Capitan Irrational

It’s a bird!  It’s a plane!  It’s Capitan Irrational!

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that once an expectation of “responsibility” falls upon an unpredictable wild card like myself, my mild-mannered alter-ego takes the form of (what my family affectionately refers to as) Capitan Irrational.

Unlike some inferior and far more unstable Superheros, such as The Incredible Hulk, my transition from Brennan to Capitan Irrational typically has no precursor or warning (like turning green and ripping out of my clothes).  I mean, who doesn’t see that nut-job teetering on the edge?  We don’t need to see him crawl in a hole, start to sweat and watch for the eye glow for us to know he is going to snap.

I on the other hand, transform instantaneously and go from sweet and agreeable to borderline insane in .4 seconds when the INEXCUSABLE sets me off.  Such as:

*My mom putting the jelly on top of the peanut butter instead of the bottom inside my PB&J.

*Being forced to ride in the cart instead of wandering Target like a feral cat while my mom chases me and tries to simultaneously get all of the items on her shopping list.

*Asking for a hotdog cut into strips and not circles, and my mom cuts it into strips and not circles…she should have known I really wanted circles even though I asked for strips.

*The wind switching direction.

*Getting wet while playing with the hose.

*Too much parmesan cheese on my noodles (or too little), there is a perfect amount, you know.

*Being denied a piece of candy in the checkout lane.

*Only finding 13 instead of the 14 torn-up pieces of paper I stashed under my pillow.

*Some unsuspecting soul looking at me the wrong way, or God-forbid, smiling at me when I am not in the mood for anything friendly.

*My sister trying to hug me.

*The dog biting at me after I try to bite her.

See…INEXCUSABLE!

It wouldn’t be worth the headache to transform over just trivial or unimportant issues, it really takes a massive injustice to bring out Capitan Irrational.

Granted, my passion bubbles very near the surface, but I will let you in on a little secret…

I. Am. Tired!!!!

Really, it is that simple.

What man doesn’t need just a few ZZZ’s midday to kick back in his lazy boy and recharge his machismo?

The problem… I am four years old & can’t communicate “I am tired” using those three simple words.

Instead, I rely on the indestructible Capitan Irrational to do my “talking”.

So when you see my Superhero appear, or God-Forbid if you are the culprit who commits one of the inexcusable acts that cause him to appear, just keep walking…and try not to judge.

After all, doesn’t everyone have a little Capitan Irrational in them?

Don't Touch That Beaver!

During my four short years on this planet thus far, I have learned many important life lessons.  Unfortunately, the propensity for any and all of these things to change at the blink of any eye is about the only guarantee.

Like birth order…just when you think you have your rolls established and stereo-types fulfilled, BAM!  Your parents pull a sneak attack out of the woodwork.

I thought my standing as “third-born-baby-of-the-family” was locked up.  Especially when the topic of adding to the family brings about shrieks of laughter from not just one, but both of my parents.  To quote my Mother, “Unless there’s some divine plan for Jesus to have a sibling, we are done having kids.”

Rock-solid status, right?!?

To that I say, NO SIR!

Did you know there is something worse than bringing a newborn baby home?  Something cuter?  Something softer & snugglier?  Something for people to drop what they are doing and talk to a complete stranger just because this THING is with them?  Worse yet, something that threatens to take one ounce of the attention away from THE BABY OF THE FAMILY?!?

That’s right, we got a dog.

Not just a dog…a six-and-a-half week old puppy.  And from the response this thing has received, apparently it’s a pretty cute one.

This attention sucker has taken over our home, our lives, and last but not least, my standing.

She has her own stupid basket of toys shaped like stupid fake animals, a stupid pink crate, two stupid bowls with pictures of stupid bones on the side, and a stupid flowery leash.

I think I hate the stupid toy shaped like a stupid road-killed beaver the most.  The constant reminders about the dogs beaver are nauseating.

“Don’t touch the dogs beaver.”

“The dog loves to run in circles with her beaver in her mouth.”

“Leave the dog alone when she is playing with her beaver.”

“Look at the dog wrestle with her beaver.”

“The dog sure loves her beaver.”

“Go find the dog’s beaver.”

“Don’t take the dog’s beaver from her.”


The dog’s name is Kali, and apparently she loves her beaver.

I hate that stupid beaver.

For Kali’s three month vet visit, she only wanted to sit by me.  She hid under my legs when the doctor tried to stick her with yet another round of shots.  Why she would think I would save her from the torture I wished I could execute myself is beyond me, but for the sake of looking sweet, I appeased her feeble request.  She must have wanted something to nuzzle since we left her beaver at home.

