Wednesday, October 30, 2013

My Son Has Flavored Underpants

My son has flavored underpants.


I used to get over-irritated when my ex-wife would refer to shampoo or shower gels as having a flavor. She'd never refer to them as having smells. But then I think that's fair enough seeing as they tend to come in the same colors as WKD vodka do. My son though has just had his underwear supply boosted. He's been prancing about in the same knickers we bought him way back when he was just about one year old. And considering he's the far-side of three years old that's quite something. Which does actually back-up a long held point I have that nobody I know can actually get mass-produced clothes to fit their kids. Granted I don't have fat kids - but a three year old shouldn't be expected to wear a belt with EVERY SINGLE pair of jeans he owns.

Nevertheless, he does insist that his underpants are based around food. His hunting-orange ones are Pumpkin Pants. The green ones are Pickle Pants. And the red ones are Ketchup Pants. I for one can imagine Heston Blumenthal being a pretentious, deliberately-obtuse pillock by serving a stew of my son's flavored underwear on his menu. But then seeing as he does have shows on the BBC that's probably a big clue for Operation Yewtree to pay him a visit. Obviously I'm not saying he's a nonce, but this sort of photo would get you locked up 9 times out of 10 unless you are conveniently claiming to be a chef. And that claim is clearly tenuous seeing as I have seen him dribble white-chocolate over asparagus - which apart from clearly being repulsive has way too much suggestive imagery going on.


Anyhoo - after a grim start to the day yesterday my son perked right up. It was pretty easy to determine he was better. After all he was running around in just underpants (Blueberry flavor, incidentally), with his penis sticking out of the flap-thing repeatedly yelling, "how dare you!!!" whilst stabbing things with a plastic sword. Uncanny that his favorite game also happens to be my job. Later in the afternoon he helped me clean out the basement (I did the actual cleaning out, he whacked the stairs with a ball-peen hammer).

Then later in the afternoon he helped me clean all the bedding in the house. Being as thrillingly interesting as I am I felt the need to tell him how odd it was that Americans in this area seem to have an aversion to duvets. And I don't mean the feeble, thin cack you can buy at Bed, Bath and Beyond for an absurdly high price. I mean the kind that brags it has a higher Tog rating than a Sherpa's insulated knickers. My son only knows the joys of a damn, good thick duvet so asked what Americans (how little he knows about himself...) use instead. I tried to claim it was custard at first. He didn't buy that. So I gave in and said sheets. Which revolted him. He begged me to know why. Being a dick I said that possibly it's left over from the Fifties so that simple, white sheets could be quickly converted into a handy Klan uniform. Then I added that it might be a hold over from French influence in the War of Independence because the French always need a way to quickly foist a huge white, surrender-flag at any given opportunity. He blinked a lot. In the end we agreed it was because people around here just like pretending to be ghosts a lot because that creates the illusion of a history that isn't really embedded very well.

Right. I have more basement nonsense to get on with. So here's a photo that looks like I'm making my kids dig their own grave.



And as a bonus - here's me naked in the bath. Oh yes - this blog has definitely just taken on a Baywatch Nights vibe.


And just to be clear - that blue thing is a bath-mat. I'm not leaking anti-freeze from my anus. That's just a vicious rumor....

No comments:

Post a Comment