OMG: Baby Poo

Like, serious? I was, um, like, sooooo gross. Cute face, but no thanks. I am not a H8ter, but no way.

It's like the baby got all crunk and gone out of bed carrying mad load.  Eeeewwww. Super eeeeewwww. Triple infinity eeeeeewwww. Dawson’s Creek eeeewwwww.

My gig here is really to chillax. Sometime the siren goes off, like, you know, on this morning, baby woke up, cryin’ like the Armed Batavia Gestapo was comin.

Not makin any duckets in a bucket, moes. Gosh, thinkin about how unreal J BEEB is and how real Hova, sorry lamers, Jay Z is. Beyonce Beytwice Beythree times a lady. ALL the single ladies!

Back to poo bombin it.

ChunChun, I just started changing his diaper and smack-me-to-JE-to-the-SUS, there was more um, ew, slushy chocolate fluffy muffin mush than a well, kinda like a Bonnaroo outhouse clean up, yo.

No bobo. SO he poo’d all crazy up his back, all over his St. Charles East High Lacrosse onesey. Feel me Saint Peeps?

Awwwight, so I had to get out, like 40 wipes and you know, wipe.

This is ain’t supposed to by my gig. Not I am not borgatin’. But John said this was part of my apprenticeship.

*** Please note, the above blog entry was written by my summer apprentice, “Flo No!” You have to enunciate it like a gangster rapper or it doesn’t sound right. She is an aspiring writer. Unpaid of course, but her time will be reimbursed by free electric guitar lessons from my wife

She also thinks I am John Irving’s son. She was blown away by The World According to Garp and gushed about it in her Craigslist reply for my summer employment opportunity. I told her I have my (fake) Dad’s literary gene and working on my latest novel entitled Arctic Desert, an epic piece about a young girl’s journey on a robot horse with an Avatar sidekick from the top of the earth to the Mohabi.

She comes every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. Not Sunday she says because “the Lord doesn’t need creativity but in his house on this day.”

Flo No! isn’t her real name. It’s Ethel. She is 82-years-old.

On our first day, I promised her her own blog but she MUST write about the oddity of my children illustrating twisted irony of the haunting beauty of raising children. I told her she needed to immerse herself in her art so she is doubling as a nanny. I suggested it would be helpful to get acclimated to modernity, to the times we live in. Madame Octogenarian asked if she could play 45’s of Hoagy Carmichael while she researched for my work. He soothes her, gets her creative juices flowing.

I said “Flo No!” you need to be current. I bought her all of Eminem’s work, all the episodes of Hannah Montana and to go into Westside Chicago teen chat rooms to get some good, hip slang before it migrates to the ‘burbs. Remember “Flo No!” you must stay current.

So ... she composed the above blog post. In an effort to let her roll with her new found style (she bought some bass thumpin’ Woofers and put them in the trunk of her 1952 Austin A40), I am going to let her contribute to my blog.

She asked to meet my Dad, John Irving. I told her he is coming for our Fourth of July barbeque. Her last day is June 30. She doesn’t know it yet.

Please enjoy some of her entries.