Oh Dearie Dearie Me
Time to confess.

Osok Junior. A strapping (enormous) 4 year old, with the graceful moves of an epileptic Michael J Fox, the subtlety of a B-52 strike and the food intake requirements of a medium to large wildebeest.

Now we'd been really happy parents when Junior showed little interest in sweeties, preferring fruit and for some reason celery.

Basking in middle-class righteousness, as the Haribo-Addled HyperActive Wee Shits (TM applied for) ran riot around us.

And then, he started going to birthday parties. Specifically the ones organised at play barns by competitive mummies. And he'd get a party bag like all the rest, and sweeties and so forth.

Now junior absolutely MUST burn off the energy that day or there's hell to pay. The angelic blue-eyed curly headed blond child turns into the sprog from the Exorcist, albeit without the Crucifix bit. So far.

So if sugary crap has been ingested, a few swift gallops in the park are a matter of national importance.

Now, there are two things that will send him absolutely 100% batshit crazy, bouncing off the walls like a pingpong ball.

The first is a strawberry smoothie.

Specifically (if you know Chester) the ones sold in the Grosvenor Precinct. The walk back to City Road, being towed along by a waist-high demonic chimpanzee, alternating cries of WHHHAAARRRRGGGHH at stray pigeons and aggressive dogs with snatches of Roary the Racing Car lyrics at full volume, is an experience the memory of which still makes me wince.

The other is ice-cream.

Now, being such a cool chappie, B3tan, down wiv da yoof and all that, I decided that it would be terribly ironic, possibly urban-myffic, to tell him the old porkie about the ice-cream van playing the music when they were empty. Cue knowing snigger etc etc.

He believed me. He still does.

I'm going to look like the biggest twat in the Western Hemisphere when he tells this one at school. Teachers will sneer at me for being a tightwad, the mummy-mafia will rattle their jewellery at me in derision, and the husbands...won't be there.

And my wife teaches at the same school. She'll come home one day and hit me so hard in the genitals that I'll be the only man ever to be admitted to the Genito-Urinary and Ear Nose & Throat Wards simultaneously.

So, taking a deep breath, I admit my sin to She Who Must Be Ignored.

"Oh, I used to believe that"

And there we have it. Proof that Gullibility* is hereditary.









*or the 'Fuckwit Gene' as I referred to it until a sudden sharp pain persuaded me to change my mind.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Sat 23 Aug 2008, 16:25, 4 replies)

you, sir,
are a great dad!
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 23 Aug 2008, 19:37, closed)

woot
you live in chester? cool, have you found lately the subways havent been smelling of tramp wee? they have even put art work up in em.
(Serbitar Has a furry shit canon called Whitey., Sun 24 Aug 2008, 1:29, closed)

The Fuckwit Gene
Saved the best till last there.
A new classic.
*click*
(UXB you said it man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus, Sun 24 Aug 2008, 3:06, closed)

I feel your pain
My nephew does the same, going mental over specific sugary stuff. Thankfully he's not come to stay with me yet, otherwise there'll be two kids going off the walls on the way back from Grosvenor precinct. Still, I might send the little sod for a jog around the Rows and back to the uni for fun.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Sun 24 Aug 2008, 13:30, closed)