JED'S DEAD, BABY ... JED'S DEAD

"Come and listen to a story 'bout a man named Jed,

A poor mountaineer who finally wound up dead.

It seems one day he was trying to blow a fart,

And the effort he exerted blew out his poor old heart."

Goodbye Buddy Ebsen.

Then again ... my psychic ass wrote you off a week ago.

It pains me to have to admit this in print, believe me.

But it must be said.

My son is ..... no ... I can't type this.

I'm proud of Andrew in so many ways.

He's the apple of my eye.

The cream in my coffee.

The errant jism on my sheets of love.

That's why this is so hard to admit.

But ... if I'm going to continue this diary and you people are going to understand where I'm coming from, I must admit a default in my son.

Therefore ... I shall force myself to type this.

My son is .... a booger-eating moron.

Yes, the other night as we watched yet another goddamned Dora the Explorer marathon, I happened to look at Andrew while he was in deep thought, studying the map on the television and telling Dora that she must take the bridge, go through the gate and then she would finally reach the big red hill where she would find joy and happiness.

Andrew stared at the television as his fingers fumbled around his face, finally landing on a nostril.

"Don't do that, Andrew," I chided him.

Hypnotized by the television, he would not...neigh ... he COULD not hear me.

His index finger slid up his nostril and did a little dance.

He pulled out a small wad of green mucus.

"Ewwww, Andrew!" I said, rising up from the sofa. "Let me get a Kleenex."

No need for a Kleenex, pop.

Not when the kid has a fully functional mouth.

He popped that finger in his mouth and swirled it around like it was slathered in chocolate-covered peanut butter.

After about ten seconds, he pulled the finger back out and rested it in his lap, never bothering to take his eyes off the screen or even blink.

I wanted to puke.

I mean....sure. The kid needs his protein.

It's just so hard to believe that I've fathered a booger-eating moron.

To the best of my knowledge, I've never eaten a booger.

I remember as a child while playing if my nose started running, there would be the occasional tongue running over the upper lip to remove the snot.

But for God's sake ... it wasn't MY tongue. I paid my friends to lick the snot off my upper lip. You'd be amazed at what a four year-old will do for a quarter.

This is obviously something that the boy has learned in his new daycare. There's probably some cool two year-old in his class who all the kids admire because he can hold his stinkys and probably has the coolest Bob the Builder t-shirts.

And the kid probably waited until the teacher's head was turned and showed the kids how to eat their boogers.

And now Andrew, my poor little son who so desperately wants to fit in with the cool crowd, has taken up booger eating in order to win friends and influence chicks.

I'm so angry about this that I want to rail against society.

SCREW YOU, SOCIETY!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go break down into a sobbing mass of tears.

Oh.

I started a diet yesterday with my wife.

So if I seem a little cranky or irritable ... fuck you, asshole.