My Broken Brain is Expanding

Insert unreasonable, overly optimistic, ill prepared, surrealist, unrealistic, and unfathomable plans here for a free quote...

 (Pretend you have something here in which to put them)

 

Thanks for shopping with us, or at least for playing along. We really appreciate your stopping by to check in. But we would appreciate you bunches more if you brought a juice box for me next time, you dumb bitch?

I'm not special: A Metardation

This is a Test...

This is a multiple choice test

Question #1

A) You are Stupid

(Choose one)


This was only a test. Had this been a real world exercise you would have failed that test too because you took the test... Yes, there is no spoon.

Mikey's Piddle Leep... Yup, it's official.

Personal
Indemnity
Disclaimer &
Disgruntlement
Liability
Exclusion &
Exoneration
Proclamation

I, Mikey, cannot be held responsible or accountable for the actions, deeds, wording, bewildered sighs, raised eyebrows, obscene gestures, asinine antics, poor spelling, lost interest, lost personal belongings, carbon (or caribou) footprints, dead batteries, unwashed dishes, undercooked poultry products, salamander feces in the bathtub, excessive cheese molding caused by humidity in a rented room's fridge, tall tales that lead directly or indirectly to your short temper, or inappropriate behavior(s) as defined later in this PIDDLEEP*.

 *Pronounced "Piddle Leap" (pid-l leep). Failure to properly pronounce this anagram will divest you of all natural and synthetic rights, claims, or legal grounds to continue to make mouth noise at or about me, Mikey. That's very important, so remember this, and everything else, too.

<Begin noteworthy clause>

The following section has been determined to be a "Noteworthy Clause", ∆ (Delta symbol of critical importance, but currently undefined)

<End Noteworthy Clause/>

In cases which involve you or more people, verbally or in writing, digitally, violently, or by any other potential or kinetic transmission wish to express or imply anything whatsoever at this or any point in the future, you must immediately sing all verses and chorus of the song "If You See Kay" continuously until granted permission by the duly appointed moderator, hereby designated as Mikey without appeal, injunction, recursion, exclusion, or exception in perpetuity.

(Pert B-Cup breasts must be tendered here, bearer's responsibility)

We, in accordance with Congressional example, hold all truths to be suggestions that hold no force of law (like the Declaration of Independence), are purely advisory, non-binding (unless you want to take the rest of the day off), feel-good word-paste smeared across paper (or other media of transmission) in order to make you feel like you matter, you're important, you belong to something bigger than yourself, and reinforce the feeling that you are not just taking it up the ass when you pay your  taxes/ our expenses and toss your vote at the heads or tails candidate who seems most likely to deliver the hope and/or change that never materializes. (Suckers! What's the definition of insanity again?)

At your discretion, you may exercise your Right to bash yourself in the cranium with a bowling ball. If you cannot afford a bowling ball one will be provided for you, that we will charge you for later (plus interest, esoteric charges, random "other cost", and docking fees) In order to exercise this Right say, "I want to have a ball" or forever hold your breath. Failure to exercise this option now will not preclude you from exercising it later, and you will. Trust me, you will.

These and other cherished, time honored, traditions ARE the cornerstone of OUR society, civilization, and culture. Your (third person) failure to be aware of them is not an excuse. It's a cop out.

Claiming that these and other cherished, time honored, traditions are the cornerstone of OUR society, civilization, and culture does not trump YOUR cherished, time honored, traditions which are the cornerstone of YOUR society, civilization, and culture based on the merit that a lot more people agree with you merely exposes YOUR system as a manifestation of gang rule and lawlessness. Your promotion of such a social order of chaos demonstrates that you (second person) are a lower order primate incapable of making moral decisions.

We, being Mikey, can foresee the benefits of closure, then this big deal PIDDLEEP will assure us (chimpies, too) task-oriented progress. Big wins for all through Mikey. We're making forward progress towards design-driven get-it-done attitudes by implementing an open-ended practice of Mikey overlordship that is both impactful and mind-blowing. Synergistic sexual partnerships that leave momentary impacts do the right thing with Mikey's ubiquitous synergies. In order to assure that challenges evolve into environments, we must be certain that opportunities will ramp up progress on Mikey ordained objectives.