It’s my job to play with Kali every day.  We go for walks, play fetch, and wrestle.  I get to feed her, let her outside when she has to go to the bathroom, and help with her bath.  I try to sneak her treats during dinner and let her lick the leftovers off my chin.  I don’t even mind if she sometimes wants me to play fetch with her beaver.  Sometimes.

At five months old, Kali has decided to lay claim on the one safe haven I had left…my bed.  She joins my Dad and I every night for my bedtime story.  She lays right next to me, curls to conform to my body’s shape and listens to “Go Dog, Go!” right along with me.  She nuzzles her head in the crook of my neck and we eventually synchronize our breaths as we calm for the night.

My dog loves sleeping with me and I guess I love it too…even if she insists on bringing that beaver with her.

When I come home my dog greets me with more sloppy wet kisses than I can stand.  We hide under my bed, play chase and taunt my mom with the number of laps we can run around her.

I am teaching her not to bite me by biting her right back, and how to pee in the bushes by enthusiastically demonstrating with my accuracy.

 I now have a best friend for life and love my dog more than almost all the candy in the world.  Almost.

And even if that beaver is part of the package, then so be it.  I guess it’s not so bad…it looks like it has been chewed up, spit out, and beaten by 10,000 bikers…but it’s hers and anything she loves I love, too.

I just have one question…why didn’t my parents get me a dog sooner?!?

Remember When...

“Remember when I was 35…I go skiing with my best friend Uncle Jake and Uncle Buddha and we drink beer.”

“Remember when I was a Smurf…I drink the soap and burp up bubbles.”

“Remember when I was 3…I break my leg, and rock on the rocking chair all day, and chip off the paint.”

“Remember when I was a Pappy…I take lots of pills every day.”

“Remember when I fly in a rocket…I make the moon really small.”

“Remember when I was a Mom…I like to take baths with wine and books.”

“Remember when I swim with sharks…I find teeth everywhere.”

“Remember when I eat a worm…I give it to my babies.

“Remember when I was a Grandpa…I drive my tractor everywhere and I let me drive.”

“Remember when I go to the lake…I jump in the waves.

“Remember when I be a dog…I eat with no hands and pee outside.”

 
My Mom likes to remember when I was 3…and my imagination consisted of experiential knowledge of actual events, recall of stories that others have shared, scenes from movies, or outright fabrications.

She should really write this stuff down…someday it will be priceless!

Future Hall Of Famer

One of my favorite questions to ask (virtually anyone and everyone I encounter) is, “How old I have to be to__________ (insert job/scenario/milestone)?”

For example, while waiting for our dinner at the counter that overlooks the kitchen in our favorite pizza joint, I politely asked the gentleman flipping the dough, “How old I have to be to work at JT’s?”.  His reply, “17”.

Or, while watching the friendly warehouse employee at Home Depot (as he tested the payload of the hi-lo he was maneuvering), “How old I have to be to drive one of those?”  His (somewhat snarky) reply, “18!  It’s state law!”

I store all of this important information deep in the bowels of my brain for recall at a later date.

Such was the case after my 4^th birthday…I recalled a conversation that occurred while watching the only program on my parent’s television from March until October…Tigers Baseball.

I dug deep into the Memory Palace and pulled out a little tidbit of information regarding the age requirements for playing T-Ball…BAM!  It was 4!

So for the next month straight, I asked my Mom when was opening day for the YMCA?!?

The day finally came!  Dad as coach…check.  Cleats on…check.  Blue bat…check.  Lefty mitt…check.  White t-shirt with red sleeves…check.  What more could I need to start my career as a future hall of famer?

Not surprisingly, the day didn’t go as smoothly as I (or anyone trying to tame this wild fire) expected.  Because not included on my all-important checklist was some working knowledge of baseball basics…that would have been helpful.

My dad and the three other well-intentioned souls spent 70 minutes essentially herding 12 cats.  The hitting drills, fielding drills and calisthenics looked nothing like Miguel Cabrera stepping up to the plate to go for another triple-crown.  So I took it upon myself to try and reenact my favorite Tiger’s legendary presence.

With lawn chairs full of spectators (including my nanny and pappy), I stepped up to the tee.  Still undetermined if I hit left or right, I squared up, swung back, and let that ball fly all of 10 feet right to the pitcher.  And just as I practiced at home, I held onto the bat and ran after the ball in hopes of fielding my hit ball and starting the process all over again.

Little did I know, there are TWO teams and it is not my job to field my own hit.
Like I said…important information that would have been nice to know BEFORE my at-bat.

