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.

In a show of solidarity, Dad has taken on the lion’s share of my germs.

I’m guessing that I passed my cold onto him whilst playing tug-of-war with the remote control. I wanted to watch Wolf Blitzer, he wanted to watch Dukes of Hazzard.

Or perhaps the virus was exchanged by him drinking my baby tears. (He thinks that prevents aging.)

Either way, he now looks like my favorite subject.

A malevolent virus of some sort has come into my life and robbed my young immune system of its innocence. No flowers. No flirty looks from across the room. No courtship whatsoever. Just bang! Watery eyes and a never-ending supply of nostril slime.

I’m also having a hard time keeping formula down. I’ll be hittin’ the bottle and all of the sudden be like “Hey Dad, I love you man. Hold my hair back while I boot.”

Does this first have anything to do with my last first mentioned below?

I don’t know and I suppose it doesn’t matter. I still feel like my favorite subject. And if you don’t know what that is, you’re just not paying attention.

This pic was snapped yesterday. I didn’t know at the time, but I was getting ready for my first day of school. Every time I get strapped into this contraption, I think I’m either going on a roller coaster, or on a rocket ship to space. Needless to say, I usually feel a bit let down when I end up in a car on the way to Bed, Bath & Beyond.

But yesterday, I ended up at some sort of school/daycare/detainment center.

OK, this is new. A couple of things are going through my head:

1. Where are the cute lady babies?
2. Where are the older kids who will tell me what to do when I’m alone with a cute lady baby?
3. When’s lunch?

None of those questions were answered, so I went to sleep and dreamt about solid food and dune buggies.

Here’s what I know about them:

#1 is a liquid.
#2 is a solid. But sometimes an explosive liquid.

Based on these facts, I’ve hypothesized a mathematical theory which states that the higher the number, the more severe the ramification. Which makes me look forward with trepidation to the day when Mom congratulates me on filling a diaper with #3.

Why am I talking all mathy? Because this morning, the thermometer outside read -20. That’s 20 with a minus in front of it.

I have no idea what this means, but it totally freaks me out.

That “F” on the bottom stands for a word that Dad is not allowed to use in front of me.

Dad just showed me these shirts he was making to adorn my torso. I quite like them.

(If you’re not a heavy metal fan, then you probably don’t get it. You probably don’t understand the shirts either.)

To my chagrin, the Diet Sprite seems to have worked.

Yesterday, I decided to see how long and hard I could scream. Much to my surprise, I was able to carry on for several hours. Well into the night.

At one point, Dad started throwing holy water on me.

Later on, Mom told me it was just Diet Sprite.

Note to Grandfather A: I think Dad is going to ask that you include a gallon or two of the real stuff when you make the next shipment of Duke’s mayonnaise to Vermont.

The polls are closed. The people have spoken. All five of you.

On the topic of pants and whether or not I should wear them, 80% of the electorate said “nay” and for this I thank you. Because naked time is my favorite time.

You’ve helped me realize my dream. The one I had yesterday.