Diaper Rash May Cause Baboonism

Itchy irritations on the backside can be a real pain in the rear, and much like diaper rash itself, I swear I’ll get straight to the bottom, much like it does.

Though he ain`t this far gone, he do havest the rainbow butt.
Though he ain`t this far gone, he do havest the rainbow butt.

If you suffer from diaper rash, you know it causes irritation all over your business end, regardless of what business you’re in. As a one-time sufferer myself, I can tell you the discomfort ain’t much fun up front nor on the back end. But what you may not know is the lesser perils of this so-called “scratchy booty syndrome.”

If you have it beware that you may become a baboon like my dear brother Brendan.

He’s a good brother and a pretty okay editor, I guess,* but as an on-again off-again sufferer of the pinkish heiny affliction, he’s got bigger problems; he’s himself becoming a true-to-life baboon.

Baboons are rainbow-keistered primates who eat bananas, make howler chimpy noises and climb their habitat in any way imaginable. Is this starting to sound anything like Brendan at all?

Like any domesticated orangutan, he wears a diaper, eats bananas, makes kissy faces upon unreliable cue, and oo-ooh’s and ah’s at random given opportunities. All that, and his butt has turned to pinkest, primatish heat, regardless of the bluster of our wintry cold.

I’m no scientist so I boil it down like this: climby, howly, banana goblin’, pink-patootied brother equals baboon… You know?

So what’s the cure to bring my bro-man back from the brink of old world monkitide? Fortunately, they make a cream for that, can you believe it? It’s a cream to make you less of an ape. I’m not sure if it takes hair off too, but it does dull the pinkness and irritation. That right there makes it a miracle cream to me.

Is rash cream what they use to smarten up the monkeys you see on TV? I’d guess it is, as it seems to work any odd kind of wonder that way.

So just like the rash itself, I’ve gotten to the bottom of the matter, and you’ve gotten to the bottom of my report. Good enough all around, no**?

And I’m spent.

* He’s good, but be makes too many footnotal astrices, much like this one.
** Yes.

Photo withheld out of courtesy to Brendan, butt [sic, truly sick] click here if you want to see it anyhow.

ABOVE – I know this isn’t a savory photo, nor is it something we’re proud of, but looking back on his behind may someday help him appreciate how itch-free his hindquarters truly are… that is, assuming the cream does it’s fair job.

 

You Say Eggs, I Say Balls, Let’s Break Whole Thing Off

Yikes! I’m super sorry on this one but, when I saw the white semi-spheres among the oranges, I thought they were balls. Eggs, you say? Huh. What a messy mistake on my part!

Let my look of mischief speak nothing of my guilt.
Let my look of mischief speak nothing of my guilt.

Balls are ripe for rolling and bouncing. And these so-called “eggs” look nearly akin to ping-pong or golfy-type balls. Sure they’re a bit oblong and fragile-like, but how was I supposed to know that?

Their off-kilteritudiness shape makes them horrendous for rolling. Much as you try, especially with increased fervor, they roll worse and worse. The parents complain, saying they’re off kiddy-limitude, but the eggs express it one step worse; they break.

So, while we’re chatting on the matter of exo-fragility, I should bring up their chuck-defeating frailty. Normal balls are composed of a hard or soft rubber or hollow core. Lacking both X-ray and MRI apparati, I can’t be expected to know what lies within… well, I didn’t know what was inside until my going of long was dropped by the end-zone running Patrick. He missed my pass and our egg took a Humpty-Dumpty tumble. And, we all now know that what’s within is all yolk and albumen… Like I said, Oops!

LEFT - "So this one is the egg, you say, hm? Well that would explain why it doesn't bounce very well.
LEFT – “So this one is the egg, you say, hm? Well that would explain why it doesn’t bounce very well.

Trouble should tell you I’ve got all my answers here, but I don’t. The elder-folk were frustrated by my inability to tell the difference between disposable tennis balls of the table variety, especially as they compare to tastily edible eggs. Both were white and rigid so how should I’ve known the less round variety were tasty with ketchup, while the others won’t even crack under my stomp?

