I’ve expressed interest in a few different career paths. I’ve mentioned becoming a welder, a break dancer, an illusionist, and most recently a professional elephant puncher. Now, I’m considering a career in the rodeo. Mainly because I have this new saddle, and when placed in it, I like to pretend I’m riding a bucking bronco or a bull.

There are several aspects of being a rodeo rider that I find appealing:

1. The work shift is only seven seconds long.
2. I would get to wear chaps. (But I’ll probably do this no matter what career I pursue.)
3. I would enjoy a diet consisting exclusively of coliseum corn dogs and funnel cake.

I can think of only one drawback, but it’s a doozy: rodeo clowns. Man, those things creep me out. My guess is that rodeo clowns are the direct result of carnies having babies with mimes.

And that is just disturbing. And all kinds of wrong.

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.

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.