Me with an Iron Maiden song.

Check out the new vid in the vid section.

Although my grip has been like a vice since day one, I’ve only recently put it to good use. Until now, I would simply grasp anything by virtue of reflex, and forgo using this power to my advantage.

Now, everything goes into the ol’ bottle port. If I can clutch it, I can probably sample it for taste. Heck, sometimes I don’t even need to use my chunky little meat hooks. Dad will hang various things above my face and I will extend my taster muscle to retrieve the object like a toad going after a plump insect.

I do this with an enormous amount of trust. Surely Father would not dangle a non-delicious item above my food hole…

Hmmm… I think I just discovered my skepticism muscle.

Occasionally, I will be placed onto a square mat that sits on the ground. I like to think of it as my own personal boxing rink.

There are two arches that stretch from corner to corner, and from these arches hang various items to keep me occupied and distracted as I lie there on my back.

There’s a monkey that I will bat at and a tropical bird that I will sometimes clutch and squeeze the life out of. But my favorite thing is a purple elephant. I like to punch the tar out of it. Right hooks, left hooks, jabs, combos, wind-ups… if there’s a type of punch, I’ve administered it to this poor pachyderm.

When I grow up, I going to be a professional elephant puncher.

And what have I learned? Nothing of real consequence, unless you count knuckle sucking.

I was certain by this point in time I would be fluent in at least two Latin-based languages, be an intermediate break dancer, an amateur illusionist, know at least three power chords on the guitar, have a remedial knowledge of welding, a harem of lady babies, an iPhone, a Big Wheel, a LinkedIn profile and an undergrad degree from Arizona State.

The material possessions are less important to me than developmental milestones. Like having the ability to roll over onto my stomach. I know that sounds like a dog trick, but not being unable to perform this basic task is quite maddening. Makes me feel like a turtle that has been overturned and left to roast in the hot sun. But instead of a hot sun, it’s just real cold. So instead of roasting, I’m actually freezing.

But you get the idea.

I’ll tell you another thing I have yet to learn: patience.

But Me and Lemmy aint laughing.

I can scientifically prove my point with three words: “Hey Soul Sister.”

That piece of auditory tripe won a Grammy. Heck, I think I may have won a Grammy for the last time I cried and farted at the same time. There’s about a million Grammy categories and the hardware is handed out like samples at Costco.

They should call them “The Shammys.” Or better yet “The Crud Awards for Cruddiest Crud Music.”

On a more awesomer note, Dad changed the channel at 8pm to Palladia, where we enjoyed Lemmy, an inspiring documentary about the ageless front man of British supergroup Motörhead. I enjoyed that quite a bit.

Read what I think of the 2012 Grammys here.

Lots of new pics of me uploaded on the “Pics of Me” page. Nothing Earth-shattering. Just Me in all my friggin’ awesomeness.

OK, the first few nights were a riot. I’ve seen and done things that no mother would approve of. Dad and I have spread our dude wings and soared like bachelor hawks.

But now I’m getting scared. I simply cannot sustain on a diet of Cool Ranch Dorito YooHoo smoothies. My diaper is merely Brawny single-ply fastened with duct tape. I’m having second thoughts about using permanent marker to apply my Tom Selleck mustache. I’ve also changed my mind about wanting to be a unicorn – but this change of heart cannot remove the horn I’ve super-glued to my forehead. And I smell like German cheese.

It’s time for Mother to return.

Fell asleep pantless in a root beer stupor with chedda-fier planted firmly in mouth. Woke up to Iron Maiden’s “Aces High,” with “Father” tattooed across my right gun and Jiffy Extra Chunky on both paws. And I have a mohawk.

I think last night was a success.

My cold is gone and so is Mother. For a few days at least. She has taken her first business-related assignment out-of-state since my birth. What does this mean? It means Father and I are gonna bro down hardcore.

Here are a few things I look forward to:

– Freedom from the constraints of pants
– Three days without the E! channel
– Root beer
– Screaming at Alex Trebec
– Stinking
– Driving lessons
– Heavy metal karaoke
– Morning Joe on MSNBC
– A burp-off followed by a fart contest(s)
– Sleep deprivation
– Taco Tuesday!
– Googling “dune buggy”
– Learning how to say “duuuude”
– Snowball fights
– Peanut butter on my knuckle sandwich (see below)
– My first basement visit
– Hockey
– Tattoos (temporary, unfortunately)
– A mohawk
– A pacifier carved from aged cheddar
– Crank calls to local businesses
– Crank calls to my Congressman
– Crank calls to Mom
– Naked Scyping
– Building a snow woman
– Putting one of Mom’s bras on the snow woman
– Seeing how long it takes an egg to explode in the microwave
– And some other stuff that could get us in trouble with John Q. Law

When you add all of of this up, I suppose Mom cannot return soon enough.

The knuckle sandwich.

Although opposable, my thumb still proves to be an allusive jet for the hangar that is my drooly mouth.

Fine. I’m completely content just gumming my knuckles. They are so tender and tasty.

Basic human ones. And they’ve been violated by this medieval, frontal lobe-poking, turkey baster thingie.

This morning, when being administered the latest round of brain-sucking torture, I swear I felt a small gust of air actually enter my butt.

Is this nasal abuse I’m incurring some sort of revenge for the naturally-produced odors that I frequently emit? Because I can smell those too, and they aint that bad.

If my rights are violated in this fashion once more, I shall demand that Bono of U2 stop making crappy music for a second and lead an effort for my immediate amnesty.