Friday, May 25, 2012
A Chicago father known as Daddy saw his grandiose plans for what he was calling Baby-Off go up in smoke amid outrage from the Children’s Defense Fund.
“It was going to be a lot like the Special Olympics,” Daddy said. “But with more drool.”
“It’s insulting on so many levels,” said Lisa Woodson, spokesperson for the CDF. “Did you see the event list?”
According to records, proposed events included a spit-up competition, a staring contest and a teeth-off, wherein babies gnaw on rocks of varying degrees of hardness with points awarded for indentations.
“And let’s not forget the cry-off. Two competitors enter the arena and attempt to cry the other into submission,” Daddy said. “Simple, gladitorial. I built the arena myself out of a used litter box and some duct tape.”
“We will simply not sit by and watch children be degraded like little pawns in a game they can’t possibly comprehend,” Woodson said. “It’s as barbaric as it is asinine.”
“Well, I’m not sure, but I think by pawn she is referring to the ancient Zen art of making a rock garden out of fish bones and moonbeams,” Daddy said. “Bottom line is we all know it’s a scientific fact that kids can’t remember anything before the age of six, so no harm, no foul.”
What was less "factual" was where the funding, location or competitors were to come from.
“Like any true visionary, you have to expect to be initially ridiculed by the masses,” Daddy said. “First time Einstein flipped on that light switch, you can bet there was a jealous naysayer nearby to say, ‘Yeah, right, like that’ll ever catch on.’”
“It’s really just a shame for the kids,” Daddy continued. “Me? I’ll be okay, but it was really about sinking down to that level, treating them like little people instead of hairless little Ewoks.”
Asked what he was going to do now that his master plan had been scuttled and he figured to have plenty of free, unstructured time, Daddy thought for a minute:
“I think I’ll re-alphabetize my VHS collection. Teach my son to pull my finger. And continue my samurai training, of course.”
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
A Chicago toddler known as Bub leveled discrimination accusations against the Chicago Bulls basketball organization after being cut from tryouts for the Junior Luvabulls dance squad.
The Luvabulls are of course the regionally famous cheerleading squad for the Bulls, known for their potent combination of scissor kicks and Annie Oakley-esque mastery of the T-shirt cannon.
The Junior Luvabulls were founded several years ago “to instill young girls with self-esteem, promote coordinated calisthenics and foster an early love of the booty short.”
“It was a tight squeeze,” Bub said. “What with all this junk up in my trunk.”
Though the squad is, by definition, made up entirely of young girls, they maintain they are open to members of the male sex who can “bring it.”
“Corporate makes us say that,” Karen Jones, Junior Luvabulls coach said. “This kid has about as much of a chance as Wheelchair Wendy.”
“Well, we actually invented diversity. We’re just waiting on the patent. So there’s that,” Tom O’Leary, head of Bulls PR said. “I think this particular accuser simply does not fit the image of a Junior Luvabull.”
“I think my moves intimidated them a bit, if we’re being completely honest,” Bub said. “And it’s human nature to tear down what we don’t understand.”
“Well, the whole diaper sticking out of the booty shorts didn’t really do it for me,” O’Leary added. “And off the record, his back handspring is for shit.”
Should he litigiously pursue his way onto the squad, Bub would, at 19 months, be the youngest member by over seven years. We asked his father, Daddy, what he thought of his son being cut from the team.
“Well, he can’t jump, so that’s self-limiting,” Daddy said. “He’s like a chicken trying to fly the coop. But he can’t fly. So he becomes nuggets. Is anybody else here hungry?”
“I think this kid’s only angle is going to be thinking outside the winner’s box,” O’Leary said. “Maybe we load him into the T-shirt cannon. It could be a whole halftime thing, like catch the baby, win a Crave Case. I’m just spitballing here. We’d need parental consent, of course.”
Daddy said, “Mmm, sliders.”
Thursday, May 17, 2012
A local father known as Daddy expressed general dismay today as his lone birthday wish to have a day free of parental responsibilities was roundly rejected by his son Bub.
“Quite simply, one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard,” Bub said. “And trust me, he’s had some doozies.”
“Look, every day, here I am, wiping his crevices, buttering his toast,” Daddy said. “Well, what about me? I like toast. I have crevices.”
“I’m not some small appliance you can just unplug and put under the sink. I’m a toddler, damnit. Don’t ever forget that,” Bub said.
“I just don’t get it. I concentrated real hard. Blew out all the candles, did everything by the book,” Daddy said. “I got hosed.”
“Look, even I know that if you say your wish out loud it won’t come true,” Bub said, adding, “Dummy.”
