Ever since the baby fell down the stairs he occasionaly complains of pain in a leg. You never see anything wrong. Our Doc looked him over and said let 'em go. Who knows? There are a such thing as growing pains. Isn't that funny? What a phrase. Expect pain as your grow. We're warning you.
Last night I was wrestling Keith. I had my gut drawn in tight so he wouldn't rupture a kidney if he kicked out suddenly, or decided to stomp. He does that. He thinks Dad is indestructable. I turned wrong and wrenched a bank of muscle in my back. It hurt then and I knew I'd pay for it today. I am. I can't find my back brace and I'm bent over and to the side. Sometimes it hurts so much I yell. At least it's not a disk, but the problem is with this amount of contortion, it'll get to a disk if it keeps up. I'm dosed with pain medicine and Ibuprofen but it's not curing it. Must be a real tear.
Keith is funny.
"Are you a Cracker Boy?" I asked him.
"No."
"Are you a Cracker Daddy?"
"I'm Keith."
"No, I'm Keith." I told him.
"No, I'm Keith and you're Cracker Daddy."
"Tell me," I said seriously, "Are you one of those Wild One's I've heard about?"
"No," he smiled, "I'm Keith."
He always says that. He knows who he is.
Whenever I fart in the house I'll look around the room and in a irritable voice ask, "Who farted?"
"Trav; was it you?"
"No, and don't say that."
"Carter; was it you?"
"Yes." He nodded his head calmly, "it was me." He had no problem taking the bum rap. He knew it was a silly game.
Now, no matter what time of day or circumstance, whenver I fart loud and ask which one of them is to blame, Keith will always say;
"You Dad." No blame, just a statement of fact.
I don't know what it is about an Old Man and his flatulence. It's not like an Old Man and his Dog, or his rifle, or trusted reading chair. It's a damn fart, but you'd think it was the merriest of events the way the Geezers carry on about them. Ten years ago the first time I met J. Camprose, my old great buddy, he farted and thought it hillarious. Boy, those were bad too. I can't prove it scientifically but I think old men are like old goats and smell ripe. The farts just keep getting worse and worse, rottening with age instead of gracefully aquiring body like a good wine.
At least one former Emperor of Rome advised in his official musings to fart and not hold onto the gas lest it do you harm over the long term storage. Let 'em out. Set your chickens free.
I've heard housewives complain. More than one tells the story of a husband who under blankets lets one out and makes sure his dear love is there to share. Why, I cannot say. They call elderly men "Old Farts" and this is apparently not an insult but an accurate observation.
I'm heading towards fifty and find myself playing fart jokes with my kids.
What a life.
I ask, "Who farted?" and before the guests can react my three sons all chorus happily; "You did, Dad." The guests wonder what goes on in this house.
My nephew found a can of farts, I'm not kidding, in a Gag Store, a can of farts under pressue.
He did not follow the warning instructions, no more than two sprays per room, and doused the entire house. He saturated it. He was 14 or so, hardly an old man but already thought this wonderful stuff.
The Soccer Moms came to the door, escorting his Kid Sister after pizza and the big game, and when the front door opened they were truly appalled. I mean not one of those car pool ladies ever set foot in that house again.
So, I'm sitting here in pain, whittling some on the new AK Bowie cleaver, the littlest one is watching cartoons and the two oldest are outside playing in what's left of the snow.
I don't know this thread was worth reading, but at least it didn't smell bad.
take care,
munk
Last night I was wrestling Keith. I had my gut drawn in tight so he wouldn't rupture a kidney if he kicked out suddenly, or decided to stomp. He does that. He thinks Dad is indestructable. I turned wrong and wrenched a bank of muscle in my back. It hurt then and I knew I'd pay for it today. I am. I can't find my back brace and I'm bent over and to the side. Sometimes it hurts so much I yell. At least it's not a disk, but the problem is with this amount of contortion, it'll get to a disk if it keeps up. I'm dosed with pain medicine and Ibuprofen but it's not curing it. Must be a real tear.
Keith is funny.
"Are you a Cracker Boy?" I asked him.
"No."
"Are you a Cracker Daddy?"
"I'm Keith."
"No, I'm Keith." I told him.
"No, I'm Keith and you're Cracker Daddy."
"Tell me," I said seriously, "Are you one of those Wild One's I've heard about?"
"No," he smiled, "I'm Keith."
He always says that. He knows who he is.
Whenever I fart in the house I'll look around the room and in a irritable voice ask, "Who farted?"
"Trav; was it you?"
"No, and don't say that."
"Carter; was it you?"
"Yes." He nodded his head calmly, "it was me." He had no problem taking the bum rap. He knew it was a silly game.
Now, no matter what time of day or circumstance, whenver I fart loud and ask which one of them is to blame, Keith will always say;
"You Dad." No blame, just a statement of fact.
I don't know what it is about an Old Man and his flatulence. It's not like an Old Man and his Dog, or his rifle, or trusted reading chair. It's a damn fart, but you'd think it was the merriest of events the way the Geezers carry on about them. Ten years ago the first time I met J. Camprose, my old great buddy, he farted and thought it hillarious. Boy, those were bad too. I can't prove it scientifically but I think old men are like old goats and smell ripe. The farts just keep getting worse and worse, rottening with age instead of gracefully aquiring body like a good wine.
At least one former Emperor of Rome advised in his official musings to fart and not hold onto the gas lest it do you harm over the long term storage. Let 'em out. Set your chickens free.
I've heard housewives complain. More than one tells the story of a husband who under blankets lets one out and makes sure his dear love is there to share. Why, I cannot say. They call elderly men "Old Farts" and this is apparently not an insult but an accurate observation.
I'm heading towards fifty and find myself playing fart jokes with my kids.
What a life.
I ask, "Who farted?" and before the guests can react my three sons all chorus happily; "You did, Dad." The guests wonder what goes on in this house.
My nephew found a can of farts, I'm not kidding, in a Gag Store, a can of farts under pressue.
He did not follow the warning instructions, no more than two sprays per room, and doused the entire house. He saturated it. He was 14 or so, hardly an old man but already thought this wonderful stuff.
The Soccer Moms came to the door, escorting his Kid Sister after pizza and the big game, and when the front door opened they were truly appalled. I mean not one of those car pool ladies ever set foot in that house again.
So, I'm sitting here in pain, whittling some on the new AK Bowie cleaver, the littlest one is watching cartoons and the two oldest are outside playing in what's left of the snow.
I don't know this thread was worth reading, but at least it didn't smell bad.
take care,
munk