Enshrined way above the Steele of Hammurabi this day forth forever and ever and ever, etcetera, etcetera,e tcetera. So it is written, so it is done.

Thank You, Come Again!

Yup, it's official.

Praying Mantises Rule!: A Metardation

The Chaucer Tale of me Metardation

I ran into a gentleman, a most fortunate affair.
He was enjoying a hearty lunch in the village square.
He said young man I can see you're in a terrible way
I am a certified and qualified so listen to what I say.
Have you acted rashly and sometimes become mad?
And when nothing is wrong you can still feel sad?

Why yes I suppose that's true, at least once in while
The gent nodded scholarly with a sympathetic smile

Do you have work that you would avoid or never do?
Have you been cheated, abused, or lied to, tell me true?

I lowered my gaze and took in the ground or looked at my feet
This doctor read me like a song without missing a single beat

Is your mother living and is your father with her still?
Do you have brothers and sisters? How many would you kill?

No both my parents are gone, many years ago by now
Two brothers and one sis. Could I substitute Dachau?

He slurped his lobster bisque like a crudely sired knave
Would I get my diagnosis before I reached my grave?

Do you like cats? Have you ever seen floating spots?
Look at this Rorschach image. Can you connect the dots?
Are you inclined to overspend or be more miserly?
What do you think of when I say the word “bumble bee”?
Are you afraid of flying, water, or falling from great heights?
Do you believe in flying saucers or just their runway lights?
Is canned tuna your friend when packed in light motor oil?
Think of your ex-wife, and the temperature your blood begin to boil?
Ever had perverse fantasies or been molested by a poltergeist?
Did bullies beat you up or did you perpetrate the lunch money heist?

I was speechless since he left no time for me to speak
I waited for the interrogation to end or at least fall asleep

Suddenly silent my inquest and his noon meal were complete
With the empty soup bowl on his head he danced down the street…

 And screamed,

You got the brain crazies
And there is nothing you can do
I have no delusions about it
You’ve got “Rental Metardation” too!

The Grimm's Reality of me Metardation

(And no more Suessian rhyming shit)

Stop laughing!

I just took the man's advice for what it was worth, because not often do you find someone certified and qualified and willing to work pro-bono.

So, there you have it. That dark, but song-filled, day when I came, late but nearly dressed, to grips with the stark reality that the floating spots were real and real friendly. The biscuits had inched closer threatening my well proportioned sense of delusion. A bottomless pit of despair with a loose salt shaker lid. I am a basket case packed in a shipping container full of cases of baskets, adrift on a cargo ship full of containers packed with cases of baskets. I am the Field Marshall of a single service ship of fool now anchored at the dock behind Marshal Fields.

I am a Metard. I am Theee Metard.

Lord God Sir Metard Esquire to you or with a U.

It's a medium-rare, wondrous, kamikaze dive of a disorder, set in the dystopian hangover of a world we all fear and seek to escape by any means that we (and our self-reinforcing peer group) will condone, so you know the funding for a cure is nil. I wouldn't put a penny towards the research myself. I'd rather buy more looney tunes toys to cram into my belfry bat infested attic. That's where the cost-benefit analysis and the slightly disgruntled, disgruntled cookoo for coca leaves kind of being that I am said,

"Ah, the vastly meager proceeds I reap from my "Oops! I failed the brain-check" check should go to support a poor rentally metarded child-like awesome individual who lives nearby or within me. It's a charitable self-interest that Ayn Rand would appreciate Objectively."

[Spoken in a hushed whisper] The State says that they care about the Metarded, but I know the State just steal the money from someone else who actually worked for it, and then gave it to Metarded me.
Personally, I think the State suffers from poor moral character, but when they make the definitions you can always make the flippers eat hammocks bertwiddled and everyone has to swallow the Belgian taco.
[A knowing look and a C+ average nod. Normal conversational volume resumes]

Who am Metarded me to think differently? Me is.

