I was gonna do this silly game thing and then Mr. London called me out for being lame (true story...both parts) and I felt all self-conscious and FAT and LAZY, so I just wrote about my morning instead.
AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!
[Scene: Living room, general chaos. Plus One is throwing his toys about the house. T9 is telling me off in baby-babble language, and the cats are clawing at the door in an attempt to attack a new stray that has found our yard.]
Me: Listen, PINK, I am so SICK of this ass-hattery. If you break another venetian blind with one of your half-assed escape attempts, I WILL SKIN YOU.
Pink: [Lounging, sipping his sassafrass root beer.] Don't hate, Momma. This is the awesome sauce.
Me: What? Where the hell did you get that black market shit? It CAUSES CANCER!
Plus One: [Mid-throw, tossing a rock at the flat screen. Picks up his sippy cup and runs toward the cat.] Pink has fuzzy?! I'll trade you for this beer, Pink!
Me: BEER?! Where did you get BEER?!
Plus One: Daddy says it's good for the prostate [Slllurp]. Aaahhh.
Me: [Grabbing sippy cup]. There's not a time out long enough for this punkness, kid.
T9: BA! BA! BABA! [MORE TYLENOL, MAYBE SPIKED WITH MOTRIN. NOW.]
Me: Oh, my drug-addled child. I'm going to have to carve those teeth out myself, I'm afraid.
Me: Whoa, if you were capable of speaking in anything other than onomatopoeia, I'd think you were just requesting a little MMBop right there! Momma's teachin' you well! [Starts humming, MmmBop-Bop-Bop-Doo-Wap!]
[To Plus One] Kiddo, are you feeling well enough to ghost-write for Mommy again today? Or should I just throw up one of those word gamey-games?
Plus One: [In British accent.] I don't understand the appeal, I think your blog is better than parlour games like this. [Slurps the cat's soda, adjusts smoker's jacket and chomps on pipe.] The imprecision of your writing as of late just wreaks of a lousy naturalist homeostatic property cluster*.
T9: I couldn't agree with you more, my dear brother. Mother has become embittered with the blogosphere lately. A real curmudgeon, she is.
Fluffy Shit: [Breaking the odd, surreal silence.] MEEEOWWWWWWW. [IF YOU DON'T FEED ME NOW, I WILL MAMMOCK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU.]
Me: [Shaking head, rubbing eyes.] Right, right. [Looking sideways at children.]
[Plus One throws rock at T9's head.] Right, yes. That's better. Crinkle-cut fries again for dinner boys?
Plus One: Yay! Hooray! [Marches around room, tossing T9 in the air.]
Pink: [Following me to the kitchen.] Not for me, heifer. You know that shit gives me gastrointestinal issues.
Me: Sht the hell up you gobbact cat.
*Submitted via Twitter. Because I'm uber-techno-savvy.
PS. We all have the plague in my house, now. It's official. (Even the wee baby has sniffles and coughs! Ultra-Mini-sized germs are giving him mini-sized boogies and mini-sized cough an giant-sized sleep interruption).
So be nice.