The Gas Chronicles Part III…A Grandfather’s Revenge

If you’ve been reading the blog, you know that I (in a total last chance desperation move) taught the children to make fart noises the other day.  We’ve had a lot of fun with it, and the Rev reports that A. now produces loud blasts all on his own. I wondered why no one had thought of providing the children with instruction in the area of mouth farts before.  They LOVE it.

 Then this happened:

After completing swimming lessons, the noon feeding, and the nap (O’ nap, you are the light of my life, the torch I carry throughout the days, the hope that feeds my very soul, how I worship at thy feet, O’ most beauteous of hours) the Rev and I decided to take the children to a local cat show at a very fancy hotel downtown.  We loaded them up, and off we went.

It may seem strange that a chick like me would ever go to something like a cat show.  Taking care of small children has changed me, however, in ways both obvious and minute.  I now have an emergency diaper that I carry in my purse even when the children aren’t around.  The other day, A. dropped a heavy stool right on my big toe at the Science Museum and all I yelled was, “Eff…efff…fffffffuh,” rather than my habitual, “FUCKING CHRIST!”  I’m a stranger to myself.

Anyway, we rolled up to the cat show, managed to find the thing (it was on the third floor and there were elevator buttons that needed pushing), paid our entrance fees and walked into a room filled with the whitest people I have ever seen in my life – ANYWHERE.  I mean, the cat show crowd might have some competition on the paleness front in, say, Reykjavik,  but in South Texas these people looked like method actors auditioning to be the new Pillsbury Doughboy.  It was like Albino Land with 250 unilaterally pissed off cats. 

We walked around a little bit with A. securely strapped into his stroller (the Sticky Wheel 5000), and watched some of the cat judging.  Evidently, evaluating show kitties basically involves picking the cat up and stretching it out until it resembles a tube with ears and feet, and then putting it down and dangling a little sparkly pom pom thing in its face until kitty gets pissed off enough to hit it.  J. (the inveterate cat lover) was fascinated.  The Rev and I were appalled, but highly entertained.  Cat people are weird.

So, everything was going swimmingly until A. (who had the world’s crappiest view) realized that there were cats everywhere that needed to be grabbed RIGHT NOW!  We released the child from his bonds and turned him loose.  Two seconds later, he started sticking his pudgy little baby fingers in every cat cage, cruising for a nasty bite or scratch.  I told him, “No,” and he reacted in his usual A. fashion – he started screaming.  The Rev moved swiftly.  She grabbed a lollipop off of a nearby Humane Society table, unwrapped it, and shoved the sucker straight into A.’s gaping pie hole.  He got this really confused look on his face, stopped dead in his tracks, slurped, and then broke into a beaming smile.  “Yay,” I thought, “Way to go Rev!”  It took under a minute for the hydra of child happiness to raise its new head.  I think I’ve pointed out before that A. is an incredibly drool-y baby.  Well, once his salivary glands were activated (I’m convinced that this is his Wonder Twin power) the child became a baby geyser.  Rivulets of drool ran from his mouth, soaking the front of the brand new shirt we’d just changed him into.  He tried to put his hand in yet another cat enclosure, so I picked him up and ran him out of the show.  Baby spit oozed down my arms and dripped onto the floor in sticky, pendulous, globs.  I took him up and down the escalator a couple of times to make him less mad that he’d been banned from kitty hell, and then sat in a very nice chair with a panoramic ocean view, A. in my lap.  He kept drooling, having by now produced the approximate volume of the English Channel in spit, and I kept getting wetter and wetter.  A nice young couple came up the escalator. She had on a pretty green summer dress and was holding her beau’s hand and smiling.  “I used to be like you fuckers,” I thought hatefully, “You’d better lock that shit down, or this is what you’re getting.”  I grinned at A. and gave him a knee bounce.  He grinned back, his bottom lip laden with dribble, looking for all the world like a dam about to overflow. You could sense the burgeoning viscousity. Then he stuck out his tongue, and went, “PBBBBBBFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTT!!!” covering me from the top of my head to my waist in spittle.  I saw it coming.  I knew when the little pink tongue locked itself between his tiny teeth that he was going to mouth fart.  I had taught him the way of it, after all.  At that moment, my life became like a slow motion scene in a movie where people are leaping away from an explosion.  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I screamed, but too late.

I had nothing in my purse but the emergency diaper, and A. was still sitting on about 80% of his sucker.  I wiped us both off with the butt wrap, gave up, and walked back into the cat show.  I began to search for the Rev (who was wearing a hat that clacked with the shells of a multitude of murdered crustaceans).  Finally, we found her.  I must’ve looked like something out of the Black Lagoon.  I could feel my escaped hair sticking to my cheeks, and my shirt was plastered wetly to my chest.  “What happened?” she exclaimed.

“A. mouth farted,” I said. “Epically. Thanks for feeding him that sucker.”

My Holy Mother started laughing, slowly at first, and then with her hand over her mouth to mute the guffaws.  Tears streamed down her face.  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she choked out, feigning innocence.

“Whatever,” I said, strapping the baby snugly back into his cart.

“What a KEEE-UTE baby,” cooed a cat lady.

A started to struggle against his bonds, sensing the possibility of freedom and more suckers.

“Dude, you can’t be free! Quit it!”

“Yes, kiddo, you can’t be free, just like all the kitties!” said the cat lady cheerfully (in what I can only assume was a weird attempt at an assist).

“Actually, he can’t be free because I’m pretty sure he’d stick to the rug and we’d have to use adhesive remover and an industrial sized spatula to get him loose.”

“Ha ha ha,” the cat lady replied, “He certainly is a wet one.”

That was potentially the understatement of the decade.  The kid was a drool tsunami.  I did, however, finally figure out why no one ever taught him how to mouth fart.  Whoops!  I’m probably an asshole.


About rubberchickensociety

The Rubber Chicken Society is a loosely knit collective of free thinkers who support and enjoy chicken related humor.
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