OK, so that blopping thing didn't work out so well. I flopped, and I flopped hard. But good gracious, already. You step away from the Internet for a spell, and when you come back your blogging interface has a whole new WYSIWYG, and Gmail looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Can't we just go back to the slightly older days, when stocks were actually worth something and social networking platforms didn't look like the north end of a southbound moose?
You'll notice I didn't use "butt" or "poop" or "fart" or any genital synonym back there, because I'm doing all I can to stem the tide of crotch-based discourse that is threatening to subsume us all. Try to talk to the boys about anything, and they're circling, looking for an opening:
Me: "So, boys, what'll we have for dinner?"
TwoBert: "Poopy buttburgers!"
Me: "Let's take the soccer ball out to the park."
TwoBert: "Let's take the soccer BUTT to the park!"
Robert: "This one time at recess? I kicked the soccer ball really hard and it hit Oliver right in his butt. It was hilarious."
Me: "TwoBert, do you like this 'Learning About Letters' DVD?"
TwoBert: "B is for BUTT!"
Robert: "You know what? In that picture you can totally see Grover's nuts."
There is no escape. I'm drowning in nethertalk, and the best I can do is find some roof and wait for the FEMA copters.
I'm happy to tell you, however, that this fetid flood of fartpoop has apparently not made it into the classroom. I went to parent-teacher conferences for both kids yesterday, expecting someone to pop me in the mouth with a cake of Irish Spring. I also steeled myself, more seriously, for behavioral issues stemming from the divorce. But we got neither. Both kids are "lovely," "dear," "charming," "intelligent," and "well socialized," and when I left the school I sort of jumped around a little, and maybe sobbed a bit.
So, whaddaya say? Who's up for a plate of fartburgers? My treat.