freak. Sue me.

I go and introduce myself and sure enough, he doesn't sound like a seven year old but he insists he is. Oh well. So I look at all these toys (at least they're not making me wear cheap clothes, I can do that on my own, thank you) and I just about lose it. Poke-herman cards, LameWheels toys, CD Software on how to use a CD-ROM on your computer, Trailer Park Barbette, G.I. Shmoe, Toy Tales part 2! What else can go wrong?! Then the door opens, "Mr. Scamb, scambo, skambe, sga, YOU! What is your last request?" "Give me 10 minutes," I say. The weirdo leaves. I take the boys aside and say, "I have a plan."

Tune in next time for: "How many toys DO you need?" or ""Breakout: It's not just an adolescent thing"