um, let’s say you walk in the living room to find your adorable 3 year old son with his pants down to his ankles, peeing on the coffee table–right on your favorite art book, presumably ruining it.
do you:
a. gasp, then clutch your chest in true fred sanford fashion.
b. applaud his efforts yelling, “bravo. bravo!”
c. critique his performance, pointing out the places he missed.
d. pretend you don’t notice what’s happening, u-turn, and head toward the wine cabinet.
or,
e. kill him with your bare hands.
after careful consideration, i chose option a. well, actually, it was my first reaction. i all but lost my faculties. and i couldn’t breathe. when he noticed me standing there convulsing and foaming at the mouth, he laughed and pointed at me, squealing, “mommy funny. mommy terning gween.”
i was finally able to catch my breath, help the man pull up his pants, then spent the next 30 minutes getting the vile urine (which strangely enough smelled like harvest spice potpourri) off the coffee table (well, the urine that didn’t soak into the wood–nice–it sucked it up like a sponge). the book? i’m afraid it fought a tough battle, but sadly, it never saw the enemy coming, so it never really had a chance.
and the man responsible for all this? is still pointing and laughing at me. and continues to dance around singing, “i got a penis,” while playing air guitar.
please send help.
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