So, whether you’re a buttered-side downer or a Big-Endian sunny-side upper, I beg you to treat eggs with unrivaled delicacy. Though no one could imagine it, they’re all kinds of breakable. Even Humpty couldn’t have told you that eggs are thusly fragile but the parents explained it all too clearly.

I have to go now as I must speak with all the king’s horses* and all the king’s men. No matter, the prognosis ain’t good and I may be in some real trouble here.

*Though all but one of the king’s horses only say “nay.”

ABOVE - Weighing the difference between the two can be as tricky as a shell game, but as with any sort of trade or trade off, it's discipline that makes the difference.
ABOVE – Weighing the difference between the two can be as tricky as a shell game, but as with any sort of trade or trade off, it’s discipline that makes the difference.

 

Keeping My Nose to the Grind Thing

When life gets you down and mama puts you in the playpen, keep your chin up and your nose to the “grind thing.” I know I do and it keepeth a smile on my mug cometh what may.

Seen here keeping my nose to the grind-whatever-it`s-called like a good reporter.
Seen here keeping my nose to the grind-whatever-it`s-called like a good reporter.

I own perseverance unprecedented* in all my life’s observations. You can put me on the floor and I’ll crawl. You take the remote control away and I’ll still change the channel. That’s just what being your own man is about, and so sayeth all of me. When you pen me to play, I’ll go in there, but I’ll put my nose to the grind thing and I’ll make more headway than my own head weighs, and that’s not a lot, it’s alot-alot!

That’s just the kind of minute, bald man that I am. I’m a survivor, as my visit to intensive care may remind you. Forgotten? So have I, but it’s probably for the best, I’ve still read about it and that’s good enough for me.

I haven’t found a solution just yet, but I haven’t given up. The playpen is fine for napping, but not so much for hanging out and getting my learn on. I need out and I’m going to find a way. Think of me as the velociraptor in the electrified cage. Though my nose may callous and blister, I’m still testing my fence, sure that there’s weakness around to be found.

Chin up, nose to the grind thing, I’m a man of diligence, and I’m Dominic Benjamin and I thank you for your vote**.

* Um, well, my perseverance is unprecedented in myself anyhow, maybe not universally so, I haven’t checked the record books or anything.
** Editors Note – Dominic watched too much TV around election time, and I apologize for not catching this before it went to print. While he does technically thank you for your vote, he isn’t actually running for anything, not even as a write-in candidate. Sorry for this editorial lapse and any confusion which may have stemmed from it… I’m Brendan Alexander and I thank you for your vote.
This message is approved by Brendan Alexander for Politician.

As if you can't tell, I'm all kinds of happy in my silly cage of infantile confinement. There's toys, bottles, pillows and even a blanket in here. No less, I feel inclined to escape and the nose to the grindy-surface is the best, if not the very most, that I got.
As if you can’t tell, I’m all kinds of happy in my silly cage of infantile confinement. There’s toys, bottles, pillows and even a blanket in here. No less, I feel inclined to escape and the nose to the grindy-surface is the best, if not the very most, that I got.

Easter Beheading Brings Humpty Disappointment

With no warning whatsoever, the Easter Bunny broke in to our home yesterday just before dawn. Slipping past all our defenses, completely undetected by any of our home security, he left us toys and candy, and that’s just the setup for joke.

Seen here holding my precious little bunny bits.
Seen here holding my precious little bunny bits.

That covert bunny brought us baskets loaded to the gills with chocolate more foiled than Lex Luthor at a Kryoptonite smeltery, bull-stuff eggs devoid of yoke and plow, imported grass I couldn’t take to school without getting arrested, and march-mallowy bunny and chicken folk, which are frankly the crux of my unpredictable predicament.

Though I’ve still never eaten such a confectionery critter, the joy one gets in licking them is likely rivaled only by illicit toads of unexpected, pseudo kitty bath enslobberment. While not hallucinogenic, these woodland wildlifers offer a high more my speed; the stimulation of sugar most highly refined.

