archive for the 'babies' category

baby-blogging

Seems my sisterwhoeatspoofortwo has set up a site for Field Marshal Noodles’ valet, in which she writes for the wee Nugget.

She asked me if this made her a Mommyblogger.

My response?

“No. Mommybloggers write as themselves. Not as their babies.

“Also, they swear.

“A lot.”

(Oh! You all know it’s true. Frighteningly true.)

So… how’s about y’all head on over? Say hi. Mess up the joint. Give it that “lived-in” look.

The Wee Nugget gets up in yo grill!

(No. You don’t need to take your shoes off. They’re cool.)

ADORABLE SOCK MONKEY NAMING CONTEST 2008: OUR WORK HERE IS DONE!

Well folks, it’s been a good run and we all deserve a grilled cheese sandwich and then a short nap.

The adorable no-named sock monkey is no more!

We have a WINNER!

May I present… NOODLES!

Or, “Mr. Noodles” to the more formally inclined.

Or “Field Marshall Noodles”, if he is your commanding officer in the Prussian army.

Either way… good work, peeps!

Grilled cheese ahoy!

ADORABLE SOCK MONKEY NAMING CONTEST 2008: STAGE TWO

Well, I have taken your humble suggestions, dumped them in a box, and with a Ragnarok-threatening SHAKE-SHAKE-SHAKE!… we are ready to roll!

WELCOME TO THUNDERDOME, BEETCHES!

Let the voting begin!

[poll=2]

Pssst! Don’t like any of these options? Leave yers in the comments!

ADORABLE SOCK MONKEY NAMING CONTEST 2008!

Neglected you may be, but duty calls, my pearl-extruding readers.

I present you with Exhibit A:

SOCK MONKEY!
clicken to embiggen

Items of note:

  • One nephew, resembling a 1920s speakeasy bouncer, sleeping
  • One sock monkey, resembling a 1920s speakeasy sock monkey, sleeping (with eyes open, like some sort of freaky wizard)

All in all, rather similar.

However, the sock monkey is lacking in one single regard — IT HAS NO NAME!

My sisterwhoeatspoofortwo has asked me to not use my own singular talents to come up with the perfect name for the sock monkey.

No… she asks YOU for YOUR help.

In this, her hour of darkest need, you can do no less.

You… can do no less.

[Genuflects out of room.]

verbiage: thumb tasting

Too full of ribs. Can’t speak. Food has moved past belly, broken into some form of meat mash, and filled all the nooks and crannies of my body. Honestly. If I cut my finger, pork would ooze out.

Mmmm. Appetizing.

My Father has hogged Command Central Monkey Pants all day — before and after supper time — hence the late hour and and my propensity to burp atomized meat particulates onto the monitor. My bad.

Please allow me to mollify your desperate yearnings for my concise and heartrending reflections on life in contemporary society (quick taste: “fluffy kittens = good; blood-drenched gila monsters = depends on situation”) with a brief glimpse into the world of competitive thumb tasting:

competitive thumb tasting

I think he’s winning.