[Internal dialogue resumes. Allegro] The lucky Mentally Retarded have it easy. The gods smiled with thick lips and droopy eyelids at the standard garden variety football helmet wearing non-athletes because there is strength in numbers, they just don’t know it, but there is strength in numbers, it's just an unrealized potential. They could rule their special ed class if they all rushed, limped, shuffled, incontinenced, and rolled the "normal" at once.

Rental Metardation is hell in comparison to our (my) soup drooling brethren. Sure, we (me) may learn things very quickly, but then we (all of  me) do stuff with that acquired knowledge which no sane, well adjusted retard would attempt. Allow me to illustrate...

Purple is my angry color!





I'm an author, so let's stick with verbL illustrations or maybe just words and stuff.

FREELANCE SAFETY CRIER: “Hark, look out for that loose board in the floor!”

RETARDED KID: “OK” then he walks around it.

METARDED ME: “Yeah, and if you step on it just right it will make a sound like that tortured elephant creature effect in the Iron Butterfly song In-a-godda-da-vidda (which I thought was Fleetwood Mac's Tusk because I mixed it into In-a…fuck! I'm not typing all that again...) or l might break my metarded ankle. Roll the bones!”

Yup, Metarded.

Pray for on to me  -ing mantises rule!

More Metardations forthcoming, me tards.

The shaman said...

"...Your  power animal is the beaver. "

I thought, "Beaver!?  Man, I'm never going to a discount shaman place again."

That stupid cut-rate shaman didn't explain it right.

A Serious Sandwich

A sandwich that speaks with authority...

How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 3

Be Logical and Empirical

The Homeless Academy

You're Totally Fucked!

Yes, you are Totally Fucked! You never saw the layoff coming, did you? Perhaps, you thought you were indispensable to your firm. If anything happened you could avoid the streets by falling back on your degree and highly marketable skill set. Hell, if the bottom dropped out, you could stay on top because you were you. Now, who are you?

Homelessness was something that happened to other people, in other places, dirty places that reeked of urine and Brute aftershave. A guy like you doesn't frequent places like that, unless you were scoring some coke and a discount hooker. The "Old Blow and Blow Combo" as you called it back then. One day, you made the big time and you didn't have to pay for your cocaine or your escorts anymore. Now, you recognize that shit was all on loan because you can't afford either. Don't worry about sex.... You're Totally Fucked!

You always figured, if all else failed, you could count on some miraculous act of a benevolent God. Right! (As if He owed YOU something.) Surely, all those times you fell asleep in church but still ponied up the twenty bucks would afford you a reprieve, a plea bargain, or maybe a voucher...something. But, no, this is the coup de grâce in a long line of miscalculations which landed you at your final destination. You have arrived... You're Totally Fucked!

Pass On The Penetration!

There's no way you want to be the bottom man in this giant ass raping pile, do you? Well, do you? Fuck no! So, put some taxpayer ass under your flesh torpedo and fire one. 

Now, is the time to accumulate massive amounts of student loan debt, which you have no intentions of repaying... because you will never be able to afford the fucking payments! They're HUGE!

By taking the initiative to fill out a few hundred forms, you'll be improving our balance sheet, committing perjury, AND you'll be getting some paybacks for the screwing you took in the 2008 Credit Crisis.

It's always some poor dumb schmuck, like you, who gets their chocolate starfish ravaged, but this time it will be different! You will have something to be proud of rather than a case of profuse rectal hemorrhaging. You will have to your credit an unaccredited degree from The Homeless Academy.
But wait there's more... You'll have your diploma scrawled on a dirty McDonald's napkin and you'll have some other poor bastards blood on your shank when he pays for those defaulted student loans you so recklessly took on! Now, that's paying it forward to somebody else in arrears!

It's a thing of ugly!

Mom will be Proud!

