Archive - April 2007


Cutterisms

 

       Well, we’ve been up and running for a while now, and I’ve yet to regale you with stories of my adorable children.  That changes today.  Now, wait.  Don’t go anywhere just yet.  You’ve got to trust me on this one.  This won’t be your standard “My kid did the cutest thing in the sandbox the other day” episode.  Everyone hates those.  So, please bear with me.  Have I ever let you down before?

       That was rhetorical people!  Jeez!

       First, let me explain just how cute my kids are.  On the Jessica Scale (Patent Pending), I’d say they rank about a…  What?  What’s the Jessica Scale (Patent Pending)?  Well, I’m glad you asked.  I grew tired of struggling with the whole “on a scale of 1 to 10” nonsense, so I created the Jessica Scale (Patent Pending).  You rate your subject by referring to a Jessica.  Here’s the breakdown, from Lowest (Least Cute) to Highest (Cutest).

       Jessica Simpson

       Sarah JESSICA Parker

       Jessica Tandy

       Jessica Rabbit

       Jessica Biel

       Jessica Alba

       I know that’s only six, and not your usual ten, but who the hell really uses 4-7 anyway.  Only things that are really cute, or really ugly, deserve to be ranked.  Everyone knows that.  Now, before anyone starts to complain, let me explain some things.

       Alba over Biel?  Yeah, this was a tough one.  I gave the nod to Alba based on the Accessibility Quotient.  She’s dating a Director’s Assistant, for God’s sake.  Do you know what Director’s Assistant means when translated from Hollywood to English?  Personal Bitch.  If Jessica Alba is willing to date someone who makes his living fetching lattes and being the victim of tyrannical rampages, then I definitely have a shot.

       Simpson at the bottom?  Sure, you could argue that Parker is uglier than Simpson (read: has smaller boobs).  And you might win, or lose.  I’m not sure which.  But the Accessibility Quotient comes into play again.  Namely in that, while Jessica Simpson seems pretty accessible, it's only in the same way that herpes is accessible.  Oh sure, you COULD go right out and get it, but why the hell would you?

       So, how cute are my kids?  They rank at an underwear-only pillow fight between Biel and Alba with Simpson in the background, looking forlorn as she’s groped by Bea Arthur. 

       My five-year-old, Cutter, is already funnier than I am (not to mention cooler and smarter).  I only have a few years left to make a name for myself as a renowned humorist, because he could take it all away without even trying.

       When he was three, my wife decided it was time to test his knowledge on the difference between boys and girls.  Did he know the difference, she asked.  “Yes, Mommy.”  And what is the difference?  “Girls have to go to work.”

        God bless that kid.  And if anybody tells him otherwise, I’ll kill ‘em.

       At four, we were riding in the car, giving examples of homonyms.  (I know.  But I swear it was his idea.)  He said, “I’ve got one.  There’s chicken like at a farm, and chicken like you eat.”  Now I was stuck.  Oh sure, I could lie and tell him good job.  I’m not averse to lying to my children.  They’re too good at finding loopholes and punching holes in your logic.  So you’re damn right I’ll resort to the ole “Because if you don’t Santa will kill a puppy” line.  But I decided to tell him the truth.  In the brief silence that followed, I envisioned the information turning him off chicken, and hence, chicken tenders, thereby eliminating 74.6 percent of his diet.  He finally spoke up.  “Hmm.”  He said.  “That’s weird.”  And it is weird.

       And last (for this column anyway) but not least, at age five, at dinner.  He steers the conversation toward eating poop.  Remarkably, I can’t recall how he managed it, but if you happen to have a five-year-old boy, this isn’t the slightest bit surprising.  Summoning all my fatherly wisdom, and recognizing a chance to turn this into a broader life lesson, I said, “I don’t think you should eat anything that you flush.”

       Cutter looks up at me, astounded by my clearly superior intellect.

       “You eat dead fish don’t you?”

       Touché, my son.  Touché. 


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