It took some convincing, but I eventually ran to first base (and by convincing, I mean the desperate first base coach lured me there with the promise I could punch him in the gut when I arrived).

My first great offensive display continued with a leisurely walk to second base (once the batter behind me arrived on the base I was occupying).
On to third (with my batting helmet covering my eyes because I had turned it backwards).
Then home, but not before I swung by the on-deck circle to take the bat from my teammate who was patiently waiting his turn to bat (although his patience ran out right about the same time I swiped the bat, and he ran after me yelling, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!?”)

And with that my batting and on-base percentage was 100%!  Not a bad start to what I think will be a lifelong career of being a pain in the ass…I mean playing baseball!

See you at the All-Star game, Miggy!

Sweet Revenge

For those of you unfamiliar with my nemesis, you should review the B-Blog titled “AKA: Basketball”.

If you haven’t read it (or don’t remember the details) in the interest of time, here’s a quick recap:

During a brief encounter on the basketball court with a giant dill-hole of a man, I narrowly avoided a concussion, I called him a “Fat Ball”, he insulted my mom, and he was (in general) just an ass.

That about sums it up.

Today I was able to enjoy dolling out a little of the sweet elixir I like to call revenge.

While enjoying a little free-time in the gym childcare, I positioned myself behind the mesh gym divider that separates the “kids zone” from the “basketball zone”.

And there he was, awkwardly trying to walk and bounce a basketball at the same time, but thinking he was full of athletic swag, Mr. Fat Balls himself.

I don’t think he saw me (at first).  But I saw him.  And I immediately remembered that stupid ego-maniac’s arrogant grin.

I started off subtle, as not to draw attention to myself, with just a laugh here and there.  But not like an innocent-kid laugh, more like a “HA-HAH, HA, HA-HAH” (to the cadence of, “NA-NAH, NA, NA-NAH”).

Then I ramped it up with general insults like, “You missed!” and “No points for you!”

When the dim-wit was finally able to put together the jumbo-size-puzzle-piece hints that I was directing my criticisms towards him, he started to really put on a show.

Sweet merciful crap, was it hilarious to watch his anger grow as his athletic ability shrank.

He couldn’t make a shot to save his life, and I was the first to point out his shortcomings.

No longer attempting to hide myself or my insults, I brought out the big guns.

I was pointing, laughing, and encouraging other children to taunt.  I started chanting “YOU MISSED, YOU MISSED, YOU MISSED!”  and a few of the other lemming-children joined in.

After gaining the attention of a few giggling basketball players, his delicate male ego could withstand no more, and he called upon the childcare workers to remove me from the gym.

In a climactic ending as I was escorted back to the confines of the enclosed playroom, I yelled “YOU NO GOOD AT BASKETBALL!  YOU MEAN!”

After taking some time to reflect on my actions and decide if I was too hard on the chap, I am reminded of one simple fact…I am three and that douchebag is a grown ass crybaby excuse of a man.

Brennan 1, Fat-Ball 0.

Music Class

Sometimes the stars align and I am able to take advantage of a fleeting opportunity to turn up the funny.  Such was the case today during the weekly music class I attend.

During the action-song, “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” I decided the sequence of movements where I point to my head, my shoulders, my knees and my toes needed a little tweaking.

That straight line from the top of my body to the ground stretches through far more interesting body parts than my shoulders and my knees.

Sing along with me…
“Head, Boobies, Penis, Toes. Penis, Toes.  Head, Boobies, Penis, Toes. Penis, Toes.  Eyes and Ears and Mouth and Nose.  Head, Boobies, Penis, Toes.  Penis, Toes.”

Feel free to use this valuable teaching tool in your next talk to your kids about The Birds & The Bees.  Your Welcome.

The Plan

It has taken my Mom a while to admit the truth – she isn’t perfect.  For those of us who know her, that revelation is as about as surprising as the sun coming up in the morning.

So after much struggle and agony, my Mother is finally able to admit it… I have been put on a discipline plan at school.  But as an even more devastating admission…she isn’t perfect.

“The Plan” goes a little something like this:
Each section of my day is divided into categories (ie: arrival, recess, circle time, snack time, etc.)
If I am able to control the many urges I have to hit, spit, kick or yell profanities at others, I am rewarded with one happy-face sticker for each successful category.  Conversely, if I am not able to squelch these compulsions, I do not receive a sticker.  Pretty basic.

“The Plan” is appropriately labeled, “I Had A Great Day”.

If I do, “have a great day”, and have obtained all eight happy-face stickers for the day, I am immediately rewarded with an activity that makes all the hard work worth it – swimming at Goldfish Swim School.

