I like to kick my legs about. I call it a natural reflex. Or karate practice. Dad calls it Restless Leg Syndrome, or RLS.

Just to be safe, I Googled it and found that there are some side effects to the treatment of RLS. These are just a few:

• Vomiting (No big change there)
• Difficulty concentrating (Um, yeah. I’m a baby)
• Gas (Check)
• Urgent need to urinate (Yep)
• Drowsiness (Way ahead of you)
• Weakness (I’ll go to the gym tomorrow)
• Swelling of hands, arms, feet, ankles or legs (Done, done, done, and done)
• Difficulty maintaining an erection (Not sure what this means)

I’ve come to the conclusion that my entire life is a series of side effects.

And I’m cool with that.

And I love me some TJ Hooker.

I’m getting pretty good at making farty sounds with my mouth. This will be a valuable skill throughout my lifetime.

Father has given me permission to change my name to Sir Batman Von Spiderburg McClubber Lang III. It’s a moniker that is both sophisticated and paradoxical.

Fang #1 has begun to sprout. You realize what this means, don’t you?

It means I will be able to tear the gristle off a rare t-bone steak with authority, instead of gumming it off like I’ve been doing. It means I will be fitted for a mouth piece to protect my lone chiclet from the counter punches of everything that I currently enjoy punching. It means I may forgo the use of a can opener when I want some Spaghetti-O’s. It means that I can, and will, bite the hand that feeds. It means that Dad will have to stop saying my mouth looks like that of a catfish, and instead acknowledge that it now looks like that of a fanged catfish. It means that I’m a one-man ear/nose/tongue/naval-piercing machine. (Fees may apply.) It means I will have to procure a tooth brush, and eventually a teeth brush. (I’m guessing there is a difference.) It means when I start talking, I will be able to lie through my tooth. It means I can start shopping for a jewel-encrusted grill.

It also means that I reserve the right to remain mildly irritable, if not completely pissed off.

Tomorrow, Mother and I will crawl into the belly of a giant mechanical bird and fly South to a Carolina beach for a few days.

Here are some things I’m looking forward to:

1. A break from the stressful daily grind of being an infant.
2. Stocking up on fireworks. (Sold year round in SC)
3. Parasailing.
4. Chick-fil-A.
5. Rockin’ my raisin-smugglin’ Speed-O trunks.
6. Offshore fishing for Mahi Mahi.
7. Seeing lady babies in swimsuits.
8. Wrestling an alligator.
9. “I caught crabs at Myrtle Beach” t-shirt.
10. Skynyrd pumping loud from thousands of Camaros.

Here are some things I’m not looking forward to:

1. Paparazzi at the airport.
2. My ears popping on the plane. I will cry. I’m a baby. Deal with it.
3. Boiled peanuts. Yuck.
4. Sand in my fat rolls.
5. Skynyrd pumping loud from thousands of Camaros.

This is a wrist roll.

This is a rick roll.

Not that much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.

You should see the other guy.

Still winter, so it was indoors. Strange.

I wrote a song about it:

Old McDonald had a gymnasium, E-I-E-I-Oh.
And in that gym there were some hippies, E-I-E-I-Oh.
With an drum circle here, and a vegan tamale there,
Here a beet, there a candle, everywhere a thick beard and this includes the women.
Old McDonald had a stereotype, EE-I,

EEEE-I,

Oh.

When Mom says that, I’m thinking “Jell-O shots? Pudding pounders? Soy milk slammers? Peanut butter body shots? Oh hecks yeah I’ll do some shots!”

I was wrong. The shots came from Satan’s little helpers. With their needles. Three of them. Jammed into my doughy quads. Again.

Bitches.