Brendan Wins Spare Tire Award

The parents and I never thought it would happen, but this little Brendan that could, finally did. Little old me isn’t so little anymore and it’s official.

You see this spare tire right here? It’s symbolic. It’s huge alright, much bigger than mine, but symbolic nonetheless yet nonethemore. It symbolizes my big accomplishment that you’ll have to read another paragraph to discover.

Welcome to “another paragraph.” So we went to the doctor for my routine lube, oil and filter job. Kind of a check up sort of thing but without those stupid needles. She measured my head, height and weight and for the first time in my life, I hit the 50th percentile.

I was born or the lower side, not unhealthy but clearly towards the runty end of the scale. Mama’s petite and Daddy-O’s always been kind of “travel-sized.” The deck was stacked against me but my will to devour has finally overcome.

The weird thing is that I don’t feel average. Nothing in my being holds me back, my only limitation is not myself but determined by parental permission. I’m fearless, empowered and bigger than I’ve ever been. My weight may be average but as a package I still know I’m super-average.

All I had to do was eat, which is something I love to do anyhow. The only watching “what I eat” I do is out of the corner of my eye as I gobble it all gone.

If you aspire to gain weight, don’t give up on your dreams. If I can earn a spare tire, you can do it too, and that’s a promise you can take to your piggy bank, piggy.


Seriously, I’m Not Superman

Yesterday junior editor Mr. Dominic erroneously somehow got it in his head to report that my secret identity is, in fact, Superman. Allow me to amend.

Please don`t mistake this for me changing outfits to fight crime, I`m really just a mild-mannered reporter.
Please don`t mistake this for me changing outfits to fight crime, I`m really just a mild-mannered reporter.

I have many superhuman powers, all of which I use for the betterment of a kind man*. And although I may rage against injustice, I do not fight crime. In fact, I think I kind of like crime a little bit.

This picture you see right here, this is all set up. I wasn’t on my way to rescue a kitten or foil a bank robbery. In fact, I don’t even know what it was about. Actually, I can’t even say for sure that it was me. I mean, it doesn’t look like me, does it?

not-superman2Here again I have to insist that this change of attire does not indicate I’m about to fly out the window, nor that I have any super powers I’ve previously failed to disclose, nor that Kryptonite makes me weak. Spinach does that, but any reader of Perplexing Times should long-since know that by now, you know?

Besides, if I had a secret identity, it would be a secret, right? I mean, I wouldn’t let an incriminating article go to print, even if I was taking a nap when that rapscallion did it. Clearly I am the real editor around here, he can’t do it. He’s much too little to edit a newspaper without help from an elder… Right?

Let’s not talk about that anymore. My point is that he’s not the editor and I’m not Superman, no matter how super nor manly I may be. Everybody clear on all that? Well okay then.

* By “man” I mean me. I may be 2’9″ but I’m two-foot, nine-inches of man.

Escape From Tyrannical Family Foiled

At random times my familial unit fancies itself a democracy, but I’ve never cast a vote. At nap, nighty, and veggie time I profess I’ve got no vote, no satisfaction and plenty of motivation to defect. When I saw my chance, I wasted no time in attempting my escape.

We were out in the yard taking in the rays (while the soaked-lawn dwelling mosquitos took us in) when I saw my chance. The space was wide open, the parents were many, many feet away and my frollicy gait already had momentum. “Okay,” I thought, “let’s do this.”

My diaper kept my sprint to a frantic waddle, but excuses are for those who choose failure. I chose freedom and the guards saw it. “Brendan!” they yelled, “come back here!” but I’d passed the point of not much return. I played dumb and picked up what pace was left to be claimed.

I didn’t know what was beyond the grass of the yard but was eager to learn. A glance over my shiny shoulder told me dad had given chase. Too late to pretend goodwill, I kept the fence in sight and hauled all the butt I’ve got, panting uncharacteristically.

A grabby sensation around my middle and I was hoisted high in the air. My joggy stubbies treaded air where grass had been and I was up on forgiving daddy shoulders before I even knew I’d been foiled.

Stern words of warning only reminded me of the dictatorial ruling regime I must live under. Aside from education, public health, safety, and the aquaducts, what have the Romans ever done for us?

I can divulge little of my next plan except to say it involves a hot air balloon, a fake mustache, a false French passport, a Brendan body double, 17 mariachi singers, a power outage, 120 accomplices, four baby ducks and Ed McMahon. It’s a crazy plan but it’s so simple it just might work.

Almost made it too.