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!

Officer Poopy

There are days I am thankful for all of the distinguishing traits and unique qualities passed on to me by my parents.  And there are other days when they should take a few pointers from the master manipulator…ME.

The “puppy dog” eyes, the innocent smile, the irrefutable logic…that’s right in my wheel house!

Additionally, this is an area my Mother is severely lacking.  She’s more of the “blabber, blabber, blabber, nonsense, pleading, blabber” kind of gal.

But when you get clocked going 87 mph in a 70 mph zone, you really should know your strengths (and your weaknesses) and just turn the situation over to a pro and watch the magic happen.  Of course, my Mother did not, and tried to take matters into her own inept plea bargaining hands.

I let her carry on for just long enough until I determined an intervention was necessary.  Conveniently, I was seated directly behind my Mother in the driver seat, and could roll down my window to address the friendly Ingham County Officer personally.

I figured there was no need for introductions, so I cut to the chase…
“Why my Mom yell when she see you?  Why you talk to my Mommy?  Why you not in you car?  What you doing?”

Officer: “I am explaining to your Mommy the dangers of going too fast, especially with children in the car.  It’s very bad.”

Me: “My Mommy not bad.”

Officer: “Your Mommy was going too fast, but I am just talking to her about it.”

Me: “You shirt is brown like poopy.”

Officer: “What?”

Me: “I NO LIKE YOU!  YOU POOPY!”

Unnecessary interjection from my Mother…”Ha? You have kids?”

Officer: “No.  I’ll be right back.”

Upon his return, my window had been forcibly rolled-up, my Mother was the recipient of one speeding ticket as well as a lecture on teaching her children to respect authority.

Of course, that same lecture was handed down to me.  Luckily, my strategic seating arrangement prevented her from reaching me, so I was only subjected to her “blabber, blabber, blabber, nonsense, pleading, blabber.”

And as I’ve mentioned, the effectiveness of that speech is less than successful.

I did, however, learn a very important lesson that day:

Insulting an officer of the law is not the route you want to take when trying to finagle your way out of a ticket.  Conversely, if your goal is to throw out gratuitous insults and potty talk to watch someone else try to finagle out of a ticket because you know there are no real consequences that can be imparted on you just for being hilarious…then carry on soldier.