It pains me to break away from the Battle of the Nerds and impose TwoBert's GI tract on the great reading public. But it cannot be denied that the Pooper's Strike, now in Day Four, has captured our imaginations, and we're wracking our brains for any remedy to defuse this digestive bomb. After school drop-off, we stopped for a bran muffin with raisins. (TwoBert pretty much granulated the thing, but a great sign of a fresh muffin is when you can mold those granules back into little nuggets.) He begged for a sip of coffee, as he always does, but this time I obliged. My wife left him some breakfast smoothie; I have no idea what was in it, but it looked like that hunter-green blop that Renee Russo drank in the Thomas Crown remake. Prunes and apples for lunch, along with lots of water, followed by two hours of running at the playground. Now that we're home, he's pantsless and pushing all the buttons on our printer. And the primitives are assembled, arms linked, swaying and chanting and coaxing forth that fickle fecal lava that will restore order to our little tribe.
More as this story develops.
