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.
Whether pant legs, necklaces or forbidden goods atop the counters, there’s no doubt I’ve blossomed into a real yanker. But there’s nothing quite so yankable as my latest discovery, the tongue ring.
Daddy-O is a real sucker for a good deal, so when he was offered a free piercing for Christmas many years back, he just couldn’t refuse. His good value in self-mutilation has become my greatest fortune in stuff-yanking and I just can’t get enough. Why? Because he won’t let me.
Look at that stealthy curiosity. It hides, it moves, it’s shiny and it demands my every last ounce of attention, my affection, and whenever possible, my strongest allowable yank.
Oh to yank with yanksome yankitude. For yankerous yankness, count me your oinky New Pork Yankee of yankest yankery. I love to yank and yank to love, gosh darn it.
When dad jibber-jabbers at me in his uniquely grown-up way, it peeks out at me. When we taunt one another with tonguey insults it taunts me doubly more. He couldn’t resist wanting it back then and I can’t resist wanting to grab it now. That’s totally fair, right?
It’s a slippery item of grabby yankability alrighty-o. See it and poke it, no problem. Try to grab it and yank it as I may, but trying to get a graspy grip isn’t as easy as it seems. Darn thing is covered in daddy slobber. Yuck, you know?
I keep trying and he keeps saying no, so I’m off to find some tools. Maybe a hand rag to dry it, maybe my Fisher Price pliers. I don’t know yet. I bid you well as I’m off to reinvent my grabbery. I’ll keep grabbing, you just keep reading. We’re still cool, right?
Oh where oh where can it be? I’m not all full of myself or think I’m the cutest boy on the block. In fact I’ve never even looked in a mirror but I still knew something was wrong when I reached up to straighten my fine, dark locks; they were missing.
I’m looking at some pictures from when I was younger and what little focusing I can do really takes me back. I had a full head of hair back then and now it’s all but gone. Sure I’ve got the Mohawk on top and some scraggles around the back but I know I’ve lost plenty.
Where did it go? Is this that male pattern baldness thing Brendan wrote about last year or has Patrick been sneaking in to shave my sleeping head to steal the hair for his own? It’s not like I’m a girl or anything who can slap a bow in it and call it cute. I’m a boy and this isn’t pretty stuff here.
I guess it’s just my raging boy hormones making me testy, decisive and bald. Maybe I’ll order some of that spray-on stuff Mr. TV talks about all the time, that’s probly my best bet for getting back my youthful confidence and security. Also, if I heard right, operators are standing by.
When the jealousy committee was first founded about a year and a half ago, brother Patrick adeptly headed it up. It made sense since he was also the only member and considering his head draws so much attention, even from strangers.
Times made him jaded and jealousy has been his way of life for so long that, frankly, he’s lost his edge. When the newborn decided to head out and butt in to our family I joined in the committee, got my member card and all. Before Dominic, I was always the jealousee not the jealousor so I didn’t know how it all worked. Now that I’m on the outside looking in, I see we need some new blood.
To keep the committee strong I suggested a new regime to reign and revitalize. I’m new to this jealousy thing and I’m feeling pretty passionate about it. I see Hey Mama holding the new guy and my blood just boils. I see Mr. Daddy-O consoling him and it hurts my feelings, makes me feel dethroned and busted down to private. Without a committee how can I properly be jealous? Patrick saw my point and seconded my nomination. We put it to a vote and my un-opposed run for chair was passed unanimously.
I’m super excited about my new position of power and authority. I vow to my jealous fellows to be true to my needs, to throw fits, cry and otherwise carry on when biased behavior’s bestowed upon the baby. Hey man, I’ve got the lungs for it and I’m ready to make my voice heard on this sort of justice.
Jealousy Committee Mach-II has arrived. Our numbers have doubled and we’re ready to demand 100% attention for each of us. We haven’t figured out the math on it entirely, but that’s not our problem. You lap that kid, prepare to lap all. If you bring coddle and comfort for him, bring enough for the whole class. And, if you feed him you’d better have tatertots and ketchup waitin’ on the table. We’ve got strength in our numbers. Now, do you got our candy?
Well, it’s official, my hair has been cut. It’s disappointing since I was hoping to go as Shaggy for Halloween and was well on my stylish way. That’s no biggy though, I can wear a wig; but what’s really disappointing was how non-eventful the event was.