“You know he didn’t even buy me a present?” Daddy said. “Oh, he got me a card, yeah. With a kitten on it. I fucking hate cats.”
“I tried to order him a fine feature film, The Buns of the Navarone,” Bub said. “But he wrested the remote away from me before I could complete the order.”
Asked what his ideal birthday would have looked like, Daddy said:
“I don’t know. Play some croquet, shotgun a few beers and throw rocks at abandoned buildings. Maybe shoot some squirrels with BB guns, get some Taco Bell.”
“What are you, thirteen? I don’t know what to tell the guy other than this is what you get for shtupping my mother,” Bub said. “Happy birthday. I've got a present for you in my diaper.”
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
A local toddler named Bub has challenged Emmelyn Roettger, the much ballyhooed MENSA baby, to a battle of wits.
Roettger made headlines recently by joining MENSA, the Massively Enormous Nerd Safehouse Association, at the ripe old age of just 2 years, 11 months, the youngest in the history of the world.
Her IQ is 135 and she has a working vocabulary of 50,000+ words across a half-dozen tongues, including Quechua, Sanskrit and Klingon.
Bub waves good morning to fire hydrants and has a pet stick. His academic achievements include ripping out three pages of Goodnight, Moon and nearly ordering an adult film to the cable box.
“The Buns of the Navarone,” Bub said. “The one that got away.”
As is often the case, where there’s a baby, there’s an annoying parent there to speak for it. We asked Daddy, Bub’s father and chronic instigator, how he thought his son could possibly contend intellectually with a bona fide genius.
“Really not too worried about it,” Daddy said. “I saw her on the Today show. The host is all like, ‘What moon of Uranus is this?’ and the kid’s like ‘I gotta poop.’ Well, guess what? I had falafel for lunch and now I gotta poop. Guess I’m a genius, too. Besides, everybody knows Uranus has no moons, kid.”
Actually, it has 27. When pinned down as to how he seriously expected his 19 month-old to compete with unrelenting brain muscle, Daddy said:
“She’s, what, 2 years and 11 months? So that’s like…well, it’s over two years older than Bub. But I’ve got two words for you: Roshambo, bitches!”
Rock, Paper, Scissors. A rubric far more accurate than any GRE score; a true equalizer. As one might expect, the parental trash talk quickly ensued.
“You know what they say,” Mr. Roettger said. “You mess with the 100th percentile, you get the horns.”
“Nobody ever said that,” Daddy said. “But just like his old man, Bub’s in the 280th percentile, so…”
“Is this guy for real?” Roettger responded. Yes, he is. “He’s denser than iridium!”
“What the fuck is an iridium?” Daddy said.
Should be a gas. The competition will be held a week from tomorrow. The winner stands to take home bragging rights in the form of a ‘My Kid Bitch-Slapped Your Kid Right in the Brains’ bumper sticker.
Friday, May 11, 2012
A Chicago father known as Daddy shared an awkward “wet one” with his son Bub last week, pushing masculine insecurities into the red and prompting an immediate Rambo marathon.
“I LOVE BOOBIES!!!” Daddy screamed to no one in particular. “And machine guns. And foxholes. And camaraderie and musk and the occasional group shower. But mostly boobies.”
The involved have been tight-lipped about the open-mouth incident, which apparently took place during a routine diaper change.
“Basically, I try to nurture my kid and he starts rounding second on me,” Daddy summated. “Save that shit for your mother. Wait…”
“In my defense, I’d had, like, six or seven ounces of milk,” Bub said. “I was completely hammered.”
“My son is obviously not comfortable with man on man affection,” Daddy said. “Maybe we’ll try a hug in a decade or so, buddy.”
“I’ve heard whisperings of this ‘affection’ thing, but I never thought it would look like Daddy inching his face up to mine, screaming ‘Papa Kissyface! Papa Kissyface!’ like some kind of retarded parrot,” Bub said. “I mean, what IS that?”
Asked if he thought that by creating the Papa Kissyface character, Daddy was in effect, dissociating himself from himself to be able to express affection, no matter how odd the form, and that perhaps he was the one who was uncomfortable giving and receiving affection, Daddy said:
“That’s kind of a leading question, isn’t it?” Then added, “Not to mention fucking stupid.”
Asked if he thought his son was too young for a bloody Rambo marathon, Daddy responded:
“I don’t know, is the pope too young to shit in the woods? I wish my dad had taught me how to string claymores and change a banana clip under duress.”
The two did, however, come to terms on the Father/Son Affection Statement, which clearly prohibits nearly all forms of outward affection, except for (of course) the occasional high-five.