Man, there was a time when this absurd head of mine was just about too much to bear. When I was younger it needed support, and I ain’t joking. Once I recovered from that (though I guess semantically it would be “covered” from that?) I still had a hard time controlling the thing. Light a hang glider in high winds, you know?
Now that I’m older, I can look back and wonder how the heck I struggled so hard. Sitting up isn’t that hard! For those of you who have not tried it yet, I recommend it highly. It’s both uncomplicated and rewarding. It’s really a big step towards freedom for me, and I can’t believe I waited as long as I did. Ah well, live and learn, I suppose.
While granted, my diet has been somewhat limited thus far, much of my desire to branch out has been limited by experiences like this recent one I had.
Seafood is apparently quite the treat. Low in fat, high in protein, good for cholesterol levels and tasty to booty… Gotta tell you, not my experience.
I’ve heard good things about a few different varieties of fish including halibut, cod and sticks, but what was offered to me was sharky. I figured it would be good on account of how swell my Uncle Sharky is. Protein yield and cholesterol benefit were both zero, but if you like chewy, f’get about it!
I must have chewed for twenty minutes before surrendering. Aside from a grumble in my tummy and a squeek in his, the net outcome was a draw.
To conclude, seafood is an insulting abomination. Unless you can find a more digestible type of fish or have a ridiculous surplus of teeth (say up in the “over five or six” range) I would strongly dissuade you from trying to eat it. Best left for fun in the tub.
I have heard this question too many times and I’m getting a little bit sick of it. I’ve pretended not to hear it and just go on chewing on my toys or pretending to sleep, but I just can’t do it anymore. I am a boy.
Seriously, do you think I dress myself like this? This isn’t me, it’s my publicist. Okay, some of my clothes may be a little fruity, but they’re not girl clothes and they’re not girl colors. You have to be pretty secure in your masculinity to wear pastels, and so I guess I am that baby.
Though I may have no hair on my chest nor a booming manly voice, it does not equate to “Brendan = Bubbles the Powerpuff Girl”. Can we just agree on that? I mean, I wear blue, I smile at all the ladies, I pee standing up (or wherever) and I have never put the seat down.
So in short, though I may have a fuzzy navel, I would not order a fuzzy navel. I am a chisel-chinned, sunflower-spittin’, remote-hoggin’, non-direction-askin’, baby for the ladies.
Oh, and for the record, the flower in my hair was not my idea. It was snuck in at the last minute and I was told it was quite manly, all the rage in Europe, and absolutely necessary to earn the under 18-month reader demographic. Also, I figured chicks would dig it.
What a nightmare! My gums were so soft and supple. Fit my every need. I could eat, chew, you name it. Then my gums just started hurting like hell. What’s that all about?
Next thing you know, here I am, stuck with two essentially useless chunks of ivory poking out through my gums… Why useless? So glad you asked. What am I supposed to do with a pair of chompers on the bottom only? Whoever wrote this gene code could have used a lesson in practicality. Why couldn’t it be one on top and one on the bottom?
But I’m a trooper. I have no qualms about proclaiming it. As much as it bugged me I didn’t let it drag down the people around me. That’s a fact.
But it’s over now, thank God. The discomfort was more than I care to endure again. I’m sure I’ll find something to do with them, and in the meantime, I’ll just rejoice that this phase in my life is finally in the past.
Some have expressed concern about my drinking. It is embarrassing at times, I’ll admit, to have the bottle with me wherever I go. Sure, but there are many more signs of a drinking problem one must consider.
Symptoms I may exhibit:
Drinking myself to sleep
I’m moody without my bottle
I nap often
I am technically unemployed
I have a habit of soiling myself
I do throw up routinely
My lunch is almost always in liquid form
However, nearly 50% of the warning symptoms of a problem are glaringly absent. I submit the following evidence as proof that my drinking habit is not a problem:
I have made no enemies
I have never been in a fight
I have never been fired from a job
I haven’t been involved in any drinking and driving incidences
My family actually encourages and enables my habit
My older brother did so at my age without any long-term consequences
Let’s face it, yes, there are times when a drink just puts me in a better mood. Studies show that this is a normal phase for young people to go through. No more does a threesome in college make you a lesbian than a hammer of Thor bottle habit mean that I have a drinking problem.
Truth is, I could quit at any time, I just don’t want to.
So it wasn’t the first time I’d said it, but it was the first time they were sure of it. I’d said it they repeated it, and I said it again. We continued that little trend for a while, so they would know I wasn’t just making noise. What can I say, I was in a playful mood.
As the headline would indicate, the increase in my vocabulary is almost immeasurable. As a percentage or factor it’s incalculability is simply beyond me. In terms of addition it’s a bit easier. It has increased incrementally by one. Still though, I mean, come on now, an increase from zero to one is still news around here, savvy?
By the way, all this happened July 16th, 2003. I was six months and eighteen days old. Not too shabby if I do say so myself.
Oh, and in case you’re curious… maybe it’s because of the aggressive coaching I’ve had, maybe it’s because it was easy phonetically, and maybe it’s because I love him, but my first word was “dada”.
As everyone knows perfectly well, the zoo is a place for families to celebrate the captivity of many once-proud creatures of the wild. I, however, am not buying it.
I’ve been to the zoo three times now, on sunny and cloudy days, and have yet to see any non-human animals. “Look a monkey!” and “Do you see the Hippo?” No, I don’t. And frankly I’m finding the whole thing a bit much to explain. Maybe my stroller doesn’t afford the best view or maybe I sleep through too much of the experience. Maybe it’s because much of my time is spent enraptured by my bottle… but maybe I’m just playing devil’s advocate here. And you should know me by now, I am not one to advocate the devil.
Then again maybe zoos are child-centric myths like the elusive Easter bunny, created and supported by adults for the ongoing trickery of children. Perhaps it’s an idiot-centric lie like the sasquatch aimed at hoodwinking the easily persuaded. Or maybe it was just a cut-rate zoo that saves their dimes by featuring placards and cages, but no animals.
For now let’s say I’m a baby of logic and that without proof, I ain’t buying off on this whole zoo experience. Show me otherwise and we’ll talk. To my readers I recommend you exercise the same doubt as I have. Zookeepers must be held accountable.
It’s true. I may have mentioned before that girls my age do nothing for me, but now it comes to greater light. Them’s mammaries is just hypnotizing! Just the other day I was hanging out with this lady friend, (friend of the family really,) and I just could not help myself!
At one point she caught me staring and made a comment about it, so of course I looked her square in the eye and smiled sheepishly, but it must have only lasted maybe three seconds or so before, unexplainably, I was just sucked back into an entranced affixation with her chest.
Don’t think I’m being rude, it’s really quite a compliment. Truly, if I may say so, I’m something of well versed critic in the female form. If I’m caught in the headlights, it’s a testament to your natural talents, since I’m really not easily impressed.
Of all the crazy things I’ve seen in my life, this has to pretty much take the cake. My whole life I’ve been tried to “drink this” or “drink that”, but now, Gerber, one of the leaders in food technology has really outdone themselves.
Bottle varieties have a few categories. Milky, juicy and bland. With these amazing new “nipple-free” products, the varieties are far more. In broad categories alone there is grey-mush, beige-mush, tart-mush, huh?-mush and which-end-mush.
And that’s not even getting into the texture!
To their discredit, they haven’t quite figured out yet how to make it easy to eat, as it tends to run down the consumers face. Nor have they figured a means of dispensation to rival the nipple. But my hat and booties are off to you, good folks. For all your fine work.