So far you’ve read only solutions, nary a problem in laser-sighted scope one bit. Be warned that what follows is a tale for only the least skittish of constitution. It’s a tale of macabre, sadness and headline worth Humpty-esque disappointment sure to make you cry, as it did to me.

Mice were not among the mallow folk bestowed nor have I met the infamous Bunny Foo-foo, but no less I was compelled to tear those squishy, smiling mugs clean off their soft, delicious, bunny bodies. If being cute and tasty is a crime, I made their punishment capital, and as a jurious executioner I pulled not one, but every last head from each respective body.

In each hand as pictured above, you can see my mounting sadness and body bits all asundered like.
In each hand as pictured above, you can see my mounting sadness and body bits all asundered like.

It wasn’t done so I could eat them but for some reason else, one unexplainable even by me. I may be a killer but I’m a repentant one. I demanded Daddy-O re-affix the twisted, severed heads — and not just for lack of pike on which to better display them Sadly, Daddy claimed technical inability to make my festive friends whole once more.

Woe is me and my bunnies and chicks. What have I done? What caliber of monster am I that I’ve thusly decapitated my innocent farm friends before my bunny could teach me its namesake hop dance or hear my chick so much as peep.

He gave it the old college try this daddy did. He licked it at the neck on both sides of severance and held the odd halves together. It looked as good as together to the stander-by but close inspection showed a scar most Frankensteinious, and even docile, though frolicking found the heads again upon the carpet. Where’s your precious science now?

Knowing nothing of kings, horses, nor multitudes of men most manly I do know one thing without a doubt: The mortal pain of poor old Humpty is keenly appreciated in the deepest form of apathy by this writer, editor, and indeed even murderer.

Oh Bunny Easter, why must you blessedly curse me so?

 

Managing Your 1/34th Life Crisis

As I get older I’m starting to wonder if I’ve wasted my life in fruitless pursuits of crayons and blocks. I think of things I haven’t done and feel the wicked effects of my advancing years. I’m suffering a 1/34th life crisis. story563

Even my memory is failing me. I often forget things I’ve learned and can’t find the words to finish my own thoughts. My bladder lacks control and my head isn’t exactly full of hair. All these ravages of time are scary, a little.

Maybe it just looks like this is the twilight of my life because nobody has yet discovered where the sun rises or sets. Maybe it’s the dawn of my life and I don’t know the difference. Rises in the east? We’re in Seattle, and this time of year the sun rises and sets in the south, and usually just a few hours apart. Who knows these things and who can tell the difference?

If you’re facing a fractional-life crisis like mine, here’s some pointers to help you get you through it:

  • Buy a Mazda Miata, even if just a proportionately fractional replica. Surveys have shown that it’s the definitive X-life-crisis automobile. Like they say at Mazda, if it ain’t a Miata, it ain’t a crisis.
  • All humans are organic, and are thusly carbon-based by definition. Use this to your advantage and find a younger lady or gentleman with whom to flirt and date (or carbon date, if you prefer).
  • Make a ridiculous list of silly, even crazy stuff you’ve never done, then boisterously tell everyone within earshot that you’re going to do them all, and very soon; but don’t actually do them.
  • Buy a bunch of hip, new music and pretend like you actually like that absurd trash. Also, tell people you downloaded it illegally off the net so they will mistakenly think you live dangerously.
  • Throw away your boring, old sink and bathtub plugs. Instead, stop your water with fuzzy, furry, velveteen stoppers, commonly known as “hair plugs.” Baby chickens (AKA “chicks”) dig it, or so I’m told.

You’re growing older and you can’t stop it, not even with botox. That’s okay though. Don’t fight it, embrace it. Barring an apocalypse, this isn’t the end of the world. You’ll never again be as young as you are this very minute and you owe it to yourself to act accordingly.

Time is always of the essence, and essence equals life, thus your time is your life. How you spend your time is how you spend your life. Put your crisis aside and riddle me this: Do you spend your time making a living or actually living a living?

It’s your life and your crisis but, ultimately, it’s also your call.

