Don't bother trying to reason with him either. It's better to just tell him to lay down and go to sleep. Unless you're doing a Finish the Sentence Link Up with Holly and Jake. Because then it's just blog fodder so you should definitely get him talking.
Even the medicated Italian Stallion agrees. For example, after telling him about the link up he explained to me in detail that he knows funny. He also mentioned that I don't know how to manage funny. I'm not even sure what managing funny means. But I do know it means he's taken his sleep medication so it's time to have him start Finishing the Sentences. His answers are in red.
|You can never have enough pictures of your husband pretending to eat your kid. That dude knows funny.|
Whatever happened to . . . Pop Rocks and Jolt soda. He's also curious about Captain Kangaroo and Sigmund the Sea Monster. Uh, oh. The eyelids are drooping and he's now fretting about Captain Kangaroo and waxing nostalgic. Let's keep him moving.
So what if I . . . There's a lot going on. Did we vote for America's Got Talent yet? Huh. A little sidetracked. Maybe it's lingering nostalgia.
E! needs a reality show about ... Me. And my vida loca. I would like it noted that he answered this specific question while scratching his butt. Classy. At least we know he's done feeling nostalgic.
My go-to fast food meal is . . . Don't know. Then he started demanding to know what this question refers to. Who knew there could be a hidden agenda in a question about fast food? And for the record the correct answer to this for anyone with taste buds should be Taco Hell and the the Bell Grande specifically. Back in the day, I even got paid minimum wage to run the drive thru there so I'm pretty much a subject matter expert. That includes knowing the 411 on the horrors of how that tasty crap is produced. For example, the beans arrive at The Bell dried and looking like corn flakes. Hot water and 30 minutes later and you have beans. And yet, my inner fat girl don't care and says extra sour cream no green onions let's do this. I never saw them put crack in the food while working there but there can be no other logical explanation for how addictive it can be.
You might not know that I . . . Am the product of crazy. Right. No one would ever guess that, carebear. Good one. I'd also like it noted that there was more itching taking place while contemplating that answer.
|Quality parenting going on here. Hard to decide who's doing a better job. Him pretending to hold a beer bottle up to the kid's mouth or me for taking the picture.|
If I could . . . I'd open up a donut store that sells Taco Bell to keep our family together forever. Highly medicated at this point. Clearly. No idea what he's saying. Fading fast.
My personality is awesome because . . . It's mine and it's funny. He claims it's also light. That's so ridiculous let's all agree to pretend he didn't say it.
Twerking is . . . A beautiful dance move and back stretch. It's medicinal really. Therapeutic even.
I think it's super gross when . . . There's mysterious brown crap on our son's hands when he reaches his hands toward my face to pat my face. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. Gag. Me.
|Why that kid would willingly agree to put his hands over his head is beyond me. You're being set up, kid. Tickle torture ahead.|