Fake Samuel

Ok folks. The chair comes with a warning that says specifically not to put the chair on a raised surface, that its only intended for use on the floor. I can't even read and I know enough not to sit in these death traps when they're elevated. Maybe its the baby's fault. Or maybe not. Maybe they were trying to get out of the chairs at the time that they fell. Dumb babies.

I was recently introduced to the wide world by way of a road trip to St. Louis. Its this whole other place without cribs or exersaucers, but with an abundance of other little things that move. The one I was most acquainted of during this trip was called "Cat" and it was most interesting indeed. It held an honored place in the house, right over the box that people stare at, I assume in worship. It got to eat what has to the best looking food I ever wanted to try. And the feel of "Cat" fur and flesh in my small clenched fists - there's nothing like it. Needless to say, we became fast friends. And while he would never let on, I'm sure "Cat" misses me now. I miss him too, frequently calling out his name in case he might be around.

He's right - they're nasty. Penguins that is. Not people in St. Louis. Mostly. How they can stand to swim around in their own filth and then just watch as someone else cleans it all up, I just don't understand. I feel like I've been lied to by the media, books and The Folks. I thought penguins were these cute little birds, always doing cute things, being cute and all. They're not. Not cute. Smelly. Quite smelly. And they poop. Did I mention that? Oh, yea I did. Anyhoo.

Now there's a guy who gets me. I mean really gets me. Doesn't talk down to me. Doesn't sit and babble about sissy crap to me. Treats me like a human being. Tells it like it is. Or should be. There are so many yes-men in my life. They just want to tell me how great my poop smells. And don't think I haven't smelled it. It stank. It stank nast. But not Great Grandpa. He's a straight shooter. Long name though. I've been meaning to shorten it. Something like GGrandpa (pronounced: GaGrandpa). Or Greapa. Or G man. Or maybe just Hartley. Or H man. Or H. I like H. Or Cat. Cat it is.

I'm back at home. Its nice to be able to sleep in my own crib again. The Father is all geeked about getting to post pictures of me online. Whatever. He's stretching out the post into a few separate posts instead of just putting all the pictures in one post and making it easy for the rest of us. Its because of those ads. He's trying to make a buck. He's made like $2.34 since starting the website and he's somehow convinced that the money will keep coming in. Like $2.15 of that was made the week after I was born. Back when people actually went to his site. Anyhoo . You may be saying, hey hypocrite you've got ads on your site too. To you I say: I will completely remove the ads when you start sending cash, 'cause at this point I've got about zippo for income and even poorer prospects. Do you know how hard it is to hold a job when you can't keep your mind focused on something for longer than 30 seconds?

The Folks have taken me across state lines to visit people I've never met. Whatever. Its somewhat warmer down here and I'm fine with that. The grass is pricklier but its cool. Anyhoo, we went to the zoo this morning. Saw a penguin poop.

Sometimes at night, after the bath is over, the story read, the door has been shut, and the lights are out - when the day is done - I think about my day, how I spent my time. And I cry. How did I improve the world today? When did I provide a meal to a homeless baby? How many babies did I help get off the streets? How many alcoholic babies did I bring to an AA meeting? How many songs did I write? Did I cure any baby cancer or eradicate baby tuberculosis? Did I learn a new language? or about a new culture? No. I did none of these things. I wasted another day playing. And so I cry.