Charting ‘Long-Term’ Goals

As we age and settle in to our careers, we’ve recognized the value of strategic, long-term planning more and more. We’re ready to openly share our plan to help you develop your own. story579

First, you need to recognize what constitutes long-term versus short-term. Here are some examples to contrast between the two.

Short-term plans:

  • What to grab? – Throughout your life you see things before you. Should you grab them, slap them, break them, or move on? These are very important short-term debates.
  • Smack or scream? – Sometimes things don’t go your way. Maybe you get bumped on the noodle by a table or bookshelf, maybe your tippy cup runneth dry. Should you express your dissatisfaction with a holler or an open-handed right hook?
  • Which room to run to? – Unless you live in a studio apartment, studio house, or a very large box, you have one or more rooms to choose between. You know you have to run around, but where will you joggy-sprint right this very, short-term second? Bathroom? Kitchen? there’s no time to debate it, just choose and get running.
  • Agree or disagree? – If there’s one word I know well, it’s the parental contrarian proclamation “yes.” But if there’s one word I know even better than that, better than reality itself, it’s “no.” But which will I scream before running away with my contraband? It’s a heavy short-term debate.
  • Events taking place in the next 20-30 seconds – Call this bulletpoint “other”, “miscellaneous”, or “junk drawer.” Milk or juice? Tater tots or french fries? Incumbent or outcumbent? If it’s a half-minite decision with sub-one-minute consequences, it falls into this equally important category of immediacy.Long-term plans:
  • Everything beyond 3O-seconds.

It’s important to think through your long game, whether in life or in games of advanced strategy like Tic-Tac-Toe, even though that’s a game under thirty seconds. Still, it’s a powerful analogy. Your plan definitely needs good moves now, but it really needs the best moves down the road, and for that you have to plan ahead.

In thinking ahead, we went to the easel and plotted it all out. To help you understand, I share our goals for the future.

Our list of long-term plans:

  • Eat later – This is critical to human survival, and something we plan to do.
  • Stay out of trouble – Not so much do no evil as not get caught.
  • Play later too – Playtng now is fun and important, but you can’t do it all the time. Still, that’s our plan, to do it all the time.
  • Revise goals – Times change and so do my socks. It’s important we revisit our easel and revise our goals as the cumulative household need to play increases.

So whether you’re looking to retire in a couple days or start your own business conglomerate next Tuesday, consider your own long-term goals, chart them out and set your course.

Though by the time this runs, I will have surely forgotten the entire meaning and intention behind it, that’s okay for me, it’s not part of my long-term plan. It’s no excuse for you to do the same. Plan, plot, act and move ahead.

What was I just saying?

longterm-wide

Monster Garage Turns Bug to Jungle Gym

Discovery Channel’s Jesse James is my favorite bandit of the new west. He robs cars of their past identity and six-shoots them in to a new life of street-illegal varmentry, but now it’s my turn. story577

I love watching Monster Garage on my (Creole) Gumbo-tron, even though there’s no animated, goofy colored characters, (unless you count the Big Schwag, but he’s plain silly). I love the show and want to be a participant, but it’s no dice for me.

I can’t be on the show for a bunch of reasons:

  • Application policies are in writing, and I still can’t read.
  • The show requires a minimum participation age of eighteen, an age I won’t hit until the unimaginable year of 2020, when people will surely be flying around in their cars instead of mutilating them on cable.
  • My automotive talents “don’t count” by their criteria. I’m not a mechanic, I don’t do welding, fabrication or hydraulics, but I can say “car,” recognize a car, and ride in one like nobody’s business. Surely that must count for something.

Fine, I can’t be on the real show. No biggy, whatever. I’m a media mogul in my own write, wrong and right, I’ll just make my own. I’m Brendy the Kidd, and here’s hoping this town is big enough for the both of us. With my slab of stanky cheese, I welcome you to Muenster Garage!

Here’s our challenge!

  • Convert this bug to a jungle gym in seven minutes.
  • When finished, the bug must appear stock.
  • You cannot spend more than three cents to finish the project.