After receiving the report from my teacher at “pick-up time”, we head directly to my happy place where I eagerly and enthusiastically share the good news of my great day and brag about how awesome I am.

Since being placed on said plan, we have gone to Goldfish every Tuesday and counting.

Before offering up any congratulations, there is one Tuesday I should address…

Given my track record, it should not come as a surprise that I briefly fell off the wagon of good behavior and did not receive all 8 stickers one grim day.  Much to my surprise, we still went to Goldfish.  We parked.  We walked in.  And that’s when it happened.  That woman, the one I call Mom, she did the unthinkable.

As usual, after showing off my report, I explained that there were 7 instead of 8 stickers due to a brief lapse in judgment when I used my schoolbag as a demolition ball and knocked a classmate halfway into next week.

And in a most abrupt fashion, I was scooped up, reminded of the missing sticker and escorted to the front door.

WHAT!  THE!  HELL!

She did it; she actually followed through on her threat to NOT take me swimming if I didn’t follow through on my end of the bargain!

Well, well, well…taking advantage of a teachable moment.  Well played, Mother.  Well played.

Because it worked.  Like I said, we have gone to Goldfish every Tuesday since.

For those of us who already know our Moms aren’t perfect, we are usually also enlightened enough to know that beneath the thickest of skulls and the roughest of exteriors, lies the most sensitive of hearts.  And while my Mom is not perfect, she no longer lets my behavior determine her self-esteem or cares if someone sees the imperfect mom that lies beneath.  And regardless of the incredibly terrible choices I sometimes make, my imperfect Mom will just keep grasping those brief moments in time when she whispers to my heart and I actually learn something.

At least that's "The Plan".

WANTED: Aspiring Showgirls!

Given the current fiscal state of our country, I feel it is my civic duty to help stimulate the economy by offering some job opportunities to anyone interested in supplementing their income with a little part-time work.

Well, not just anyone.  My target audience really is the ladies (preferably those that I find particularly attractive).  But what prospective employer doesn’t discriminate based on looks?

I have created a plan that is a “win-win” for all parties involved.  And thus far, I have offered this job opportunity to exactly three people of the female persuasion.

The position is still vacant.

Here’s my pitch (verbatim):
“Want to come to a show…In my bedroom…You wear a bathing suit…Or a costume…You wear my key necklace…Sometimes I squirt you with water…Sometimes not…I play my guitar…Or drums…You dance…I give you quarters.”

The ladies get the quarters and I get a show.  Like I said, “win-win”!

To date, the only feedback I have received is, “I only work for paper money.”

Done.

I promptly went home, cut up an ass-load of paper, and will have it at the ready for the next time I see my #1 contender.

So in the spirit of capitalism, I urge you all to be as proactive as I, and offer unique employment opportunities for someone to get ahead in this unstable economic climate.

Onward and upward fellow Americans!

Guessing Games

“Guess what I have under the covers?” was how I greeted my Mom when she came into my room to tuck me in tonight.

With an inquisitive look, she obliged my request for one last game of the day.

After a few obvious guesses from my clueless Mother (such as “blanket”, “stuffed animal”, and “match box car”) I decided to give her some helpful hints.
It really was painful to see her embarrass herself with such terrible conjectures.

See if you can get it…

It’s long.

It’s not short.

It grows.

It goes in your mouth.

It’s not a whistle.

It’s hard.

It’s not teeth.

Clearly I had given enough obvious hints.

My Mom just laughed hysterically when I said, “It's a Carrot!”

I consider myself a well-rounded boy with a broad sense of humor.

But carrots?  What’s funny about carrots?

Because I Am A Boy

I am not a girl.  Obviously.

Though, when I say, “I am not a girl” I of course do not mean in the literal sense.  I mean in no way shape, form or semblance, am I at all like a girl.

Imagine their surprise, when every simple daily event or memorable milestone crossed with my two older sisters was done so with ease, then I came along and turned my parent’s sense of normalcy upside down.

They are the same parents, with the same DNA, the same parenting style, and the same discipline tactics.  But there is one major difference…I am not a girl.

Physical appearances aside, let’s compare and contrast:

Conferences
My sisters get all positive, glowing remarks and their teachers wish “everyone in the class was as sweet as them”.
Conversely, I have recently been put on a “discipline plan” to ensure I use “appropriate words” and not “my body” when communicating with classmates.  My teachers refer to me as “spirited, energetic, and creative” (code for “can’t sit still and mischievous”).  I have no doubt that the thought of a “class-full of Brennan’s” is amongst their greatest fears.

