Thursday, March 13, 2008

Two Drunken Frat Boys

Evidently my lovely and talented sister is just so filled with feminine pulchritude that she turns small boys into gibbering fools a la 1987 in the basement of Alpha Delta Phi. We called her tonight, thinking that she would appreciate hearing from her sweet nephews.

They were calm as the phone was ringing, but as soon as they heard her voice they seemed to snap. The elder began to shriek like a wounded hyena, and ran straight into the other one. "Doodybutt! Poopyhead!" they both began to yell. Then they ricocheted off each other and off the walls and furniture, all the time screaming and bellowing like dervishes mad for the kill.

As their auntie tried to speak to the boys, one of them seized the phone from me, tore a piece off it with what I think may have been his teeth, and hurled it across the room. He then fell to the floor and writhed around while making a "googa-booga" sound. I tried to lunge for the phone but they leaped on me with their terrible claws, head-butting and howling.

I finally reached the phone where it lay and managed to gasp a goodbye and hang up. I turned around to see that my eldest child had pulled his pants down to his ankles and was spinning around in a circle shouting "Winkie! Winkie!"

The little one's eyes lit up. He also yanked down his pants and diaper, ran a few paces, and fell flat on his face. He recovered quickly, sprang up, and--with a beatific smile--urinated right on our nicest carpet.

3 comments:

Jack Silbert said...

They simply MUST come to Hoboken next fake St. Patrick's Day!

Knickerbocker said...

Two words for you:

Milk Pong.

Anonymous said...

Dear Pony,

Oops!
Thank Gawd you had your wretched, crass, ill-behaved and peculiar friends before you had children! Come now; can any of this be a surprise? One is reminded of the Two Bobs at Schofield Cove, or Dickie B. at Picnci XXXV, or perhaps the basement of Big Pink after a gig. But piddling on the Persian? Good Lord, even we drew the line at that! Harrumph! Ah, and it's a saint you are, me fine lady.

Yrs,
Still Not Spring in NH