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6:20 a.m. - 2004-12-02


So after weeks of whining, we finally decided to take Andrew to see his hero last night.

Santa H. Claus.

I knew what was going to happen.

We were going to show up, Andrew would catch a glimpse of the furry fat man and hide behind me until we left the building, not going anywhere near the guy.

Then ... on the NEXT trip, he'd move a little closer to him. Maybe going so far as to not behind me.

Then, on the THIRD trip, Andrew would get into line and then when it was his turn to sit on Santa's lap, he'd freak and burst out crying and we'd have to schedule yet another trip to see Santa.

Then finally, on the fourth trip, under much protest, Andrew would finally sit on his lap for a few seconds and then wiggle off the guy's lap, never to cross paths again.

I knew this, because I know my son.

Or ... at least I thought I did.

This kid marched right up in the small line, waited his turn, got on Santa's lap and began telling him everything he wanted for Christmas.

(Thomas trains, Hot Wheels, a "bug video" (Baby Einstein video) and Harold the Helicopter ... I need to get a bug video now. Shit.)

Then, because there was nobody else in line, Andrew scampered off Santa's lap ... AND WOULDN'T LEAVE.

He stood there, jabbering to Santa about God knows what while Santa looked like he was about to kick my son in the head.

Andrew rang Santa's bells that were hanging on his chair and then went back to talking to Santa.

He finally had to be physically removed from Santa's playground by an elf.

Now I am the father to the world's shyest kid. Never in my wildest dreams did I think this would happen.

I guess he's growing up.

Or maybe he was serious about wanting to see Santa for the last several weeks.

I know one thing ... around the house there's no better threat to a kid than "Santa's watching you".

Everytime he gets out of line ... "Santa's watching you" ... and BOOM! The kid gets right back in line.

He knows Santa don't play around.

And now that he's finally met the guy, he's better than ever.

Granted, this fascination will only last until first grade when some rotten little asshole kid with an older brother will spring the news on Andrew that there is no Santa Claus.

Then the jig is up.

And I've got a rotten kid on my hands again.

But in the meantime ... I'm milking this Santa shit for all it's worth.

Speaking of Santa ... can that Santa look any LESS like a Santa?

He might as well be wearing sunglasses in the photo. I don't care how bad his eyesight is ... Santa doesn't wear prescription glasses.

And the beard is almost blue. Bleach that nasty thang, Santy!!

But hey ... the kid could care less.

And I guess that's the important thing.

But seriously ... clean the bugs outta that beard, Santa.

I was driving around town yesterday, making sure the city's piss got where it needed to be, when I got behind a car from a dealership named after its founder Bob Thibodeau.

Now, I'm not sure how to pronounce the last name, but I'm guessing it's something like this:


Now ... if nobody's within hearing distance from you, say the name "Bob Thibodeau" out loud.

Now say it again.

Now say it as if it was your name and you were introducing yourself to someone at a party. "Hi! My name's Bob Thibodeau!"

Now say the name again. And again. And again.

Doesn't it sound like you have a horrible speech impediment?

I have no idea why ... but I cannot stop saying this name out loud.

It's been about 18 hours since I first saw the name and I'm STILL just babbling the name like it's nobody's business.

I made Susie say it over and over again last night.

I even tried to talk Santa into saying it because I wanted to share the glee.

Bob Thibodeau.

Bob Thibodeau.

Bob Thibodeau. Bob Thibodeau. Bob Thibodeau. Bob Thibodeau. Bob Thibodeau. Bob Thibodeau.


(I think all that pee I transport has somehow seeped into my brain and made me all crazy)

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