The smell of it wafted through the house this morning. It’s probably the best olfactory experience I’ve had on Earth thus far. I can only imagine how good this pork product actually tastes.

And here I am sucking a bottle filled with gruel pulled from the teat of a soy bean.

With Artemis as my witness, I shall not be a vegetarian.

Unless you’re a dude.

Mom doesn’t want me to write about my battles with constipation.

So this is me not writing about the occasional struggle I have in dropping the proverbial diaper deuce.

From what I’ve read, it’s quite normal. Happens to the best of us.

Obviously.

With the exception of the artificially tanned population of New Jersey, most people in the Northeast region of our great nation are quite pasty. I get that and I’m ok with that. But I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning and I. Am. Pale.

I’m so white, I’m pink. My complexion is that of young swine.

It’s only December in Vermont, and I’m already itching for some warmth and sunshine.

Perhaps I will take respite in French Polynesia. Follow the lead of Gauguin and take up a harem of young Tahitians for which to “draw inspiration.” And by “draw inspiration,” I mean I would totally make out with them.

If this blog goes on hiatus, you’ll know why.

Yes. Usually about four or five times per day.

Get it? I’ve turned a current event into a joke about urinating.

Hilarious.

With sweet Baby Jesus as my witness, I shall never tweet.

The mere concept of an infant having the gumption to send stream of consciousness and/or interior monologues out into the world is laughable.

Laughable I say.

You know, this kid from Family Guy? He’s quite angry and insecure. He’s probably hurting inside. There’s issues in that balding football he calls a head.

My Dad likes that show. I find it puerile at best. South Park is more my
style. Refined. Sophisticated.

Being Canadian notwithstanding, Ike Broflovski from South Park is someone I can totally relate to. He too is adopted. I’d hang out with Ike any day of the week.

I wouldn’t let Stewie carry my jock.

I made it painfully clear to everyone last night that the title of this blog is merely a colloquialism.

I’ve been thinking about what my first words will be. Yes, plural. To blurt out a single, one-syllable word would be so pedestrian.

I want my first words to mean something. After all, I will be symbolically deflowering my vocal chords.

I’m considering something exotic, even pretentious. A word or words that make normal people feel slightly uncomfortable when they use them. Something like “foie gras” or “obfuscate.”

Perhaps I’ll use a combination of fancy words.

“Dad looked quite obfuscated when I requested a dinner of fine cheese and foie gras.”

If I dropped that out of the blue, it’d be Mom who would need a fresh diaper.

I have a while to think about this, so I’m open to suggestions.

PS – “Colloquialism” is not an option.

Ga ga goo goo, ba ba boo boo. Na na noo noo pee pee.

I can’t believe I just typed that. I feel so gross.

There I was sitting naked in the kitchen sink, my bare ass planted in a stainless steel, mesh colander.

My Dad proceeds to lift me from my ankles like a freshly-harvested chicken, he then grabs the spray attachment from the sink and hoses nature’s matter off my waffled rump as if it were mud on a mountain bike.

As I dangle there, hind side exposed, viewing the world up-side-down through the bay window, a few things are going through my head…

1. That colander is used for cooking.
2. This is not my most dignified moment.
3. Hey, it’s the UPS guy. I wonder if he has something for me.

Then I woke up. It was all a strange dream. But not out of the realm of possibility.

So I’m sitting in my (formerly Will’s) bouncy chair with the dial set to “vibrate my junk.” I’m staring out the window that gives me a view to the front yard and street.

My belly is full, my diaper is relatively clean, and I’m under my favorite 100% cotton blanket. Like 33% of my wardrobe, it too has little duckies on it.

Mom has the music station set to some New Age, John Tesh-type auditory detritus, but other than that, I’m quite content.

I’m staring out at a black bird in the snowy front yard, wondering if it’s the one that sings in the dead of night. All of the sudden, I hear a loud rumbling, scraping sound.

A few seconds later, a big, magical machine with flashing lights and heavy accoutrements goes flying by, flinging snow and ice up and away from the road.

Holy stool sample.

I must obtain one of these machines.

My Dad burps: Mom rolls her eyes and says “Disgusting.”

I burp: Mom’s eyes light up and she says “Thank You! Thank You, little man!”

My Dad flatulates: Mom rolls her eyes, lifts a nostril, gives a more adamant “Disgusting” and ejects Dad from the room.

I flatulate: Mom reacts like she’s hearing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata for the first time.

I shall learn to harness the power of this domestic double standard.

For reasons unknown to me, my digestive system prefers soy-based formula vs. the milk-based variety.

Note to Dad: there’s a significant difference between soy formula and soy sauce.

It’s starting to become clear who the dimmest bulb in the house is.

To me: A pivotal point in our great Nation’s history.

To my Dad: A football game.

The Ducks of Oregon matched against the Beavers of Oregon State. A battle of prey. Amphibious fowl vs. amphibious mammal.

Sounds absolutely enthralling.

It seems I will be forced to watch this event whether I like it or not, so I might as well choose a side. Since I’m so thrilled to be wearing a jumpsuit with ridiculous little duckies all over it, I shall extend my enthusiasm about said ensemble to this sporting event. I’m taking the Ducks. Also, I know my cousin Nathan is a big fan of the Ducks and my grandfather once lived in Eugene, so I shall raise my bottle and will this team to victory.

Then I will crap myself.

Pacifier? Check.

Dancing mits? Check.

Does my hair look dope? Check.

Toss me a couple glow sticks and I’m ready to rave ’til dawn. Word to my Mother.