One day, when I’m mature enough to support the weight of my own head, I’m going to procure a dune buggy.

I will drive it on the dunes. I will go up one side and down the other. All day long.

Slack-jawed gawkers will see me fly by and say “Sweet milk of manatee, look at that dune buggy go!”

If a seagull gets in my way, I cannot guarantee its safety because I will be going fast.

The decorated tree in my living room has made me realize a few things…

1. Conifers seem to have a magnetic power that attracts gifts to them.
2. I may pursue a career in forestry.
3. I like sparkly.

I’m sure that later in life, my penchant for sparkly will evolve into an affinity for bass boats and engine chrome. As opposed to say… sequins.

Unless forest rangers get to wear sparkly green sport coats…

So far, my favorite song is “Down by the Seaside” from Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti.

“Sing loud for the sunshine, pray hard for the rain
Show your love for Lady Nature and she will come back again”

Have fun shopping for a new mind to replace the one I just blew.

I often speak of my dignity and how my parents are constantly trying to compromise it. I feel this happens every time I’m on the changing table with my feet being lifted, exposing my bare, non-facial cheeks.

Usually, my pride sinks to a low level during these instances. But last night was different. I did something that, apparently, I should be quite proud of.

I was able to jettison a stream of waste matter from rear side that traveled a distance of 26.2 inches before landing on the floor. 26.6 inches. That’s well over two feet.

I know because my Dad measured it.

And for some odd reason, he keeps congratulating me on it.

I have this “condition” my Father has dubbed “stink paw.”

You see, I wear these awful little mittens that keep my meathooks warm. But I have a theory. It goes something like this: Mom and Dad are too lazy and/or too afraid to deal with my fingernails and the mittens simply cloak this greenhorn parenting.

I understand their fear. My digits are small. My index finger makes a Lil’ Smoky sausage look like a commercial dirigible.

Either way, the mittens make my hands smell like my ass. Ergo, “stink paw.”

For some reason, gifts addressed to me are starting to arrive at my doorstep. Many have festive wrapping and come with cards exuding all sorts of well wishes.

According to my rough calculations, this will happen every six weeks of my life.

I like this concept.

But I am starting to see a disturbing pattern. It’s becoming painfully obvious that my Father has really pissed some people off over the years – and they’re seeking sweet revenge on me.

The photo above is just one example. Obviously a cruel joke.

Now, I will concede that I don’t look as regal as I normally do, but hot diggity darnit, this friggin’ bear suit is comfortable. Plus, it keeps caribou out of my face.

So the joke is on you, Mark Harrison.

When I first heard that I was going to be a “formula baby,” I was like “Great gobs of grandeur! I love me some racin’ cars!”

I’m no stranger to speed. I blazed my way through a birth canal in record time. That nurse was wishing for a catcher’s mitt by the time my fat face found daylight.

As a “formula baby,” I thought I’d be fitted with a Corinthian leather race suit, given a helmet and the keys to my Ferrari. (I know F1 cars don’t actually have keys, but you get the idea.)

Well, as it turns out, there’s a big diff between “formula” and “Formula 1.”

And that just sucks.

Dad sat on the couch, remote in hand, ready to watch Monday Night Football. He donned a pair of flannel stretchy pants and a t-shirt with gravy stains. Beef, from what I could tell.

He looked very comfortable. Which made me uncomfortable.

So I peed on his parade of lethargy by demanding constant attention from kickoff through the third quarter.

When I was done, Dad was exhausted and fell asleep, missing the end of the game. And I hear it was quite exciting.

Wanna know who won?

I did.

Which has enabled me to develop the film from some shots I recently had taken. This one is of me with my pet eagle, taken shortly before a trip to the park where I taught him how to catch a discus in his beak.

My eagle’s name is Dooley.

His favorite food is Slim Jims.

The smell of it wafted through the house this morning. It’s probably the best olfactory experience I’ve had on Earth thus far. I can only imagine how good this pork product actually tastes.

And here I am sucking a bottle filled with gruel pulled from the teat of a soy bean.

With Artemis as my witness, I shall not be a vegetarian.

Unless you’re a dude.

Mom doesn’t want me to write about my battles with constipation.

So this is me not writing about the occasional struggle I have in dropping the proverbial diaper deuce.

From what I’ve read, it’s quite normal. Happens to the best of us.

Obviously.

With the exception of the artificially tanned population of New Jersey, most people in the Northeast region of our great nation are quite pasty. I get that and I’m ok with that. But I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror this morning and I. Am. Pale.

I’m so white, I’m pink. My complexion is that of young swine.

It’s only December in Vermont, and I’m already itching for some warmth and sunshine.

Perhaps I will take respite in French Polynesia. Follow the lead of Gauguin and take up a harem of young Tahitians for which to “draw inspiration.” And by “draw inspiration,” I mean I would totally make out with them.

If this blog goes on hiatus, you’ll know why.

Yes. Usually about four or five times per day.

Get it? I’ve turned a current event into a joke about urinating.

Hilarious.

With sweet Baby Jesus as my witness, I shall never tweet.

The mere concept of an infant having the gumption to send stream of consciousness and/or interior monologues out into the world is laughable.

Laughable I say.

You know, this kid from Family Guy? He’s quite angry and insecure. He’s probably hurting inside. There’s issues in that balding football he calls a head.

My Dad likes that show. I find it puerile at best. South Park is more my
style. Refined. Sophisticated.

Being Canadian notwithstanding, Ike Broflovski from South Park is someone I can totally relate to. He too is adopted. I’d hang out with Ike any day of the week.

I wouldn’t let Stewie carry my jock.