space monkey pants » nugget

baby-blogging

sween — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 16:51:07 +0000

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.

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

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

sween — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 18:07:13 +0000

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

sween — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 15:41:35 +0000

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!

sween — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 15:58:49 +0000

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

I present you with Exhibit A:

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

sween — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 02:33:05 +0000

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:

I think he’s winning.