My first haircut was a real to-do. I had a pretty lady working her magic, the cameras were all around and everyone was so thrilled to see me get my hair cut for the first time. It was really exciting all around, even though we didn’t get a discount.
My second snip session was half as exciting. The fanfare was mostly gone, and they kind of suspected I’d seen the inside of a salon before. The feeling I had and the feeling I shared with all in attendance was best summarized by the poignant mocklamation of Lisa Simpson, “Meh.”
My latest clip hootenanny was less hoot and more nanny. No press and no hype, just mirrors, shears and a hairy bib. Have I lost my touch?
It started and it ended just like that and BAM, it was over. I got a lollipop I didn’t eat and wandered back out into the world as a shorter-haired man. That was it and nothing more.
Maybe this is my last article about getting a haircut, I don’t know. I’m warned this article will never top the “most-read” list on Perplexing Times. And, I must concede it is pretty dull. I’m okay to let the masses speak, I suppose. Guess I can look forward to covering Dominic’s first haircut instead. Frustrating though, the guy’s got like almost no hair.
Over the span of my storied career (of stories), I’ve seen many cameras come and go. We had a good starter, a premium upgrade, and an unfortunate step-down, but now we’re stepping up again, and it’s like Canon has been waiting for us to do it, because it’s so good it will take the pictures and my eyes won’t even know the difference.
I’m going to try to keep this one funny, really I am, but I’m struggling to make this thing work right now, so hang tight a second while I find my clever angle.
Wide angle? Nope, that’s not it. I’ll try again.
We’re not sponsored by Canon or anything, and their cameras have been great for us, but not entirely trouble-free, and they sure haven’t given us so much as a discount. No, we’ve paid more than $1,000 for Canon cameras over the past seven years with an 80% failure rate, but the bible says to let these debts slide every seven years, so we’ll forgive endurance for the quality of the photographs.
And well we should, since the Nikon and Fuji’s have been terrible. Bulky, over-priced, painfully slow and the photo quality has been “meh” at best. Forget Fuji, even though the name is foony, and forget the Nikon, since it’s only middle-of-the-road and they scammed us inside out on the $200 rebate we never got.
Nikon, man, they’re like clowns but without the funny red noses, floppy shoes and remotest semblance of entertainment. They don’t treat the media, so I can only imagine how they treat the general consumers.
Left – This is how tiny the ninja is in actuality. Also, it’s very cool, I should point that out too.
Trust me, this is a funny shtick, it’s just got a bit of a biting edge on it. It’s a dark comedy, but I wrote it late, so I blame the darkness outside.
But past failures aside, Canon was the only brand we considered this go-round. My advice is to Google and read the reviews, stick with a killer digital brand like Canon (no, just Canon) and don’t be too cheap with yourself. Splurge the extra $30 to $50 for the features you really want and you won’t hate yourself for cutting that last half-a-corner.
I won’t ask you to believe me or anything, you can just take a look at the quality of these pictures and decide for yourself. We got the A560, and we’re glad we stepped up to it, because it’s got the bigger screen, the 7.1 mega-pixels and the automatic face-finder feature that always identifies a human face, keys in on it, and insures that just about everything is razor sharp, crystal clear and spectacutastic. Don’t even get me started on the video quality, it’s camcorder good, but we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.
In conclusion, this was a sufficiently funny article, especially the part where I said that all the camera manufacturers were crooked jackals who don’t even offer glossy literature for consideration, but that we’re not even a tad bitter about it, because we just love spending money on cameras… again.
So the Fuji has been shipped off, reassigned to an international division of Daddy-Man’s media company, so it’s out, the Canon is in, and we couldn’t be more delighted about it.
If you’ve ever seen a television or driven down a street, it’s undeniable you’ve seen a Taco Bell Restaurant. They’re classy and sophisticated, but their broad range of simple combinations can end in disaster if you’re not careful, as I wasn’t.
The parents lament the loss of Mexi-Nuggets, but I’m too busy embracing the new twists on the old half-dozen recombinant ingredients. Mix ‘em, match ‘em, name it something sexy and pseudo Spanierdo; next thing you know you got a grilled, stuffed, double-layered mexi-yummy delight, supreme. It’s a slick business model all around.
This place is right mexi-licious what with the meats I love and the greasy tortilla entrails I likewise love, but then there’s the avoidable veggies and my most wicked affliction, cheese. I love it but it simply wrecks me from the belly-button down.
