Miss O started camp this week but, unfortunately, Mr. Z's camp doesn't start until next week, so he's been moping around the house, bored off his ying-yang and begging to play the goddamn Wii all day. Oh, and did I mention he's sick... again?! Woke me up at 4 a.m. this morning with a fever. I'm beginning to think our house is built out of that toxic mold shit... or maybe WE are. All I know is that, in some way, shape or form, there's a fungus amongus.
Anywhich, I'm not taking the easy way out and letting the boy diddle around with the Wii for half the day. Call me krazy, but I don't think it's healthy for him to virtually kick Meta Knight in the throat for 15 hours in a row. Nine hours, maybe. No, we're mixing things up with a little TV here, some reading time there, some drawing time, some practice-your-fucking-piano time, and even a half-hour a day of "Hey, let's go over some math problems and see what you remember!" That's his favorite.
He's spending most of his time drawing, though. He's like a boy possessed, bent over his notebook, huffin' marker fumes and whipping off ream after ream of wildly decorated dead tree skin. Some of it is most excellent -- new characters, stories and video game ideas. A lot of it, however, is this:
It's like a Tourette's Graphic Novel. Or a shitty version of Dr. Seuss. Dr. Deuce, maybe. It really is all about butts and shit for that boy, though. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm the first one to laugh at an errant turd sketch or blow snot out of my nose at the sweet sound of a well-timed fart, but Mr. Z is truly an excrement expert, a crap connoisseur... a fartuoso, if you will. I guarantee, that lad will grow up to either be a proctologist or.... I dunno... a scat singer?
I wonder where he gets this shit? Must be his mother.