Fake Samuel

As previously mentioned.

If you don't know what I'm saying, quit trying to fill in the gaps with your own thoughts ok? Number one, I'm not you, I don't think like you. Number two, I need nothing from you, apart from food and cleanliness, and a place to nap. Number three, I don't know who your friends are, but they kinda wig me out sometimes. Number four, how am I supposed to learn to wipe myself if you keep doing it? Can't you see I'm trying to help Sheesh. Number five, why don't we have Tivo, I heard about it in nursery the other day. I need it. Number six, whats with sticking me in nursery all of the sudden like you're too good to try and hold on to me while I make noise and try to eat the notes you're taking in Sunday school. Number eight, when are you going to teach me to count, sheesh, I'm like 8 months here. Well, almost. Number nine, I just want you to know that whenever your back is turned, I eat EVERYTHING I can get into my mouth. Grass, hair, fu

and I get a little crazy with it sometimes, 'cause the world looks cooler when its kinda spinning around you, and anyway, the mother's like "is that normal?" and the father's like "probably i dunno" and all the while I'm freaking out. Sure I'm in control of it now and I can turn it on and off at the drop of a hat, but what if someday I can't stop and I get that Shaking Baby Syndrome that you hear so much about these days, with the retinal hemorrhages, and the cerebral contusions, and the need for special schooling. I have to keep reminding myself not to think about this stuff pre-nap. I get so worked up.

This was a wonderful addition to my crib. I fall quietly asleep each and every night to the soothing sounds and tranquil lighting effects of my Ocean Wonders Aquarium. Fish swim by, clams say hello and the contraption plays one of 3 mesmerizing songs: Twinkle, twinkle little star, that Lullaby song, and some other song that no one can identify. I've taken the liberty to come up with my own lyrics for the third song: Cry, cry, cry your eyes out and weep, the day is done. Light is gone forever, will the morning come? Everyone who feeds me has left me here to die. Maybe if I'm louder they will hear my cry. Chorus: Yell, shriek, whine, despair Two thumbs up.

"Under the Tagalong Tree" is a complex book filled stories about family dynamics, social injustice, race struggles and politics. Centered around the delightful "Muffin" family, it follows the day to day life of Maxi and Mini, the children of the family. What most might describe as boring, poorly written and at times racist, I actually found to Forget it. This book stinks. I keep asking for Hugo, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, etc, and I get this. Seriously, the boy's name is Maxi. One half star because of the colorful pictures.

on the mother's phone and she's like here talk to daddy and she hands me the phone and I listen and he's all like hello, hello, hello can you say hi to dady and I'm like NO i can't I'm 7 months old and I haven't yet mastered the art of talking on the cell phone would you just give me a break and because I'm so upset I decide to eat the phone and then the mother's like no don't eat the phone and I'm like how else am I to voice my frustration with my limited abilities, other peoples expectations and society in general. Then she gets back on the phone and its all oh he's trying to eat the phone again. Someday.

and every time I do, everyone around me tries to describe what I'm thinking. You know, "he's happy" or "he's making noises and that's fun for him" or "he's pooping" or whatever. But they're wrong. Wanna know what I'm thinking? Sometimes, yea, I'm pooping. Sometimes I'm contemplating "should I poop?" or "should I poop now?" Sometimes I just did poop and I'm kinda mashing it in good, to make it harder to remove. And sometimes I'm pooping. Oh I said that already. Anyhoo.

I like to just sit, mini basketball in one hand, butterfly rattle in the other and just kinda yell. Then I open up a 4 ounce and sit and watch the fish music thingie before dozing. This is the life.

anyway I had this big long rant about how I thought it was Cutaneous T Cell Lymphoma and how it had mysteriously disappeared and I thought it probably had spread to another organ and my sudden early death was inevitable, and it was a great post full of passion and witty commentary that really epitomized not only my own struggle with the disease but the inspiring way that I face not only a daunting, killer disease but also a daunting, killer butt rash, when I accidentally deleted the post. So anyway it was really good.

