Packed Up The Kids

We've moved to the nicer neighborhood over at WordPress.

The schools are better, the crime rate is lower and the property taxes are affordable.

See you there.

My Three Sons

A request has been made by the mother of these children for the kind patrons to ignore the mostly eaten bowl of Spaghetti-O's that is marring an otherwise fine photograph.

The oldest will be an official teenager in less than a year. This may be the last time we see him smile until he goes off to college. According to his mother, "away at college" means Middle Tennessee State University. To me, it means Universidad Francisco Marroquín in Guatemala City.

The middle child is practicing for either Clown College or a replacement for his "lost" PSP.

The youngest is working on his left jab in order to train for the next "Rocky" sequel.

One Month Report

As with most things, I look to my Battle Buddy for inspirado in this matter.

Thus, we present this update in SALUTE format.

Size-- Growing at an alarming rate. Currently consuming his body weight in formula a day. I'm having to hold a bottle as I type. It is almost as if he is attempting to catch up to his Bruiser-sized peers.

Activity-- Mainly sleeping, crying, eating and filling diapers. In that order. He consistently resembles John Belushi imitating Joe Cocker at any given moment.

Location-- Never more than a few feet from his Momma. The potential for inadvertent disaster looms on the nights when she places him in the middle of our bed.

Unit Designation-- From what I can see, baby boy clothes come in either Loser Blue or Tweety Bird Yellow. I suspect that these are the colors his Momma feels that are appropriate for an infant to wear. Personally, I feel that all a child needs is a good kilt. (Sporran not pictured).

Time and Date-- Fortunately, I have the alibi of going to work every day. So my interaction with the child is limited to nights and weekends. Like a cell phone plan's free minutes. However, Friday and Saturday nights are my turn in the barrel. The subject receives his bottle of Weight Gain 4000 every three to four hours. Another month of this and I will be ready to institute Operation NyQuil. The boy may be coming down with a cold and Daddy likes to sleep.

Equipment-- The Binky, Pacifier, 1 each, has thus far proven to be a cruel hoax for all involved. The boy is not fooled by the plastic thing that does not provide food. I am at a loss to why we continue to try to shut him up with it when it clearly does not work as advertised.

The one piece of equipment that he seems to sleep well in is his car seat, manufactured by Death Trap Industries. He sleeps well in the car. The unfortunate side effect is when one goes to get him out of the car seat, he looks like Tricia Helfer snapped his neck. If they can send an infant across the galaxy in a chandelier and crash land him in a Kansas pasture, why can't they make a baby seat that doesn't feel like it belongs in a trebuchet?

Drunk Baby

Everyone remembers their first trip to Hooters.

The Lamest Show On Earth

Now that I have your attention.

We went to the circus last weekend. I've spent the last seven days shaking off the residual effects. The screaming nightmares have finally subsided. The uncontrollable crying has not.

People have all sorts of reasons to hate the circus. The animal rights people believe the performing animals are treated cruelly. Nativists demand to know why Chinese acrobats are taking jobs that rightfully belong to American acrobats. People like me feel uneasy when the clowns come out to strains of Rock and Roll Part 2 as performed by kiddie-molester Gary Glitter.

The theme for this performance was Circus of Dreams. For those of you old enough to remember when the networks would have Saturday Morning Preview Specials, you may also remember when they would have a showcase where, say, Lee Majors and some kids would be involved in a stupidly contrived adventure where the new kids programming would be premiered. That's about the same level of sophistication as Ringling Brothers now brings to the table.

I will say this, the actual acts were entertaining and amazing. The narrative arc to bring them together really ruined the whole deal. Having some besequined Betty belt out the "Circus of Dreams" theme song for what felt like twenty minutes seemed a little over the top, however. Much like the food served, they really could have done without all the filler.

Needless to say, the boys got the most bang for the entertainment dollar when one of the elephants crapped in the middle of the stage. It may have been the only time the kids laughed out loud.

Unfortunately, they were still pale from the clowns. Either that or the automatic focus on my camera sucks.

Their color soon returned for the Globe of Death. Next to elephants shitting, it was clearly their favorite. It contains both motorcycles and bodily harm. What more could a kid want?

Other, than to get out of there, of course. With the exception of a few truly talented circus performers, I've seen better stuff on Circus of the Stars.

The best part of the day, for my money, was hot dogs after the show at Hot Diggity Dogs. For the kids, it will always be the day they watched an elephant take a dump where the Predators play.

Christmas Cards

Here are photos pertaining to the boys first Christmas on Sarcastro Mountain.

In a rare moment of truce, the boys help Grandma Sarcastro make Christmas cookies.



Under threat of disinheritance, I am prevented from showing photographic evidence of the existence of Grandma Sarcastro.



Discipline began to break down early. Once the it became obvious that this was a photo-op, all bets were off.

The identity of the woman on the right working in the kitchen remains a mystery.





Soon, this would explode into a dispute regarding who is doing what in the cookie making process.



The camera would have to be put down and the children separated.




Even the normally camera shy 11, was pleased enough with his haul of presents to momentarily look at the camera. Despite all appearances to the contrary, he did not get a Red Ryder BB gun.

He'd shoot his eye out.










By the time we got home and opened more presents, the standard level of malaise and disinterest soon set in.

Besides, there was a game on.

Birthday Boy

Today is the day that 8 becomes 9.

9 is so much more mature than 8 was. 9 gets up without a fuss and feeds the pets. 9 gets dressed without having to be threatened like his predecessor. 8 was notorious for being uncooperative in the morning. 9 is such an improvement.

At least he is today. We still have another 364 days to see if the changes are permanent.

There was some coercion involved in getting his teeth brushed this morning. He claimed he didn't know how. He forgot how to brush his teeth between this morning and yesterday.

9 will get a new bike this week. Let's hope he doesn't forget how to ride it. It took me half the summer to re-teach him how to swim, so it is possible he forgot how to ride a bike and brush his teeth.

Still, 9 just seems so much more mature and sophisticated compared to 8. It is, however, troublesome how he seems fixated on how much money child actors like Dakota Fanning make. His star making role in the school play is partly to blame. Personally, I think the fault lies with Zach and Cody.


As long as he doesn't turn out like Danny Bonaduce, Todd Bridges, Kirk Cameron, Macaulay Culkin, Corey Feldman, Corey Haim, Edward Furlong, Brad Renfro or Mickey Rooney, I'll be happy.

Toilet Training

When the baby arrives, I'll be going out of my way to avoid changing diapers. As we all know, baby poop is the worst kind. Whatever I have to do to get out of doing my share of the butt wipin', I'll do. Note from the doctor, called up by the Army for one last secret mission, lost coming back from the Trojan war and stuck on an island full of pigs, cyclops, hot chicks, polar bears, lotus eaters and mysterious hatches--I don't care which. Any excuse will do.

I don't have any specific aversion or phobia related to this desire to not be involved in the baby's crap. Honestly, I just don't want to do it. It reminds me of a conversation I had many years ago with one of my employees. We were discussing slavery. Harold, being black or Afro-American as is apparently the new preferred nomenclature, had a very strong opinion regarding his role in the antebellum South.
"If I was back in slave times, I'd be a house nigger!"
"How come, Harold?"
"I gots allergies!"

That's what I need; an allergy to dirty diapers.

Meanwhile, I'm planning ahead for the toilet training. There are many books and experts with various theories about the best way to go about this.

I have my own ideas about how this will go.














(photo credit:Justin Cook, University of North Carolina)