Friday, July 29, 2011
The following reviews were taken directly from Bub’s personal epicurean notebook, which, if I were to title it would be known as Shit My Kid Shoves in His Mouth—An Ongoing Compendium. Catchy, right? They were plucked from well over 200 entries that included CD cases, dirty diapers and a yoga mat. All reviews are considered in the following 5 categories—Appearance, Smell, Taste, Mouthfeel and Overall. Here are some highlights:
A: Looks like dandruff, like 25 sufferers of dry scalp shaved then scratched their heads for five minutes into my bowl.
S: Smells like wet cardboard. Hints of unripe plantains, wild hibiscus and Plaster of Paris.
T: Sweet on the front end, custardy. Dark fruit notes, maybe sweet Michigan cherries? Long, wet paper bag finish.
M: Chunky, but with tapioca-like smoothness.
O: Once you get past the appearance, it’s, well, pretty much more of the same. Thick and boring—just like my old man.
Stroller Instruction Manual
A: Thin, papery. Two-dimensional.
S: Notes of plastic, cardboard and rubber. Perhaps a hint of Styrofoam? Something else—dark fruit perhaps?
T: Strong papyrus notes up front that quickly fades into a short, inky finish.
M: Smooth, almost air-like in its lightness. You could probably go through eight or nine in one sitting.
O: A pleasant surprise in all. The black and white print is a nice touch; a much tastier, milder version of newspaper. Something to read while you eat. If you can read.
A: Green as Ireland, smooth as my bottom.
S: Earthy aromas, leafy. Notes of leather and rich mahogany, hint of phys. ed.
T: Sweetness comes first, like dark fruit or figgy pudding, followed by an unpleasant tartness. Much like strawberry rhubarb, only gag-inducing.
M: Smooth, but with a pate-like texture. Think potted meat, only grittier.
O: Interesting to try, like sheep’s balls, but will not eat again.
One Fierce Beer Coaster
A: Thin, but with noticeable depth. Brown on one side, colors and words on the other. Very interesting.
S: Notes of wine cork, cheap construction, a hint of next-day bar funk.
T: I get soft wood or particle board. Ikea bookcase with just a hint of mothballs. Touch of dark fruit--burnt currants—toasted coconut shell and a hint of fresh spruce sapling needles.
M: Fantastic combination of the pliability of the cork and smoothness of the plastic. A match made in mouthfeel heaven; a party in my mouth.
O: One I will seek out. Much more to it than its cheap construction lets on. Complex, full-bodied. A true session coaster.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
It was a fairly routine bathtime, ordinary July evening, when Bub’s whole world was suddenly illuminated with the soft, warm glow of manhood. Somewhere between his face-swabbing and upper-torso scrubbing, his ever-wandering hand happened upon his crotchal region. OMG, what have we here?
Like a Bassmaster, he had hooked a big one and now wanted to reel it in, hoist it, weigh it, take his picture next to it and then throw it back into the bathwater. Bub Cousteau, documenting a new deep sea species. It was a private moment, one that I was witness to the way Kyle MacLachlan witnessed Dennis Hopper romanticizing Isabella Rossellini in Blue Velvet.
I’m not sure which was more disturbing—the Pat Pong-esque fervor with which he tugged and pulled at his goodies or the look of unabashed self-satisfaction he gave me while doing it. Yep, just answered my own question.
The entire episode did back up my theory that Bub is, in fact, impervious to pain. This theory was initially based on him routinely braining himself with his plastic keys, was legitimized by the way he yanked his scrotum like a deeply-rooted crabgrass, giggling the whole time. Apparently, we have similar ideas of a good time.
And then he discovered my penis. That was awkward. Luckily, my wife was there tubside, laughing her ass off, like it was a scene from some shitty, third-rate cable sitcom. Yeah, it’s good to have a support network, a real “go team” family philosophy.
Little fella’s got quite the grip, it turns out. Good for pitching. Rock climbing. Tug of war. Bad for an unsuspecting Daddy, bathing is blissful innocence. I think I handled it pretty well, considering the circumstances. I disarmed him with a wax-off swat, skreeked like a caddle-prodded cat and promptly ejected Bub from the tub.
You can’t really blame the kid. He doesn’t get out much, doesn’t socialize that often. And it’s not every day you meet a friendly penis just hanging around your neck of the tub. And on the flipside, Bub, Jr. spends approximately 23.75 hours of every day in diaper solitude, so I’m sure it was happy to be recognized, glad to have the attention. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Now I didn’t think there was any way that Bub made the connection between the two things he was grabbing. How could he, right? But yesterday, I took a quick shower while he played on the shaggy bathmat. I opened the curtain, which got his attention. I swear to God he looked right at my crotch, then looked me in the eye and smiled knowingly. Well, I say carpe penim, young man. Just make sure it’s your own.
P.S. HELP!!! I went through so many titles for this one (Say Hello to My Little Friend, e.g.) and I'm sure somebody can come up with a better one. Here's a chance to champion your cleverity, and I will officially change the name to the best one. Thanks for your help!