I Get to Meet Shyla
posted by Tdawg at 7:46 PM
0 comments
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
How I Became Popular
Hey everybody!
I am almost 11 months old! It has almost been a year since I was born. I already feel like I'm getting old. I remember the good old days when I didn't have to work, when I could stay at home at day, sleep, and drink some milk. But those days are over. I now work for a living. And it ain't easy. But there are some new things I have experienced that are cool. Like this new fruit they musta just came out with. It's called mango, and it RULES!!! Momma and Daddy bought one bottle of it, and I blew through it really fast. I think it had something called Kiwi in it too. I understand that it is a kind of bird or something. Anyway, Momma and Daddy didn't have any more, so lately I've been on a hunger strike. I refuse to eat unless it is mango. I hear Gandhi did a similiar thing a long time ago, and he got what he wanted. So that's what I'm doing. Of course, I'll still eat Wheat Thins, Cheez-Its, and other assorted salty snacks, but no baby food. And my strike worked. Momma and Daddy went all over town (suckers!) to find me some more mango at a place called Wal-Mart. They were both grumbling about having to buy it there, because of something to do with their labor practices, but they did it anyway. Ha!
I also love cats. Heh heh. They are so funny. We have three of them (Coltrane, Zoe, and Friend), and I love crawling around and finding them. They are usually sleeping, and then I make a REALLY loud screech, and they jump up, look at me all-scared (a scaredy cat, hee hee), and then run away. Good times. Daddy keeps saying something about them not being declawed, and that if I keep messing with the bull, I'm going to get the horns. Whatever. I have no idea what that means. These are cats, not bulls, daddy! It's easy to see why Daddy didn't major in biology in college.
Let me tell you about something that recently happened to me in daycare. Things have not been going too well in that front. Some of the guys I had bribed to protect me have left, so I've been left on my own. A lot of the kids there now don't like me. They say I'm loud and annoying. So I just go off and play by myself. But some of them keep looking at me funny. Last week, one of them even gave me a drive-by toothing (at daycare, teeth are our only weapons; like shanks in prison). I wasn't looking, then I felt a sting on my forehead. I didn't see what happened, but I'm told that one of the babies (no one actually claims to have seen it; liars!) came up to me and bit me. The little poopy-pants! If I ever catch who did it, I'll ... I'll . . . well, I'll probably do nothing, but I'll think mean thoughts about him in my head for a long LONG time. The next day, I got "accidentally" pushed fron behind by another kid. I knew then that I had a problem.
I sought out one of the elders, Buster, who is known as one of the trusties. Everyone loves him because he kisses a lot of . . . cheeks. I think he's French or something. He greets everyone with a kiss, kiss. Anyhoo, everyone loves him, and he seems to know a lot (I think he's like 3 years old, but because he pretends like he can't walk good, he hasn't been moved to the toddler room yet; I hear it is really rough up there). So one day, when the other kids weren't looking, I sauntered up to him, and nonchalantly asked to speak with him, privately. I took him over to where the high-chairs are (no kids ever go over there because of the high probability that you'll be showered with juice or baby food). I asked him why the other kids didn't like me. He said that on the inside, it was all about RESPECT. He then started singing some song and saying "Sock it to me, Sock it to me, Sock it to me, Sock it to me." So I punched him. He got all mad at this, but I told him that I thought he was asking me to hit him. We eventually ironed out this disagreement, and he said I needed to earn the other kid's Respect, or else I was in for a rough time. I asked him how to do this, and he said, "Will, I can't tell you how. You got to look inside yourself . . . Will! No, I don't mean that literally, you're not going to find it in your belly button . . . You've got to look deep inside your heart -- and I don't mean that literally either so don't even try it. Oh look, Lizzie dropped a cookie on the floor. Mine!" And with that, Buster was gone, grabbing the cookie, and shrinking into the shadows, as I heard a distinctive crunching sound. I looked around the room, trying to think of how to gain respect, and after about 20 minutes, I came up with an idea.