You're mother always knew that you would amount to nothing, and now she can be proud of how insightful she was and what a dumbfuck you are. It's all okay, it's for a good cause: You are living proof that survival of a species by natural selection has nothing to do with being the fittest. Life isn't fair because once in a while even the dumbest sperm makes it the egg first, and that's you. The miracle child who beat the other million or so sperm just in time to be a failure. That's rare!

Thankfully.

Look Ahead, You're Far Behind

Welcome to the dynamic, exciting, and life-threatening world of Homelessness, Vagrancy, Applied Theoretical Recreational Chemistry, and Allied Social Ills. We are certain that you have chosen the "mold standard" of poison ivy league academia. Not only will you be studying bleeding ledge technology from the privacy and comfort of your own public library or pirated WiFi signal, but you can cruise the porn of your preference by opening a second browser and minimizing it when that bitch librarian walks behind you in spite of your potent, pervasive, punishing social interaction shield odor you have in-stink-tively developed.

While some asshole though he was being cute when he said,

Here at The Homeless Academy, we say,

Now, that's wizz of wordom, that you can pee on, you peon! With credentials from The Homeless Academy, you're on the road to being on the streets.

Homelessness is Green

President Obama promised you a Green economy and he delivered with punitive credit terms. While the old economy (jobs) are turning Green with decay due to over fifty years of asinine government central planning, Soviet-style top down policies, misguided regulations, draconian bureaucrats, and under performing public schools… Now, you're living in a public park! That's fucking Green! 

Imagine The Homeless Academy as the dilapidated bathroom stall where you can expectorate your Green delusions. (Don’t try to use real imagination, just keep mumbling along with me.) We're all familiar with that "Reduce, Reuse, Recycle" horse shit. Fucking annoying, isn’t it? So, here at The Homeless Academy we realized in a recent drug induced psychosis that those three “R” words ain't half of the Green story babble. We have enhanced the meaning of Green by adding many more "R" words to that worn out tree-fuckers mantra…

• Relapse
• Re-fry
• Regurgitate
• Ripoff
• Rats...(Millions of huge fucking rats!)
• Re-offend
• Re-sentence
• Restitution
• Recover
• Repeat

That's ten "R" words Redefined (Make that eleven!) for the Green Revolution (an even dozen, my niggas!) You can almost hallucinate the planet healing in our homeless hands if you've got good shit. 

Truth be known, we're just fucking things up in new, why-are-less, immersive, sustainable (wink) ways than just about everyone else who came before us on the dead end timeline. Don't feel bad, they thought they were doing good stuff, too. But they were wrong, and so are we... but we're all turning Green and Green means go to The Homeless Academy ! Time is running out faster than your latest crop of exs.

We got Free Cell Phones, Bitches!

The citizens have spoken and the Feds immediately kowtowed to the fastest growing demographic group that can swing votes in the next election: Single Moms! They are all broke (just like you) and need to call their dealer (just like you) to get a fist full of Xanax (just like you). See, we can all relate to the pain and hardship of single moms, can't we?

So, you better get on the fucking free Obama phone and get me some fucking Xanies right fucking now, mother fucker, or I'm gonna call the cops and tell them you hit me! Oh, and change the baby. I'm watching Full House.

Yes, We Can… all relate. Can't we?

Technology Means Abusing Anti-Anxiety Meds

In the past, Homelessness lagged behind other career paths like Biotechnology, Engineering, TV/VCR repair, Druids, and even a goddamn psychologist made $15.50 an hour. That was making bank compared to us! Well, I’m here to tell you, “That was then, and this is the same shit later.” In the digital revolution, Homelessness was merging onto a bristling new superhighway in an under-powered dumpster, an under-powered dumpster with a drunk driver behind the wheel. Fuck! There is no steering wheel! We’re all gonna fucking die! The crack cloud in the… the ah... wherever it is… Look, the upside is the dumpster is Green!

Sure, we were drunk but it's not our fault! That is the beauty of being irresponsible, we're not responsible! Besides, that damn dumpster should have been recalled. There were no cup holders. 