Meals
The girls typically eat with utensils while seated and most of their food ends up in their mouth.
I choose to make meal time more of an event for everyone involved.  Most nights, I think my Dad would rather do the taxes while running a triathlon in the snow with no television to watch the Tigers play game 7 of the World Series than endure the struggle involved with feeding me a meal.

Humor
My sisters think “knock-knock” jokes are pretty funny.
I, on the other hand, have what some would call more boorish of a sense of humor.  Such as:
Showing off my junk and/or rear end,
Sitting on someone’s head with the hopes of catching them with their mouth open when I fart,
Swiping credit cards through someone’s exposed upper ass crack,
Spanking unsuspecting males in their delicate manhood,
Wile E Coyote Super Genius getting blown-up,
Burping the Alphabet,
Irrelevantly yelling “Penis” (with no regard for context or appropriateness),
Changing the words of innocent preschool songs to involve the gratuitous use of toilet humor,
…NOW THAT’S FUNNY STUFF!

 
I eat bugars, miss when I pee, color on walls, jump on my bed, take apart toys, climb on everything, think I can fly, hide in the shower section of Home Depot, use controversial (somewhat offensive) language, question and challenge authority, push buttons (both literally and figuratively), kick when I’m angry, yell when I’m happy, rollerblade in the house, play in the mud, knock over Lego buildings, ride my bike down hills, take things that aren’t mine and throw them when someone gets close to catching me, sit in laundry baskets naked while I read books, and eat my weight in food at every meal.

I am also the best thing that ever happened to my parents.

Not because I make their lives easier (God knows that couldn’t be further from the truth).

But because I am my Dad’s wrestling buddy, his legacy, his namesake, and his life-long best friend.

Because I wake my Mom up with a hug that almost chokes her, make her laugh so hard she pees her pants, melt her heart with my smile, and reminded her everyday what it was like to fall in love for the first time.

Because I bring a kind of excitement, entertainment, and enjoyment to our family that only I could.

Because I am a boy.

Operation: Cougar Town

Given the fact that in less than two years I will be a student of Thornapple Elementary, I have whole-heartedly committed to a plan that will set me up for nothing short of running the joint by the time I reach my destination.

The long term goal…upon my arrival (and the inevitable trips to the office for potential disciplinary action) I will be in such good graces with the powers-that-be, that there’s not much I won’t be permitted to get away with.

The short term goal…start the schmoozing of the most important person in the building.

No, not the principal.

Not even the teachers.

Of course, it is that lovely lady that sits behind the front desk, with the smile that welcomes you into the building.  As far as I’m concerned, she’s the head honcho, the big kahuna, the master and commander.  And she is the mark for a little plan I like to refer to as, “Operation, Cougar Town”.

Get in good with Mrs. T, and you’ve written your own ticket for an elementary school experience of smooth sailing.

After only four months of turning on the charm, I have accomplished the following feats:

*Acquired my own display wall for the art I create just for her.

*When I walk in the door, it’s a good bet that her mood and her day have significantly improved.

*Finally, it’s only a matter of time until the photo she snapped of the two of us finds a place of prominence in a frame on her desk.

Did I mention she asked me on a date?

That’s right, my cougar and I attended the High School Christmas concert where her sons preformed.  Already bringing me to meet the family…my standing is officially golden.

I even brought along a stuffed dog that resembles her actual dog to show just how much I care about what she tells me.  (All of you eye-rollers should give it a try, it worked like a charm!)

One of the other nostalgic parents was reminiscing about when their “now-senior-in-high-school-babies” was three, and even engaged in small talk with me about the name of my stuffed pup.

I, of course, do not have a name for every animal in the army of stuffed things I own, so off the cuff I called it “Kaylee”.

Trying to continue our in-depth conversation, he then asked if I had a real dog at home.

Without a wrinkle of a smile or an ounce of hesitation, I effortlessly replied,

“Yes.  I have a big dog at home.  His name is Shitter.”

And with that, our conversation was over.  Finally.  I was more interested in drinking in the enormity of the performance hall and dreaming of the day when I would be center stage entertaining crowds of people than continuing our conversation.

When the air finally began to refill the lungs of the innocent bystanders, my Mother’s only reply was, “We don’t even own a dog.”

I try to keep most things I say more high-brow, but you have to step in the trenches every now and then to reach the masses.

The most satisfying part of dropping the “shit-bomb”…when I swing by to visit my special lady, she greets me with an even bigger smile and a slight giggle.

Oh, I know what the ladies like.  Take notes boys!