If successful, team members will win one (1) bug/jungle gym on which to play.

LEFT – Here you can see us tinkering with the project, whilst the clock ticked like a harbinger all around us… we didn’t  monster-garage2know what the noise was, but it turned out to be that darn clock…

Now let’s meet the design team:

  • Slobbery Supervisor. Mr. Dominic is an expert at slobbering, sleeping and supervising. He joins us from Crib, House.
  • Designated passenger. Mr. Brendan spots and says “car” like a champ. He joins as from High Chair, Kitchen.
  • Senior Inquisitor. Mr. Patrick asks questions ad indigestum, even when he knows the answer. What’s that? Is that a car? Keep asking, my brother, the answer still hasn’t changed. He joins us from School Bus, Driveway.

“Now the only thing left to do is everything.”

(Seven minutes later.)

Let’s review the progress and outcome:

  • Time? Conversion was successfully completed, not in seven minutes, but in just under three. That’s a stinky new record for the Muenster Garage!
  • Stock? The bug doesn’t even look like it’s been touched, save for some maple syrup marks on a couple of the decals.
  • Budget? Our team of Muenster experts came in within three mere pennies of budget. They didn’t spend a dime, nickel nor a penny. Thanks to pure ingenuity, they didn’t spend any of their budget.

Nothing against the real Monster Garage nor its ever-changing crew of maverick mechanics, but we’re way faster and have done it with no budget at all. Forget the free tool kit, we got to keep our creation, and we’re still frolicking about it today.

Jesse James, we still love you, but neener neener, and so there!

Above - Here you can see us working madly against the clock to figure a way to make this monster work for us. Dice? No dice? Surely you've already read the article so why do you even doubt?
Above – Here you can see us working madly against the clock to figure a way to make this monster work for us. Dice? No dice? Surely you’ve already read the article so why do you even doubt?

Unfree to Freely Pee

You guys have had me use the potty chair for so long, so I’m confused as to why I’m in trouble now for my latest lack of self wetting. I gotta ask; why can’t I pee in the corner?story527

So it’s bedtime and I’m banished to my darkened bedroom, as if that‘s going to make me sleep. I may not be sleepy, but I’m that much inversely ready to explore my room, myself, and my development.

I’m developing and I’m ready to give up this silly, sticky, stinky and overbearingly humid diaper… I hope you readers understand. If not, then yucky on you people.

So here’s how it went down. They put me to bed and locked me in my tower, as usual. I unplugged my nightlight, played with Mr. Potato-head (Sr.) this realized the humanly time to pass my milk and juice had come. What am I to do, thusly in deepest exile?

I lost my pants, which is easy to do when you take them off without the benefit of a mysteriously absent nightlight. Then I lost my diaper too… That’s where the stem of my trouble first began to begin.

Unencumbered by the worldly tows of pants and diaper, I considered myself free to do what’s natural and the very thing that has earned me such high praise in any daylight hours though, admittedly on the so brightly-colored kiddy-potty. Absent of a proper pee-style receptacle, I hit the corner… And that very same “parents corner” (didn’t know it was specifically theirs) hit back, and hard I might add.

Dad found me crying unabashedly at the gate*, bare-bottomed and not bloody happy. He wondered the whereabouts of my curiously absent diaper and pants, and was most puzzled about the urinary puddle by the window. Uh-oh, it’s trouble time, it seems.

I’ve always earned highest praise for not soiling myself, and as I’ve aged I’ve welcomed this change more and more. Yet this time it earned me an odd quantum of trouble, strangely.

Dad seemed so upset that I peed, however freely, in the corner of my confined prison-cell-style nighty-time room. “Don’t wet yourself,” that’s what you guys taught me, right? I did good then, right? I had to break it on down to diffuse the daddy-sadness.

It took some serious back-pedaling, but I managed to talk the infurious daddy-man down. My cell don’t got a latrine, so what am I supposed to do? My business, that’s all I can do, isn’t it?