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yeah, we got free cell phones...

In the archaic past, we of the ex-domiciled persuasion couldn't afford cell phones due to all their inherent problems like; costing money, credit restrictions, and needing a home address for a plan. As if things couldn't get worse, the bone headed policymakers removed all the pay phones to stop drug deals, which worked for about 24 hours. I guess nobody in their multi-million dollar study panel explained to the bonehead policymakers that drug dealers CAN afford cell phones. Single moms can't! That's the inequality in the system! So, fix it boneheads or I'm gonna call the cops and tell them you hit me! Oh, and change the baby. I'm watching Full House.

Well, all that has changed now since the same boneheaded policymakers are giving us free cell phones and passing the costs on to the taxpayers (suckers!). That lowers the average transaction cost for narcotics by up to $744.00!¹

Horrible, wasn't it? Now, with change you can believe in, the Homeless man has been reconnected with his beloved drug dealer so he can stay out of jail this weekend while single mom is passed out in the bathroom as her precious toddler is cooing happily while setting the whole fucking house on fire! What the fuck baby?! You woke mommy up!

Hey, now she's Homeless, too. See, we can all relate to the pain and hardship of single moms, can't we?

[1] Assumes a typical 328 calls per drug transaction to "remind" the "dealer" to hurry. Yet, said "dealer" wasn't coming at all because "dealer" knows "single mom's" broke ass doesn't have any money until the fifth when she gets her child support check. So, stop calling, bitch! I'm watching Full House.

World Reviled Academics

Serious credentials require more than just an extensive criminal record and lengthy periods of incarceration, there is the commitment to maintaining a renown drug habit and the ability to show up for a job. That takes a uniquely dedicated and mythical recidivist, a hustle innovator who you won't find anywhere but asking for spare change at the finest adult bookstores and/or defiantly violating camping laws to building prolific trespass portfolios. Our scholars Consistently Consist of Consistent Consistency. (Yup, we made that last part up ourselves.)

So, without further oral gratification It's time to meet and be personally pan-handled by our World Reviled Academics found loitering around or squatting in The Homeless Academy campus buildings. Let's move along since these geni have a deadline to meet before they have to Fail to Appear for their sentencing this afternoon. After all, keeping current on continuing un-education is as overrated as everything else in “mudearn” America and this is what makes…

Graduate classes offered by Best Bum Practices

If and when they get out of fucking bed.

Not today, though. Definitely, not today.

This is a parody, but homelessness is no joke. Don’t get me wrong, there are some funny parts but they are funny for other people. Not you because you’re hungry, freezing, tired, broke, and hated for existing anywhere you are and everywhere go. If you would like to help someone trapped in this reality/finality, there are real people who need real help that can only come through real relationships with real people like you. 

Relationships are how people help other people. Programs are what machines like bureaucracies perform for their own functions (Like making itself bigger.) 

In difficult times, such as these, when our government fails to do what is right, it falls to us. Rather than wasting our time, energy, resources, and our precious patience performing political theater and arguing about WHO is right, it falls to us to DO what is right.

Please visit my other blog

Homeless University

There is nothing down here.

Dude, the bro sure ended back up there.





Way back in the other direction.

What the fuck! Are you fucking gay or some shit? Quit following me.

Unless you got some shit.

Do you?

I’ll pay you back when I get paid for this bro sure I just did... 




or you wanna trade for an Active X plug-in?

Hair Club for Savages - Style 2

Welcome to Mikey's Broken Brain

Hair Club for Savages - Style 1

Welcome to Mikey's Broken Brain

Wisdom of the Prophet Book 5

Another heaping helping of mumblings from the ether...

How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 2

Be an Insensitive Workaholic

Broken Brain Gallery Tour

A few classics from the Broken Brain Gallery & Garbage Scow...

Ours Together

There is something I should share with you...

How to be an Infuriating Husband, Lesson 1

Be Childlike and Irresponsible

Note to Reader: Please pay attention because I'm only going to write this once.

