Originally posted May 17/2007 on "Allison Wonderland"
The Child is pooping.
How do I know this? Because he's standing very still. Because his little fists are clenched at his sides, and he's concentrating very hard, looking kind of like a Shar Pei trying to understand quantum physics. He doesn't want me to speak to him, or to look directly at him, as this apparently throws him off his game. He's in the zone. The Poo Zone.
Soon the thick stench of success will permeate the air of this small, poorly ventilated space, and even the cats (the Sultans of Stink themselves) will run for cover. Simon will be perfectly happy to toddle around stewing in his own brew for as long as I'll let him, but the only thing worse than the prospect of wiping his reeky little tushie is the idea of letting the stink molecules build up in the air until it's thick enough to swim through- or it would be if we weren't passed out on the floor.
Yep... here it comes. Aw, Dude! Sick!
OK, I'm going. If I don't make it back, tell AJ I loved him.
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