Don't trust the Joker

It was shortbread, and it was quite good. Everyone said so. And by the way, Karyl Bannister's shortbread recipe makes eight thousand cookies. We will have no more need of cookies until the next inauguration.

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The boy has mastered the form of the knock-knock joke, which would be heartening and delightful, except that he's a little looser on the content. I keep trying to think of real knock-knock jokes to knock his socks off, but all the ones I remember that are even worth telling

Knock-knock!
Who's there?
Sam & Janet!
Sam & Janet who?
(sing) Sam and Janet evening, love will surely find you ...

are either clever or dated, or both, and what, you think my three-year-old wunderkind won't get the South Pacific reference?

His, though, come off as Dada experiments, like some deranged Turing machine spitting out sonnets that have fourteen lines, all right, and rhyme, but are just lists of taxonomic classifications.*

Knock-knock!
Who's there?
Pillow!
Pillow who?
Pillow eye!


Knock-knock!
Who's there?
Pillow!
Pillow who?
Pillow gee gah!

This is followed by a programmatic chuckle - he he he hu - that's so machinelike, and so consistent, it should almost be pasted in as part of the delivery. Now, these two are the classics of the genre, and are the overture – like the slide guitar intro to the Looney tunes theme, they signify that the fun is really about to begin. After those two, the dam bursts.


Knock-knock!
Who's there?
Pala!
Pala who?
Pala gom be da do bo bo zuuu!


Knock-knock!
Who's there?
Car!
who?
Carny boody boody boody boody FOM! He he he hu!


Knock-knock!
Please stop! These jokes aren't funny!
Knock-knock!
They aren't even jokes!
I said Knock-knock!
Who's there?
Pillow!
Pillow who?
Pillow pillow mowmowmowmowmow ba! He he he hu!


*I hereby solicit, and will pay one dollar for, a rhyming fourteen-line sonnet composed of taxonomic classifications.


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Despite the title of the forum, and the amount of attention and effort we all expend on toilet functions, I have tried to be merciful to you, Dear Reader, and keep mentions brief and sporting. Last night She made a splendid quiche employing Salmon Bits (don't you love it? It sounds made up, but there it sits on the grocery shelf: Salmon Bits; I mean, this stuff just writes itself), and we were sitting down to a very civilized meal. (Very Civilized, in our house, tends to mean Both Seated At Once. Just plain Civilized means Not Actively Walking Around While Eating. Uncivilized you don't want to see.) Declan announced that he had to make poopy. Mother wearily suggested the potty. And he agreed! Do you know that this means? What if the Joker announced plans to make a fortune, and Batman suggested he do it by means of no-load high-yield mutual funds, and the Joker agreed?! Headlines! And up he sat! And he squeezed out a little memento, and it sank, and was flushed! And She gave him a cookie, and a toy, and darn near wiped away a tear as she asked me if I appreciated the import of this moment. And I said yes, I do, but I also read enough Detective Comics, as a yoot, to internalize an important lesson.

Don't trust the Joker.

One slice of quiche later, he had put on a diaper, deposited his real load there, where it didn't fit, spilled out onto his legs, which he didn't like, so he walked around, dropping poop all over the rug, where Amy saw it and shrieked, and I, in trying to keep The Kid out of the room, unknowingly stepped in a camouflaged turd and tracked it into the kitchen and living room.

Now that's Uncivilized.

Note to future Declan, reading this on archive.org: Sorry about this. But you pushed me to it..