I'm still here...

I'd meant to blog long before this, about a whole host of things (which I will do, eventually, providing I remember) and then finally just to say that I'm too busy to blog for a few days, but it appears I failed to do even that. Sorry all. (All ... three? Four fair readers? I can hope.) I'm trying very, very hard to wrap up my very nebulous manuscript for my graduate program (due, basically, momentarily), without losing too large a portion of my sanity, and that's taking up pretty much all my writing time. And when I'm at home, darn it, my family has the irritating habit of wanting to, you know, be with me and stuff. So. Manuscript craziness for a day or two more. Then, hopefully, blogging before the real craziness sets in ramping up to revision and graduation.

Every single day, and every word you say...

I talked to a couple of people recently who had kind words about my humble blog and humorous writing therein. Despite very gracious protests, I was trying to assure them that the humor, alas, is not mine. It's my son. I could choose to be jealous that it comes so naturally to him -- I mean, his idea of humor is the following joke:

"Knock knock"
"Who's there?"
"Me! Bwa-ha-ha!"
(Repeat for half an hour.)

But, in his natural moments, I think I might just be able to transcribe the words that come out of his mouth, and it would fare just as well.

Exhibit A (in the school parking lot, after picking him up):
Me: What were you talking and laughing about over there?
Him: Weiners!
Me: (Ignoring and changing tracks, or so I thought) So what did you learn about today?
Him: Weiners!
Me: Do you know what that means?
Him: Yeah. And I have a weiner! You wanna know who else has one?
Me: I think I have a pretty good guess. Did you learn anything else? Did you have music class today?
Him: Yeah. We learned a song about a cat. And we made up a song afterwards. Wanna hear it?
Me: Sure.
Him: Weeeiner, Weeeeeeeiner, Weiner-weiner-weeeeiner! Weiner-weiner bo-beiner...
Me: Let's hear the cat one now.

Exhibit B (as I prepared to cut his hair and he debated whether to don a shirt):
Him: I just don't want the hair to get on those pointy things.
Me: You don't have to worry about the clippers. They're not that pointy.
Him: Not those pointy things. These pointy things, on my chest! My ... pimples?

Exhibit C (while exiting the bathroom):
Him: Will you get mad if I tell you the truth? It's something that happened just now with poop.

Exhibit D (regularly):
Me: It's time to clean your room.
Him: Eeeeeaaaanghh! Wauuuugheeeeah! Waaaaahh!
Me: David! I think we're beyond whining, don't you?
Him: What whining? I wasn't whining.

Exhibit E (on a Ferris wheel):
Him: Hey! Look at all the people down there! Hey people! Hey. HEY! Aaahhhhh!
Him (a few seconds later, concerned): Why are they all looking at us?

Exhibit F (regularly):
Me: If you do that again, I'm going to holler, OK?
Him: OK.
Me: Got it? Because I'm done talking about it. Next time, I'm going to holler, and I will be mad.
Him: O-Kaaay, Mom.
Me: I don't want you to be surprised. Because I will yell, and I will be mad.
Him: Al-riiight!
(Does it again)
Me (Hollering): David! Stop it right now!
Him (Crying, totally shocked): Why are you mad?

Exhibit G (at a school book fair, after looking over a Harry Potter book):
Him: Wanna know how to play Quidditch?
Me (Unsuspecting. I should know better): How?
Him: Well, you stick a broom between your legs, like a ... like a boy part (here he gestures, quite pointedly, to his own, as if that's better than naming it in public), only you stick it coming out your butt, and you zoom around and grab balls and hit balls and try to catch that really little ball.
Neighboring child: Balls! Bwaah-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaa!
Him (to me): Wait, what are balls on people again? You don't have them, right?

Can I rest my case?