If you'll remember (and by "you'll" I mean the nonexistent people who read this blog) I had recited the following poem to my son:
Artie Farty had a party,
Everyone was there.
Susie Blewsie let a doozy,
And all the kids ran out for air.
He thought it was "hilarious" and decided to finish the story. Here, then, is his "rest of the story":
Then Marty Farty came and said,
"Why is it so stinky?!"
Then Susie said, "It's all the fault,
of my tiny brother, Pinkie!"
Pinky said, "Oh, I confess!
I guess I really did it."
Then Artie Farty had his party,
And the pinata, they did hit it!"
BOOM!
There it is. Mr. Z's version of the events following Susie Blewsie's poopy postponement of Mr. Farty's "blowout." Not bad. The pinata came out of nowhere, but that's part of Mr. Z's charm. Let's all hope, for young Pinkie's sake, that the pinata was filled with Gas-X.
On a related note, last night my daughter, Miss O, was sitting in her room before bed. When my old lady went in to get her into her pjs, Miss O said, quietly, "I was just sitting in here, by myself, and I said the word 'butt-crack.' But it's okay because I was by myself and no one heard it."
Butt-crack. Pretty good for a four-year-old. Can't wait to hear her material when she hits five.
I'm a proud papa.
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