Yesterday morning, when I went to get him out of his bed, I opened the door, and there he is standing in his crib, butt naked, smile on his face, 'I poo poo, daa-yee. I poo poo in diaper, daa-yee. I throw it. I throw diaper, daa-yee.'
In hindsight, I remember that as I was walking down the hall toward his room, I thought to myself, 'Uh-Oh, he must have pooped.' Because it stunk all the way down the hall. It wasn't until I got into the room did I get the full appreciation of stankness. I imagine that my reaction was similar to the cops who arrived first at the scene of the Manson murders. Just an overwhelming combination of shock, disgust, and confusion. Why? How? What kind of a person could......? And then there he was, asking for chocolate milk.
Maybe because he looked so cute standing in his crib. Maybe because I could see the humor in the situation. Or maybe I was just blinded by the incredibly foul stench in the room. But I couldn't get mad at him. Not right then. And so I cleaned up the poop, got him out of his crib, cleaned him up, and brought him downstairs to get some chocolate milk. And that's when I started devising my plan. One day, I'm going to poop on his floor. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. Maybe he'll have a family of his own by the time Saturday, June 28th, 2036 rolls around. (That's right, I checked to see what day it would be. I'm leaving nothing to chance in this plan.) Maybe I'll stop by to visit him and the family on a Saturday afternoon, and then right before I leave, when he goes to kiss his mom goodbye, I'll take a big ol dump in his living room. Then I'll have my revenge. But for now, I'm going to go figure out some more ways to ruin his teenage years.
I wonder what hand he throws poop with?
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