Storage Unit OR: When Robot Daddy Goes Horribly Awry

Sometimes it’s the most innocent things that get the most perverted by toddlerdom. Consider the sad allegory of Robot Daddy. Come on, you know Robot Daddy. The old cup-over-the-mouth, monotone voice: ‘Beep, boop. I am Robot Daddy, rar-er-rar.’ No?

Segue. Bub likes to put things in things. Any given thing that will fit inside any other given thing of superior size. Bouncy balls in boxes, crayons in pockets, Matchbox in the gummy bear tin, small cups in big cups, buckeyes in backpacks. You get the idea. Give him a thing, any thing, and he’ll shove it inside another thing.

(You can already tell this story is going to be hilarious, you just don’t know which way I’m going with it, right?)

Maybe it’s a kid thing, this putting of things into other things. Maybe it’s a guy thing. But it’s more likely just a human thing. I put ice cream in the freezer, so that it doesn’t melt. I put my body inside a domicile to keep warm and dry.

And here, you can see start to see the differences between the adult brain and the child’s. Most of the time I put something in something, it’s for a reason other than ‘I just wanted to see if it would fit.’ That’s how heads get stuck in Tupperware, Bub.

Bub loves bath time, which makes perfect sense when you look at it through his thing-tinted glasses. Not only does he get to put his entire person (a thing) into another thing (the tub), but THAT thing is also filled with another several gallons of a thing. Things on things! And THEN, he can put even MORE things like ducks and monkey cups and blowfish into THAT thing, which is already in THAT GREAT BIG FUCKING THING!

Lots of things going on in there. So many things, so little time. Some are good things, some are bad things. Sometimes, it’s just one thing too many. Sometimes things go wrong. Things fall apart. Things are overlooked, and then sometimes things get out of control. Things take a turn.

And sometimes you just put your junk into a monkey cup and say, “I am Robot Privates, rar-er-rar.”

And then things get awkward. Things get quiet. Things have changed. Things have been desecrated in a way no Robot Daddy could have been programmed to see coming. Things turn out like this:

“Umm, take that off your privates, Bub.”

 “Why, Daddy?”

“Because it’s not Robot Privates, man. Privates don’t talk. It’s Robot…never mind, just take it off.”

“Here, Daddy, put it on YOUR privates!”

“No, thanks.”

“Okayyyyy,” he says, while putting the cup back over his privates. “Where’d my privates go?”

“Bub, I’m gonna count to three…”

“Look, Daddy, it’s a garage. I’m just gonna PARK my privates!”

“Okay, we’re done here.”