All babies respect poop. It is just a fact of nature. You have to; it's like the ocean. If you don't respect the power of poop, then it can be dangerous. So I decided that poop would be my ticket to respect. By I needed to train. It had been months since I had even blown out my diaper, and my plan was for something much more impressive than that. So I went on a training regiment, Rocky-style. Cue Rocky montage here. I refused to eat fiber for an entire week (pretty much par for the course for Daddy), and I didn't poop at all during that time. But I had a problem -- Mommy and Daddy would start to worry if I didn't poop for an entire week, so I had to cover myself. So I pretended like I had. How, you ask? I won't go into detail because I don't want to make you sick, but let's just say the cats' litter box was surprisingly clean that week and that my "poop" had a strong fishy odor to it.
At last the big day had arrived. I was backed up something fierce. I knew that just a little bit of fiber would put my plan into action. So, at approximately 10:55 am that morning, I stood on top of the highest point I could get in (ok, so I wasn't really standing, more like crouching) and grabbed a fruit puff I had brought from home. I had not even put it in my mouth (I had simply smelled its strawberry scent), when I felt the poop coming. I closed my eyes. The next thing I remember is one of the teachers, saying "Oh My Gosh!" followed by a number of words I had never heard before. Another teacher than said "It's running down his legs!" And sure enough it was. My plan was working perfectly. One of the teachers actually started gagging and ran to the bathroom and we heard her retching. Yet another kept saying "The horror! Oh the horror!" That lady took an indefinite leave of absence starting the next day, and we still haven't seen her back in the room.
Finally, one of the teachers came and scooped me up, but not before I left everything within a 5 foot radius of where I was a disaster area. As I was being carried to the diaper-changing table (diaper, ha! yeah! no diaper can contain me!), I started to hear the whispers of the other children. One said, "Better call in the National Guard for that one!" with an evil gleam in his eye. Another just stood there, his eyes as big as saucers, and he was saluting me. Another jumped up on a table, and said "O Captain, my Captain!" And yet another did what I had been hoping for -- the slow clap. And it was from Ronnie, the brusier who I suspected as being the one who toothed me. He gave a single loud clap, followed by another 3 seconds later, and then another in closer succession. The others soon joined in, until all of the kids were giving me a thunderous ovation at my pooping prowess. Needless to say, ever since then, I've been the toast of the town. When I need some extra snacks (or really anything), I simply snap my fingers, and one of my classmates brings it to me. Life is good.
I am almost 11 months old! It has almost been a year since I was born. I already feel like I'm getting old. I remember the good old days when I didn't have to work, when I could stay at home at day, sleep, and drink some milk. But those days are over. I now work for a living. And it ain't easy. But there are some new things I have experienced that are cool. Like this new fruit they musta just came out with. It's called mango, and it RULES!!! Momma and Daddy bought one bottle of it, and I blew through it really fast. I think it had something called Kiwi in it too. I understand that it is a kind of bird or something. Anyway, Momma and Daddy didn't have any more, so lately I've been on a hunger strike. I refuse to eat unless it is mango. I hear Gandhi did a similiar thing a long time ago, and he got what he wanted. So that's what I'm doing. Of course, I'll still eat Wheat Thins, Cheez-Its, and other assorted salty snacks, but no baby food. And my strike worked. Momma and Daddy went all over town (suckers!) to find me some more mango at a place called Wal-Mart. They were both grumbling about having to buy it there, because of something to do with their labor practices, but they did it anyway. Ha!
I also love cats. Heh heh. They are so funny. We have three of them (Coltrane, Zoe, and Friend), and I love crawling around and finding them. They are usually sleeping, and then I make a REALLY loud screech, and they jump up, look at me all-scared (a scaredy cat, hee hee), and then run away. Good times. Daddy keeps saying something about them not being declawed, and that if I keep messing with the bull, I'm going to get the horns. Whatever. I have no idea what that means. These are cats, not bulls, daddy! It's easy to see why Daddy didn't major in biology in college.
Let me tell you about something that recently happened to me in daycare. Things have not been going too well in that front. Some of the guys I had bribed to protect me have left, so I've been left on my own. A lot of the kids there now don't like me. They say I'm loud and annoying. So I just go off and play by myself. But some of them keep looking at me funny. Last week, one of them even gave me a drive-by toothing (at daycare, teeth are our only weapons; like shanks in prison). I wasn't looking, then I felt a sting on my forehead. I didn't see what happened, but I'm told that one of the babies (no one actually claims to have seen it; liars!) came up to me and bit me. The little poopy-pants! If I ever catch who did it, I'll ... I'll . . . well, I'll probably do nothing, but I'll think mean thoughts about him in my head for a long LONG time. The next day, I got "accidentally" pushed fron behind by another kid. I knew then that I had a problem.
