What you cannot see in this photo is my six pack of abdominal awesomeness and my leopard skin, grape-smuggling Speed-O.

Your loss.

Let it be known that Father is the person behind the camera. The person who sat there and did nothing to lend a hand as I fell to the ground like a freshly-cut redwood. The person who put my safety second behind his precious picture taking.

It’s cool, Dad. As long as you got the shot. Rump hole.

Over the weekend, I attended two parades that were thrown in my honor. Liked the big, shiny red trucks with lights flashing. The people inside of them with their super-soaker water guns pointed towards the crowd – not so much.

And the hippies. Wasn’t a big fan of all the hippies. This may be an eternal struggle for me.

I went before a judge, crapped in his arms, saw five different grandparents, had some surgery on my tinkle nozzle, got addicted to children’s Tylenol, recognized the problem, went to rehab (in my mind), kicked the addiction (winning), went through some withdrawal, then gained a few pounds on the road to recovery. All the while, I’m teething like a bull shark and trying to learn how to crawl – which I believe to be my ticket to freedom. So far, I haven’t been able to do much more than undulate in place on all fours before flopping onto my belly. So I’m pretty close.

If you’re wondering what kind of procedure I had done on my mystery bits, Father has been telling everyone it was a length reduction.

I’m 7.5 months old, and I’m already going before a judge. I thought I’d have at least two or three years under my Sansabelt before I started having court dates, but on Thursday, June 16, I will be dressed in my finest jump-a-roo and becoming an US citizen. And by that, I mean that my adoption will be certified, bona fide, official, legal, and too legit, too legit to quit.

I’m pretty sure there will be a parade to follow with exotic animals, decorative floats, marching bands, fireworks, confetti bazookas, military fly-overs and vendor carts peddling the finest carnie food this side of the Red River.

That’s all well and good, but I shall celebrate this occasion modestly with my patented Crap ‘n’ Nap.

This is me raging against the machine. The machine in this case is the floor, and the perplexing magical power it uses to prevent me from rolling onto my back.

I cannot go through life with the ground as my enemy. We must call a truce.

Wait, I mean I rule and drool. It seems the first announcement of chiclet growth was premature, but now I’m definitely teething. Or, fanging, if you will.

I’m expelling so much saliva, I’m worried about dehydration. To prevent this, I will begin a steady intake of Mountain Dew. At least two liters per day.

Also, my clothes are constantly damp, which is irritating. So I think I’ll just go unitard/diaperless and freeball it for a while. So if you see a saliva geyser with full-body fat rolls, frolicking naked with a giant bottle of bright green soda pop – that’ll probably be me. Feel free to say hello.

There’s something in the Second Amendment that has me troubled:

“…the right of the people to keep and arm bears shall not be infringed.”

So not only do I have to be on the lookout for bears that want to steal my salmon, I also have to assume they’re all packin’ heat. That’s why I had to administer a stranglehold on this grizzly and pat him down for weapons.

Then I put his entire face in my mouth. A wresting match ensued. It was declared a draw.

A lot has happened since my last entry. And I’ve aged quite nicely. New pics to come soon.

Here’s a quick recap of the last few weeks:

– I’ve mastered the xylophone.
– I’ve improved the effectiveness of my right hook by 42%.
– I dropped out of clown college.
– I wrestled a grizzly bear. (pic coming soon.)
– I competed in some Scottish Highland games.
– Earned an honorary doctorate degree from Playskool.
– I got caught in the rain while enjoying a piña colada.
– I was visited by Grandma from Texas.
– I learned a few Jedi mind tricks.
– Declined a position as the fourth tenor.
– Rebuilt the transmission of an ’84 Trans Am.
– Invented the Human Baby Liam Trifecta: sleeping, eating and crapping at the same time.

I am the most interesting baby in the world. I don’t always drink formula, but when I do, I prefer the Target brand soy-based kind.

Stay thirsty my friends.

It’s often said that a steeple on a church or cathedral is an architectural attempt to get closer to the heavens.

When I slumber, I employ the same concept with my rump.

This weather is a buncha bull spit.

I need sun. I need to tan my guns. I need some Vitamin D up in here. I need to bake the cylinders of white dough that I call legs. I need to see lady babies in short pants. I need a nap.

Is there a way to put diapers on clouds?

So I’ve graduated to solid foodstuffs. Although, to call the paste I’m ingesting a “solid” is an insult to all solid matter.

The pro: beef jerky can’t be far behind.

The con: My flatulence has risen to a new level.

Actually, those are both pros.

This is one of those rare instances.

I often use the phrases “What on God’s green Earth?” And “Great gobs of green googly moogly!” And “I’ll have the enchiladas verdes and a virgin margarita with no salt por favor.” And “You betta check yo self before you wreck yo self.”

I’m pretty sure I know what they all mean, and I’m pretty sure that I use these phrases in proper context. BUT, I haven’t been totally clear on the concept of “green” as a color. I understand “green” as an over-used adjective for environmental responsibility, but as a color – I just haven’t had much exposure to it.

Thankfully, that’s changing. I’m beginning to see signs of this intriguing color. My prediction is that I will soon be mowing a green front yard in a matter of weeks.

The daycare that I attend is a house in the woods. It’s a cool place with lots of outdoor space. There’s a chicken coup out back, and on occasion, the yard birds are released to peck about the grounds to their gizzard’s delight.

If and when I catch one, I will either punch it or taste it. Probably both.