So I guess breastfeeding isn't so great anymore. They've found that there is no protective benefits of breastfeeding on me getting asthma. So after all this I'm still at the same risk as any other shmoe who's hooked on the enfamil. Unbelievable. Sure I have the benefits of being insanely more intelligent than the bottle addicts. Sure I don't have the formula saddle bags. Sure I'm leaner and built like a machine compared to those "Biggest Loser" wannabees. But if we'll both be sporting inhalers at a prime time in our lives to score chicks, then who cares.

And I'm just sorta toolin' around the house, bored again, looking for entertainment, when I realize I'm totally lost. We have this enormous house and its not that hard to do. I have no idea where I am, I've never been here before, no one will ever find me, in this huge house I'm like a baby in a haystack full of other babies who all look like me, I'm gonna die of starvation and diaper rash before I'm found. Anyway turns out I was just facing the back wall in the living room. Kinda freaked me out.

We've seen a lot of winners come out of Solo before, but they really have it down with their new release: Green Plastic Cup. Combining form, function, grace and green into one single product reportedly took years of R&D and countless hours of consumer testing. But let me assure you, it was worth the wait. My initial impressions were that the taste was somewhat lacking, but I found that the slight scent of plastic and faint odor of stale ice grew on me. The texture and squeaking noise that it makes against my gums drew me into this product immediately. Its versatility allows it to not only be a cup but also many other things. Offhand I can't think of what they are, but I'm sure there must be something. Anyhoo. Look for a more in depth review in an upcoming post. One and a half thumbs up.

I have a friend who was raised this way . I believe he is some sort of penguin, but was adopted by humans. They're getting along well from what I hear. Anyhoo.

Why don't I have one of these ? Am I not dropping enough hints? So I'm talking with the folks the other day and I'm like hey when do I get my iPhone and they're like just as soon as we get one and you are old enough to buy one for yourself and you're out of our house, etc. And I'm like thats totally unfair and they're like, hey you pooped your pants, nobody else in this house poops their pants, maybe you should worry about that instead of getting a cell phone. I was so mad couldn't speak. Well, babble. You know what I mean.

I recently acquired an airplane swing , and feel the need to extol its greatness. Its great. The other day I was riding - no - flying in it and I went up so high that I almost *almost* thought I was going to fall to my death in a burning fireball with pieces of fuselage falling down on all sizes, hitting trees, houses, children, indiscriminately but then at the last minute I pull the cord and eject, gliding down harmlessly while surveying the flaming wreckage and terrified masses and then landing in a field and running, just running, because the plane is gone and I am free, and alive, and so many are not, all while guilt and some small amount of triumph slowly creep over me. But anyway I wasn't that high and pretty soon I just wanted to get out of the swing. Because that kind of power can be overwhelming. Two thumbs up.

So the governor lifted the burning ban for everyone but the UP and the daddy is out there again, playing with fire. I'm out there occasionally when he's doing this and I'm like hey daddy, that looks like fun, you smell terrific, and I can foresee no possible bad outcomes from me helping you out, what do you say? And he's like, uh, no. And I'm like, you never let me do anything around here, this blows. Anyhoo. I'll show him someday.

And we're discussing postmodernism, because you can't get the guy off the topic sometimes, and I'm like are you trying to say that postmodernism isn't ardently relativistic and he's all like exactly my point, look at the work by Kenneson and Placher. And I'm like I've seen it, and I'll tell ya what, I'm still not convinced. And he's like what would it take to convince you and I nod deftly to the green plastic cup on the floor. Whatever you say man.

Well it seems that the braniacs at some university have done some amazing research that shows that married men do less housework than unmarried men. Who does this research? Lets start looking into the big problems in the world. Like diaper rash. I'm sitting here with a raging case of diaper rash, and you're trying to justify your live-in boyfriend? For Pete's sake, go get married and get me some butt cream.

I will eat this camera, I swear I will. Or I'll at least make it GUBAR. Gummed Up Beyond All Recognition.