Me: "Captain America, you need to go to the bathroom before you go to bed."
Captain America: "But it's not telling me."
Me: "Then you tell it. You SHOW that turd who's boss!
(moments pass while realization dawns of what I just said)
Me: "You probably shouldn't repeat that."
The varmints and I took a walk to the pond tonight while John was at a meeting learning how to be a better husband and father. Hint: fewer meetings would be cool. Ha! I kid. Except for the kidding part. Captain America and The Hulk rode their bikes down and pestered some unknown men who were fishing (stranger what now?), and when Superman and Pinga and I arrived, Superman immediately hung his feet over the culvert and lost his flip flop in the drink.
So then Captain America was our hero and saved the shoe from causing Superman to get spanked and have to wear girl shoes from the D.I. I believe in tough love.
Those blackish birds are coots. They make noises that sound like a horse farting. Hey, I calls 'em like I sees 'em.
This morning Captain America went into the chicken coop and got the eggs (which is The Hulk's job) and stuck them in a big wet piece of chicken poop. So I made him wash them off, and I figure, if he likes poop so much, then he can go clean both of the bathrooms.
*Edited to add: Speaking of poop, I just gave Pinga a bath, and she was righteous enough to blast a dookie right in the tub. I sort of wish Richard had been here to pick it up with his bare hands and show it to her. Because babies are so curious!
Our clean house, and if you don't think I'm also going to post this on the other blog to maximize the exposure of how that one time our house was realreal clean, then you don't know me very well. 
My cute sister Justine, who's single, fellas. 
My angel mother made me the Pumpkin Spice Cake, and it was superb. And observe the totally respectable amount of candles! 
Pinga and I are really getting into it. It's my turdy-turd birthday on Thursday! I have been waiting almost thirty-three years to say that. There will be cake. I'm weighing Italian Cream Cake against Best Birthday Cake, but I'll be honest, that Best Birthday Cake looks suspiciously dry, which I WILL NOT PERMIT. And maybe the Italian Cream Cake will be nasty, since I'm usually not a fan of nutty inclusions. Carrot cake? Pumpkin Spice Cake? Chocolate Blackout Cake? The decisions!
Anyway, please come to our modified rubbish tip and celebrate with us on Thursday night at about six, if you wish. We welcome visitors.
We had good times at the Herd Family Reunion, aside from me probably infecting everyone with strep throat. There was shooting and fishing and riding of motorized vehicles and eating and singing and dancing and Muddy Buddies (sorry we ate all your treats, Myerses) and playing in the dirt and general merriment. The kids all got along really well and formed their own little Lord of the Flies colony before we were done. So resourceful!
In other news, Pinga ate a banana.
And Superman came running up to John and said, "Dad! Dad! Look at my hooker!"
Context is everything.
Our Anniversary of Telling King George Where He Can Shove It was pretty low-key, because we were busy refinishing the office floor, so we can turn it into Pinga's bedroom. It's such a beautiful room with huge windows that it seems a pity to have it be the Shame Hiding Hole. No, far better to have the shame hole out where everyone can see it all the time! And then we can have the computer in a public place and keep better tabs on how well our children are doing at stealing identities and hacking into the CIA's database.
Friday night we hit the tail end of a cookout at John's parents' with the most amazing salmon ever that I made a disgusting pig of myself about. Then we watched the LAMEST fireworks show I've ever seen outside of my own driveway. Boo, Fireworks West! How is it that Neil Diamond isn't good enough to get his whole song played, but redneck after redneck after redneck got to wax on about how this country is just real nice? I'm still mad about it. No Tchaikovsky, no Copeland? WHO IS RUNNING THIS PLACE? Saturday morning we got together at Kelly's house and had a scrumptious breakfast with fruit, two pork products, and THREE kinds of fried batter. To make sure we were celebrating America we made enough food to send us all into a diabetic coma. Woo!
Here are the pictures from the Hyrum parade, at which John saw a 2-year-old baby get clocked by a thrown punch bottle from Ridley's Market. Sweet!
