The dog days have arrived. They offer comfort and friendship, and they are simultaneously gnawing my behind into tiny bits. The days are long and hot and replete, so much so that when it's time to pry open the brain box and try to capture some of the escaping vapor, there are but a few fumes among the contentropy. This is the life I envisioned when I dreamed about being someone's daddy, and I want it to stay. Like this. I want August to develop a monstrous thyroid problem and grow by a few dozen weeks.
Because I can see September up ahead, with its alarm clocks and huge weekly cash outlays to the new sitter we haven't hired yet. And it will be stupid and farty.
These are Robert's two favorite adjectives du jour. So many things are stupid now. Mustard is stupid. The Orioles are stupid. Girls are stupid freaks. And kindergarten promises to be the absolute stupidest, fartiest thing of all, hovering in a feculent miasma of putrescent stupidity and farts.
The situation does have its advantages, though. For example, my wife and I exist mostly through our cell phones; we have a land line, but only in case of emergency (like, say, when the city suffers a blackout and you want to tell your family you haven't been robbed and beaten by a pack of ravening CHUDs). When the land line rings, we know it's no one important. In fact, it's usually a telemarketer, so we let Robert answer the phone, listen for a bit, and then say something like "No, you stupid freak."
We are aware that this might sound somewhat darling coming from a five-year-old, but that eventually we'll have to talk to him about manners and tolerance and the overall upping his Gentleman Quotient. In the meantime, the best I can come up with is: "Remember, son. It's 'No thank you, you stupid freak.'"