(Stupid Column)

So this one starts out whiny, but I promise if you stick with me, you’ll get two nut shots.

No you personally, but two people that I talk about. I don’t want to spoil it, but you know what I mean.

So I’ve had one of those days (stupid days).

One of those days you just hate to have.

The kind where you have to lie to the cashier at the grocery store because if you answered “How you doing today?” with anything close to how you’re actually doing  you would get kicked out faster than the time you started swearing at the soup aisle because clam chowder was over two bucks a can (stupid soup).

We’ve all done that right?

It’s been one of those days where you drive faster than you like to, where you are constantly flipping people (stupid people) the bird from the confines of your pocket or farting in confined areas and you don’t even care because screw those guys, they totally deserve to get a nice big mouthful of last night’s enchiladas (stupid enchiladas).

It was a combination of a thousand different things, most of which were probably figments of my own imaginations (stupid figments). Which makes it all worse because nothing makes you madder than thinking about how you’re going to explain what’s making you mad to another person and realising it’s pretty ridiculous (stupid thinking).

So you sit (stupid sitting) and you stew (stupid soup again) and you watch the clock (stupid standardized work day) and then you go home. And then, if you’re really lucky, your son racks himself on his high chair.

He was trying to “do a trick” which involves some “new” way of getting into his chair and then looking expectantly to his mother and I to be blown away.

I’m not sure how he started this trick today, but I know how he ended it: screaming “My weewee, my weewee, my weewee!”

I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I also know that I shouldn’t eat sandwiches using donuts as bread. I know a lot of things.

I did my best to not show my mirth, but the massive amount of stress ripped from my shoulders was obvious. I was soon able to dance around with my son, until he head butted me, right in the Smith and Wessons. He laughed. I was about to tell him not to. Then I remember that he’d had a bad day too.

I guess he deserved a bit of the medicine he’d given me earlier.

(Stupid crotch blasting medicine).