I began my typical Saturday morning like any other 35 year old married man, by sneaking past the kids’ room with the blankets. The blankets I had delicately removed from the bed where my naked wife still slept. I've found that wearing these blankets over my head while I creep past the kids’ open door makes effective camouflage. I’m just laundry passing by on its way to the washing machine rather than daddy on his way to gracelessly maintain a slightly controlled fall down just enough steps to make me wonder if its a break or a bruise? Choking back profanity within primal, guttural syllables is automatic now with the kids around. The gruntings punctuated with rapid audible inhales aren't nearly as analgesic as a "Mother f#(ker!" would feel, but at least their automatic.

Triage complete, I resumed my foray towards the living room with only one waypoint in between. I veer left into the kitchen for some breakfast juice: vodka and raspberry lemonade. This cocktail is well renown as the pantie removing solution which I applied heavily liberally the night before. Breakfast is the most important drink of the morning, I remind myself as I spill half the tumbler down my forearm in an overly boisterous breakfast toast, or toast to beakfast. Now, it was time to get on about my productive day.

Snuggling down in front of the television with only minor protestation from my ankle, I quickly change the channel from the ceaseless, senseless high-pitched squealing of Nick, Jr. to the delightful, rejuvenating, and comprehensible violence of classic cartoons.  

Speed Racer, Bugs Bunny, and my all time hero, Roadrunner fill me with a sense of completion mixed with the much coveted sensation of getting away with something I should absolutely not be doing as a thirty-five year old married man and father of two easily beguiled children.

Huddled in my goose down feather-filled command post/sniper's nest, after the third reloading of the breakfast juice, I was really digging life in general. This was a wondrous, peaceful place in a serene world with the therapeutic effects of comprehensible classic cartoon violence permeating my essence. Nirvana, without all the extra arms, I imagine.


Then, a tiny white fluffy seal pup is staring me in the face. He looks so uncoordinated and goofy, why he’s just like me. He looks happy, just like me. The camera pans back to include some flannel wearing distant relation of Leif Erickson about to bludgeon my new fluff wearing friend with a baseball bat. What the fuck?

Paradise lost, the horrific imagery destroyed all the accrued joy that rocket propelled roller-skates could provide. This was real violence, incomprehensible violence, and the seal pup couldn’t even utter a “Meep-Meep” and escape at mind boggling speed. What the fuck! The nubile blonde woman with the pert breasts who immediately follows this nightmarish scene begins babbling about some $9.00 a month solution. What the fuck?? (Nice tits.) What the fuck!! My alcohol (over) enhanced sense of moral outrage leads to... (really nice tits) immediate action... Defense! A murmur from my son upstairs reminds me that my moral outrage should be limited to the silent variety. 

What to do? Carpet bomb Norway? Petition the UN to take Bjork or some other high value lefse munching, lutefisk slurping, seal pup smashing target hostage? Embargo the Finns from exporting unpronounceable names? There had to be more that I could do, in addition to sending $9.00 a month to a nubile blonde woman with remarkably outstanding cleavage. These poor, white, fluffy, uncoordinated creatures were bereft of a means of defense. My alcohol lubricated neurons fired into a brilliant Bacardi 151 blue flame... Fangs! That was it, fucking fangs. Nothing could menace a club toting, seal pup mauling, longboat rowing Norseman like a pair of seven-inch, razor sharp canines... with micro-serration.

Like any good seal fang fabrication technician, of which I am the only one, I needed a design. I was properly motivated and adequately inspired as I beamed down at the prototype sketched in purple crayon on a torn Pampers box a scant four minutes later. It was crude, but workable, but mostly crude, very nearly incomprehensible, but workable.

By my fifth revision on the vodka raspberry lemonade the same drawing looked fucking awesome! I was a goddamn seal pup dental Di Vinci. May I point out that I am the only one of those too. It was time to move from the Renaissance into the Age of Technology with the wonders of Adobe Photoshop 5.0. Just a few clicks of the mouse later, conservatively numbered in thousands, my masterpiece was complete. I was satisfied that I had done something positive for Mother Nature and scored points with Miss Cleavage 1999, the fit-titted PETA spokes-chicky all before 8:00 AM.