I sought out one of the elders, Buster, who is known as one of the trusties. Everyone loves him because he kisses a lot of . . . cheeks. I think he's French or something. He greets everyone with a kiss, kiss. Anyhoo, everyone loves him, and he seems to know a lot (I think he's like 3 years old, but because he pretends like he can't walk good, he hasn't been moved to the toddler room yet; I hear it is really rough up there). So one day, when the other kids weren't looking, I sauntered up to him, and nonchalantly asked to speak with him, privately. I took him over to where the high-chairs are (no kids ever go over there because of the high probability that you'll be showered with juice or baby food). I asked him why the other kids didn't like me. He said that on the inside, it was all about RESPECT. He then started singing some song and saying "Sock it to me, Sock it to me, Sock it to me, Sock it to me." So I punched him. He got all mad at this, but I told him that I thought he was asking me to hit him. We eventually ironed out this disagreement, and he said I needed to earn the other kid's Respect, or else I was in for a rough time. I asked him how to do this, and he said, "Will, I can't tell you how. You got to look inside yourself . . . Will! No, I don't mean that literally, you're not going to find it in your belly button . . . You've got to look deep inside your heart -- and I don't mean that literally either so don't even try it. Oh look, Lizzie dropped a cookie on the floor. Mine!" And with that, Buster was gone, grabbing the cookie, and shrinking into the shadows, as I heard a distinctive crunching sound. I looked around the room, trying to think of how to gain respect, and after about 20 minutes, I came up with an idea.
All babies respect poop. It is just a fact of nature. You have to; it's like the ocean. If you don't respect the power of poop, then it can be dangerous. So I decided that poop would be my ticket to respect. By I needed to train. It had been months since I had even blown out my diaper, and my plan was for something much more impressive than that. So I went on a training regiment, Rocky-style. Cue Rocky montage here. I refused to eat fiber for an entire week (pretty much par for the course for Daddy), and I didn't poop at all during that time. But I had a problem -- Mommy and Daddy would start to worry if I didn't poop for an entire week, so I had to cover myself. So I pretended like I had. How, you ask? I won't go into detail because I don't want to make you sick, but let's just say the cats' litter box was surprisingly clean that week and that my "poop" had a strong fishy odor to it.
At last the big day had arrived. I was backed up something fierce. I knew that just a little bit of fiber would put my plan into action. So, at approximately 10:55 am that morning, I stood on top of the highest point I could get in (ok, so I wasn't really standing, more like crouching) and grabbed a fruit puff I had brought from home. I had not even put it in my mouth (I had simply smelled its strawberry scent), when I felt the poop coming. I closed my eyes. The next thing I remember is one of the teachers, saying "Oh My Gosh!" followed by a number of words I had never heard before. Another teacher than said "It's running down his legs!" And sure enough it was. My plan was working perfectly. One of the teachers actually started gagging and ran to the bathroom and we heard her retching. Yet another kept saying "The horror! Oh the horror!" That lady took an indefinite leave of absence starting the next day, and we still haven't seen her back in the room.
Finally, one of the teachers came and scooped me up, but not before I left everything within a 5 foot radius of where I was a disaster area. As I was being carried to the diaper-changing table (diaper, ha! yeah! no diaper can contain me!), I started to hear the whispers of the other children. One said, "Better call in the National Guard for that one!" with an evil gleam in his eye. Another just stood there, his eyes as big as saucers, and he was saluting me. Another jumped up on a table, and said "O Captain, my Captain!" And yet another did what I had been hoping for -- the slow clap. And it was from Ronnie, the brusier who I suspected as being the one who toothed me. He gave a single loud clap, followed by another 3 seconds later, and then another in closer succession. The others soon joined in, until all of the kids were giving me a thunderous ovation at my pooping prowess. Needless to say, ever since then, I've been the toast of the town. When I need some extra snacks (or really anything), I simply snap my fingers, and one of my classmates brings it to me. Life is good.
posted by Tdawg at 4:02 PM
0 comments
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- The Will the Thrill Blog Has Come to an End
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