So I was button-ing through the pics on my camera, today, and realized that there's like 115 goddamn pictures on that thing that I've totally fucking spaced on. I dumped 'em onto the ol' pyooter, and thought I'd start highlighting a few of them.
Tonight, we start with the perfect visual representation of Mr. Z's, how should I say... "uncultivated self-awareness." Horse-sense, if you will. He had a new pair of pants that was the right length but, surprise, ran a tad wide 'round his waistly-scrawnitude. It was a school morning and, as usual, we were running late. I yelled upstairs for him to put on a belt and hurry on downstairs for breakfast.
Five minutes later, down he shuffled. Here is how the boy, who started reading when he was two, figured a belt should be fastened:
When you look "What the shit?!" up in the dictionary, THAT is the accompanying picture. I have no idea how he even conceived of that particular wrappage. It's wrong on so many levels, yet somehow, so right. I'm thinking of using it as my desktop image, it makes me laugh so fucking hard.
Pic 2 is a bit more grim. I was getting Miss O's bath ready last night when I saw a most horrific sight. As I approached the tub, I was faced with the aftermath of what appeared to be a mass ritual suicide. I had stumbled upon... The Pollytown Massacre:
Those poor, innocent, bikini-clad victims. I'm pretty sure the mermaid was the ringleader. If you look closely, you can see grape Kool-Aid on her dorsal fin. At least it looks as if they all went peacefully to their washcloshy demise. Miss O honored them with a very tasteful burial at sea. Farewell, Pollys... and all your goddamn microscopic rubbery clothes that get stuck between my fucking toes whenever I walk into Miss O's room.
Actually, good riddance.