I settled into a well deserved C₂H₆O meditative state. As I watched Speedracer go, go Speedracer go, I heard the pitter-patter, skid, and pitter-patter of footie panamas approaching. In the doorway appeared a sleepy eyed boy of five... OK, five and a half. His bossy baby sister of three peeked around his shoulder. Robert was content to nestle himself into my lap with over emphasized crash sound that he loved to make and stared out the window. Sierra was having none of that, and apparently none of this, or anything else either. I tried to coax her into my available side.

Nope.

"What baby girl?” I desperately searched her scowling face for some clue. 

Silence surrounded her increasingly stern look of dissatisfaction. Remembering that she was a "show me girl" rather than a "tell me girl" in the morning, I moved Robert aside, stood, and took her hand. She lead me a few steps and then in a surprising burst of speed circled back and sat directly on Robert’s head. Robert protested and struggled to get his petulant sister off of him. This kind of antic was how Sierra typically started her day. The minor melee ended in a victorious big brother dealing out a harsh walking away to the toy box. Sierra defeated, claimed my goose down feather-filled command nest and evicted her brother simultaneously.

Robert pulled out trucks and cars from the toy box and began vvvvroooming them around the living room carpet. I retired to my desktop computer and ink jetted fanged seal creation into 8½” x 11” life. After cutting eye slots and a bit of girding with tape and string, I donned the fanged seal helm over my face. Perfect. I felt much safer and far more attractive. I sat at my desk waiting for the kids to notice. Minutes passed.

Long, slowing minutes passed.  

Creeping, agonizing minutes dragged by me like crippled slugs.

Any minute now, at least one of the kids would look up and see me.

Any minute. 

Any fricken’ minute.

Fine.... I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

I tapped the desk.

Nothing. 

I slammed a drawer. Sierra started crying, then collapsed face forward into her goose down feather-filled princess flower something. Robert ran to her and soothingly said, "See-air-wah, don't cry. It's A-Kay. It's A-kay." I stood up and came to her aid, as well.  Robert and I calmed and cooed Sierra, who continued to sob miserably into the pile of goose down feather-filled flying flower whatever.  Try as I might, Robert would not look my way. He focused on the blubbering baby sister and I was too, kind of. Then, Robert caught a glimpse of my fanged masterpiece's awesomeness and was instantly terrified by the menacing sight. Robert reflexively trembled in hysterical laughter. He laughed, I laughed, and Sierra sobbed less intently. Finally, she couldn't resist looking any longer. She was transfixed in dread and roared her approval, "Rrrrrarrr!" The sound she imagined anything with fangs would make. The living room exploded in fear driven, pull-ups wetting, raucous laughter.

Laughter, that ended quickly when the deafening snarls of the angry mommy dragon echoed through the room, ”What the hell... (mumble, mumble)... knock it off... (more irate, indecipherable syllables)... Where’s the Goddamn blanket?"

This was the real test... Fanged Baby Seal vs. Angry Mommy Dragon.

The kids fell silent and looked anxiously up the stairs where the profanity spewing dragon would emerge from her lair. I crept silently into a good ambush position behind the wall. As the Dragon sleepily, but menacingly, shuffled into the living room, I pounced. The flash of seven-inch micro-serrated baby seal fangs ripped through the suspense filled air with a defiant "Grrrrr!" The sound that I imagined anything with fangs would make. At once, the Angry Mommy Dragon was startled into annoyance and mortally unimpressed. Given the opportunity, she would have surely sat directly on my head. Like mother, like daughter.

                                 

Alas, my first milestone in defensive seal physiology technology had ended in an abject failure, a glorious but abject failure. If fangs could only entertain small children and annoy an angry young mommy dragon, what chance could it stand against a Marmot wearing, snowshoe treading, seal clubbing Viking son of a bitch?

Back to the drinking drawing board.