I must ask, what’s the story with the assortment of infra to red flavor packets? What are they for, these hot, mild and fire sauces? Surely they’re meant to be used. If not, why do they even exist?
I’m up for whatever so I say, “What the howdy-ho, let’s give ‘em a squirt.” Daddy-O had fire sauce to adorn about his chalupa. And, since it was in arm’s reach, I grabbed it as if to stuff it in my mouth and the parents freaked right out. They made like it was for my benefit, but despite my unlimited credit, I didn’t buy it. That was my mistake.
I stuffed the mostly spent lami-capsule of fire sauce right into my eager mouth. And there began my crisis.
Parental trouble was the very least of my concerns. Had my head been lit aflame? Had my soul been napalmed? Where on earth this heat had come from I couldn’t imagine. I assumed it was other-worldly and yet I support it even still.
What restaurant would ever thusly act to despise their patrons? I’m technically a paying customer here, yet I may not taste again until I’m fully six or seven years of age. This is tentamount to a full-frontal assault on my tippy, peripheral and aft-tonuguey buds. Why is this so?
At least for the next 20-minutes you can consider my lesson learned, both hard and well. Moral of the story is that, even if just once in a while, the parent-types really do have the best kiddo interests at heart. That, and ix-nay on the Ire-sauce-fay.
Our creative team has been working on it for years and we’re embarrassed to say it’s taken this long, but TheBabyDictionary.com has finally launched, and the early reviews say it’s pretty darn great and plenty of fun.
You could easily spend a few hours on the site, though maybe not a whole day as you can here. It has all kinds of crazy definitions based on what kids say compared to what they mean as well as words adults think compared to what kids think of them. Makes sense right?
There’s a lot of fun in there.
Since it’s our sister site I can tell you this, even though you might only see a hundred or so words defined on the site, there are actually more than 300, with the rest scheduled for intermittent release over the coming months while more are created. That means you can go back day after day and always find a fresh batch of words defined, or you can just add it to your RSS feed and wait for the magic to happen.
And because it’s all us, I can let you in on the closely guarded secret that video and other multi-media entries will be coming soon.
So check TheBabyDictionary.com and see what you think. If you have kids, or you just know how they speak, it’s a fun daily site to check out.
I love making random noises and it’s always seemed as though everyone around me does too. I make strange sounds and love them, but I now realize they have meaning. Based on that, I formed by first real word but its meaning seems completely lost on everyone… well, everyone except dad.
My first word to bear meaning is “da-da.” And, in case you don’t speak my language, I’ll define it for you: “Da-da” means want, gimme, pick me up and let me out of my playpen. It’s alot for a first word to mean, but as it’s the only word under my belt it’s got to be diverse.
My dad’s been trying like mad to teach me this one since pretty much forever. He understands me when I say it. He gives me what I want, picks me up, rescues me from the playpen, whatever it takes. And all I’ve got to say is “Da-da.” I guess he appreciates my playpen predicament as he always promptly extracts me from it.
He’s not just biased, I’m sure. Daddy gets my da-da desires like nobody else does.
Imagine this: I’m stuck in my playpen and bored out of whatever a gourd may be, and so I call out “da-da” to passersby such as bro-Patrick or my own supervisor Brendan Alexander, and they just smile and poke me.
For many months now I’ve been pulling shoes from the shelf and making my own mismatched mess of them on the floor about me. I can’t possibly recombine them into pairs, but now, finally, after all this time, I’ve got a handle on what they’re for.
‘Shoes, dude, do you grasp them? I can’t even begin to say the word, but I now know what they’re for, even as if by magic. The word’s more complicated than any I’ve ever said but I get the gist, these things go on feet!
Check this out, when it’s time to head for the yard or go bye-bye, the gaggley-gang throws ‘em on da footies and heads out. I can’t attest absolutely to the correllation and I can’t figure a web search to figure it out — what can I say, I asked Jeeves and he tried to sell me Capezios.
No less, I know these nouns are footy and they verily go on the foots… and I’m ready to enfoot them.
Whether you can enunciate the word or not is your own problem (as it’s totally been a problem for me) but if you see a Pooh bear and laces with a fat rubber sole, assume thems things are shoes. Odds are that this is what they are and, if not, the big-folk will get huge giggles from your mistake either way.