If you’re the ruling master or mistress over any number of junior journalists, I beg you for patience with them and their urinary explorations. My dad is a kind and benevolent ruler. He understood quickly the reason why I peed in the corner (because he demanded I not soil myself). Are you so patient with yourn? I hope you are.

Yes, I admit that I peed in the corner of my own bedroom. No, I didn’t know it was wrong. Let’s move on from this, okay?

Put your grown-up fears, angers and frustrations on hold. Think of what you’re teaching and how us kids are left to interpret it. We’re not dogs. We love you deeply in the exact way that you love us. We don’t fully grasp all your adult concepts, specifically those pertaining to eating and the bathroom. Embrace our ignorance to just spank it.

Okay?

freely-pee-wide

Masked Bandit Hogs Household Toys

Rumor has it there’s a toy-hog in the house, and I’m not going to rest until I unravel this mystery. There’s only five suspects, and the only one I’m ruling out is myself. 

Here a surveillance photo show the perpetrator hogging household toys. Have you seen him?
Here a surveillance photo show the perpetrator hogging household toys. Have you seen him?

Let’s look at the suspects one by (super-duperly guilty) one, youngest to oldest, and why not;

  • Dominic – He’s cute and little, so right off the bat he doesn’t seem like a suspect, but that’s what makes him all the more suspicious. Sure, he doesn’t look like he could be guilty, at least maybe not to the untrained eye, but that’s why he’s that much more guilty. Working in his favor is that his “I was asleep in the playpen” alibi seems bulletproof and that many of the toys in question are beyond his verified interest and capability.
  • Mr. Me-Myself Anneye – I’m writing the article, and I didn’t do it, no matter what you may make of the security photos attached.
  • Bro-Patrick – This guys is about as shifty as a five-speed import with an injector problem and a tank of low octane gas. He likes toys, he’s been known to wear masks, and although he swears he was at school at the time, I’m just not sure. He could have had a third party drive him home to hog the toys and who would have been any the wiser? You, me, the parents? Nope, none of us can prove nor disprove that theory, and not a one of us will even try.
  • Miss Mama – Though not entirely prone to “playing with” toys, I have seen her handle nearly all of them on a near daily basis. She says it’s “tidying up” and “putting them away,” but I think we can all recognize the difference between a maid and a toy-hog, and she ain’t wearing the penguin colors of black and white. You know? Highly suspect, that’s all I’m saying for now.
  • Daddy-O – Then we reach our most concrete suspect. Daddy-O bought most of them, but did he buy them for us boys or for himself? With a disguise as clever as the one caught on our security tapes, who could even guess who the real perpetrator is? I wouldn’t even care to venture a guess and I’d likewise discourage the lot of you from trying. Nobody could possibly guess who it is, surely I can’t.

toy-bandit2LEFT: Here you can see an enhanced photo of the perpetrator as he commences to hog all the toys in the entirety of the known household. The dog under arm looks suspiciously like my own, but that is certainly an act of misdirection by the sinister toy hog in question. Don’t let that, nor the likeness to myself, sway your suspicion as to who it is that’s the guilty party.

All I do know for sure is that somebody has been hogging the household toys and that something should be done about it. Maybe these claims stem from jealousy or insanity, but it isn’t my place to say. I’m just here to report the facts and the fact of this matter is that it wasn’t me hogging them, though I do love them dearly and I think when I’m done writing this that I’ll go promptly back to playing with them, even if the brothers want a taste.

Call it being a thorough reporter if you like, call it diligence in journalism, I don’t care. I have to get into the mind of this heinous perpetrator to figure out what he’s thinking. I must play with all the toys in the house, and now, whether my disguise* is handy or not, I have every justification to spend all day playing with every last one of them.

* Did I say “my”? I meant to say “his”.

Here's yet another close-up shot of the toy hog in action. Make of it what you will, so long as that "it" is that it ain't me, which my research has already proven it isn't.
Here’s yet another close-up shot of the toy hog in action. Make of it what you will, so long as that “it” is that it ain’t me, which my research has already proven it isn’t.