Saturday, September 8, 2012

Blessed Are The Cheesemakers

Okay before we get going let's all remember Rule 101: No Robots In Your Underpants.


Well I'm glad we got that out of the way. I should also point out that right after making that video my daughter threatened to punch me in the, "front bum cheek."Which means I'm either going to have to have a discussion about biology or wear some more flattering pants. Because if she thinks that I have a front-bottom something is wrong. On the other hand my son has taken to pointing at his mother's chest and saying he wants cheese. Which is either him clearly taking the piss or getting that very wrong as well. Either that or he thinks she's a Green Bay Packers fan. If there is any truth to that I do hope it's good cheese at least. None of this rubber-grouting pish that pretends to be cheddar at the local store. Something with body and flavor. Like Caerphilly or a Stinking Bishop. And as delicious as it may be I somehow put my foot down at this fantasy extending to my wife expressing Gjetost. Nobody should be lactating anything brown.

I should raise an issue here that I was training my daughter for. That being pooing at school. I have briefly mentioned my own (admittedly illogical) reluctance to poo outside of my own home. And by that I mean in other homes, businesses and whatnot. I don't mean that I'm reluctant to walk around the front yard and squat next to the fire hydrant so the neighbors can watch. Actually I do sort of mean that as well - but really I'm referring to a fundamental religious belief that I've acquired that prevents me from defecating in a toilet that I haven't ownership over. And like all fundamental religious beliefs it's not really rooted in anything simple to identify. Anyhoo - my daughter has spent three hours, five days a week for an entire school year in a different place. She hasn't got trained her sphincter/colon to the Olympic/heroic levels that I have. Therefore I had obviously assumed that she had "released the chocolate canoe" at school. Which was presumably followed by her wailing for assistance to make sure she was clean afterwards. And yet she claims that for the entire year at school she didn't poo there once. So in defiance of all that I know to be True and Good I've been supporting the silly notion that she should poo at school. So getting her to clean up after herself and all that stuff. Which is going okay I guess - there's no real yard stick to measure against. And if there was it would be a foul smelling one at that.

This belief system of mine (I've discovered that if you call something a "system" then it is allegedly more sophisticated - at least that's how any old shit is sold to parents instead of calling it a bed, stroller or chair) has been questioned in the past. And with recent disclosures of workmen pooing in my house bothering me as well someone felt the need to ask me, "well, do you have a better idea on how to handle pooing?" First off - don't "handle" it. That's all seven kinds of wrong. But secondly - I have a solution. It will require an evolutionary leap mind you, but I have faith in the human race to adapt to my idea. And that is what I call Consolidated Pooing. Instead of dilly-dallying and waiting for each poo to arrive I propose training/mutating to develop the capability to just once a week just have one massive 45 minute poo. No faffing about or being caught short. No need to make terrible choices about long journeys. And no secret whispering campaigns about the lady at work that delivers such heinous bran-barges that people who sit on that wing of the building actually have filed requests with HR to move their desk. It's a wonderful idea in my mind. The very notion that my kids are free of chimp-chutney every day of the week except Saturday morning (sorry Jews who view this as some kind of "work" but this is the best day for most of the world in my view).

Lastly though (and less unpleasant) I wanted to mention something that I should have seen coming a mile off. Somehow or other I ended up with an Angry Bird kid's tattoo thing (the ones that rub off with water) for my daughter to have on Thursday. And by "somehow" I mean I got it as shameless bribery in case my daughter had a terrible day at school and my hugs, snacks and wishes didn't make her feel any better. I'm not proud of that but there we are. Anyhoo - I got it and then thought about how tacky and white-trash that might look. But putting on my daughter and then rubbing it off a few hours later was never going to swing with her. So not wanting anyone to see it her mother gave it to her on her upper thigh. Leading to my daughter spending the entire day showing people her crotch tattoo of "the black bomber." The shame is ten-fold what I could have expected.

As a treat though here are two videos. The first is one my daughter took of an art installation she constructed in the kitchen this morning. Pretty nice.


And the second is of my son who spent thirty minutes in a cupboard this morning. Not sure what he was doing in there, but as long as he wasn't "making cheese" (if you will) I'm fine with it.


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