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Posts Tagged ‘Frankenboy’

Update:  Coworker Black Lab on Meth got this at a local fair.   Here it is shown in my office about ready to take a crap on my desk.  A few nuts, bolts, and washers per crapload, which no one is going to notice amongst all the nuts, bolts, and washers on my desk already.

*****

Frankenboy as I may have mentioned before is a pretty high-end (functioning) autistic kid.  He has his mannerisms, some of which drives one nuts, some which are kind of cute, and some that leave you scratching your head.

But in other ways, he’s Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes.

I had a less-than-zero sleep last night and by 7:45am I was hearing the sounds of Cruel Wife rushing to get out the door.  I could hear her brushing hair, doing the makeup, and the pfffft of a quick shot of hair spray.

Still 3/4ths asleep I noted it and resolved to lay back down until when my alarms were set, at 7:59am and 8:03am (I have this thing about wanting prime numbers, no repeat numbers, and not liking increments of five in my alarm clock settings).

Some time later, I smelled hair spray – very strongly.  I threw the covers over my head while thinking “Jeez that is ridiculous”.  A minute later I threw the covers off my head to get some fresh air and gagged at the smell which was an order of magnitude worse.   Covers went back over my head and I said to myself “Damn, CW, that’s over the top.  Must be a bad hair day to rival Bill Clinton’s”.

A few minutes later I was looking for fresh air and it was just as bad – hair spray fumes were making stratified layers of haze across the room.  I closed my eyes and ducked under the covers again, resolving to get some more shut-eye.

The alarm clock went off.  I smacked it with my foot and it turned off the alarm.  I closed my eyes again and almost immediately the thing went off again, this time to a radio station, which told me that it was the second alarm.  I stomped on it with my foot and it, too, turned off.

At least the hair spray smell was abating a bit.  I went back under the covers and resolved to get up in a few minutes.

Fast-forward 37 minutes – I looked at the clock and realized I was late.  I leapt out of bed, got on my fuzzy robe, and realized that the sitter had already arrived and was on the couch reading her paper as I dashed to shower.  Did all the appropriate get-ready-for-work things, picked up all my pocket stuff (change, keys, smartphone), and realized I had no hair spray.  So I ran to the other bathroom where CW keeps hers and… she was out.  The can was gone and there was only some kiwi-scented (flavored?) gel stuff, which I was not going to use.

On the way to work I called her and said “So, you ran out of hairspray this morning, huh?”

“No, I have been running low but I still had a decent amount.”

And it dawned on both of us at the same time that Frankenboy must have imitated Dear Old Mom and hosed himself with spray to the point of exhausting every last bit of propellant and toxic hair spray glue that was left in the can.   Which means that everything in the house will be tacky for a while and that the cats may hork up next week’s hairballs tonight because of the aerosolized glue.

On the way out, Frankenboy said “I want to play on the Playstation.”  I told him “No, I have taken it away for a week, remember?”

He ran over and beat up the couch.   I told him that I understood that he was angry and that was ok, but he still doesn’t get the Playstation.   He looked at me and then beat up the couch again.   We repeated that once more and I told him to go to his room and be angry there.

He ignored me until I hit a count of “two” and then did it, and slammed his door.   Then I heard another door slam.  Then a third.

I thought “But their room only has two doors…?”

SLAM…. SLAM…. SLAM….

He was making his point to keep slamming the door until I fully understood That He Was Angry.

I went in and told him he was making the perfect case for losing the Playstation for another week or two.  That resulted in a major pouting session but by then I really had to go to work.

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I love Pulp Fiction.  Laconic pup sent me a link to youtube movie that is a compilation of all snippets where the world “****’ is used in the movie Pulp Fiction.  If you are at work or have little kids, only play this if you have headphones.

Who the hell posted this or sent it to me recently?  Who came up with it?   I can just see Hobbes saying:

I been saying that sh*t for years. And if you heard it, that meant your ass. I never gave much thought to what it meant. I just thought it was some cold-blooded shit to say to a motherf*cker ‘fore I plunged a tooth in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin’ made me think twice.

****

My son, who is four – named Frankenboy because his run-in with a several hundreds-of-pounds fountain last year that tried to crush his skull left him with a hell of a scar – has made me proud.

It all started when I brought home two bags of Doritos Second-Degree Burn chips.  I like them a lot.  They are not the most flavorful of chips but they have some flavor and I like them.  They are also hot enough that Cruel Wife won’t eat them ( based on the folks I know, she’s probably somewhere in the top 5 percentile in heat-tolerance) and Zoe-pup now fears them after eating half a bag one night.  To give you an idea, they don’t sell them in the big bags – they only sell them in single-serving bags.

I was sitting there with my fresh-made reuben sandwich – loaded with kraut, swiss cheese, dripping with dressing, and piled high with meat – and munching on these chips.

My boy was sitting to my left and I heard his little voice say “I want some chips, please.”

I said “No, buddy, these are hot and you wouldn’t like them.”

Just then I felt a puff of air on my hand as he was blowing on the chip to cool it off.

“Bud, these are spicy hot – they aren’t hot-hot.  They would hurt your mouth.”

More puffs of air wafted over my hand and little bits of chili powder dusted my reuben.

I tried again, figuring repetition would enhance understanding.  “Bud, they aren’t hot but they are spicy hot and they would hurt your mouth…”

Sayeth the boy, “I want some chips” and he reached over to pinch the chip to see if it was truly hot to the touch.

I looked at Cruel Wife resignedly, “You know, he’s just not going to get it unless he experiences it.”   She wearily nodded in agreement. “Let him have one.”

He took the chip, crammed half of it in his mouth, took three munches… and immediately grabbed his juice and drained the container by three-quarters many times faster than I thought a fluid could actually flow.  His eyes were open a bit more and he was sucking air.

“See, pal?  They’re spicy hot.”

He nodded and took another bite.  Then he grabbed Cruel Wife’s ice-water and drained it of two inches worth of water with efficiency that would make Dracula moan with admiration.

He nodded, glassy-eyed, as if to some unspoken wisdom – and then asked for another chip.  Still shaking my head I complied with his request.

Chomp… nom nom nom… crunch crunch crunch…

SLUUUUURRRRRRRRRRP.   SLUUUUURRRRRP. <burp> <excuse me>

“Can I have another chip please?”

Chomp… nom nom nom… crunch crunch crunch…

SLUUUUURRRRRRRRRRP.   SLUUUUURRRRRP. <burp> <excuse me>

I made up my mind that I just could not make up my mind as to whether I should be proud or write him off as an idiot.  Being a chili-head, I eventually opted for pride.

He ate three chips.

Twenty minutes later I hear a scream from the other room, “I NEED THE BATHROOOOOM!”   Apparently all that liquid must go somewhere.

Lest you think that I bullshitteth thee, take a look.


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