My boys are crazy about you.
Really, we're all kind of crazy about you.
Your time-traveling exploits thrill us and leave us breathless. Our hearts beat faster when you shadowbox with stowaway troodons, and when you look over your shoulder, throwing one last glance back at a stampeding allosaurus before slo-mo leaping into the sea, momentarily floating safe in a trail of bubbles before feeling the shocking cold brush of an even bigger, toothier, hungrier, deadlier underwater predator just as the title sequence ends.
Yeah, we like it like that. We eat up your surly impatience when you snap at a lackey in the heat of the moment, and your contrite sorry-mate apology when it all cools down and the great white death has sunk back down to the depths. Give us more video cameras strapped to dummy sharks and bait bags dripping with bloody chum. Peer through the bushes and narrate the scene under your breath. Chase and be chased. Bag a giant centipede. Rig traps. Tell the cameraman to step back, mate. Cast your squinty-eyed gaze back into the Cretaceous past. We will gladly go with you.
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| Exit stage left, pursued by a troodon. |
The boys have been drawing their own seven deadly seas, writing books, dragging dinosaurs into the bathtub, filling backpacks with dinosaur nets, setting up time portals in the hallway, and making dinosaur zoos from wooden blocks.
