Saturday, September 10, 2011


It’s official: I am now less mature than my 13-year-old son. The following pieces of dialogue should be enough to convince you.

My Son: Hey Dad, what’s for dinner tonight?
Me: I believe your mother said we are having poop.

Son: Dad, you’ll never guess what this kid did at school today.
Me: Pooped in his pants?
Son: No.
Me: Threw up?
Son: No. Come on, Dad.
Me: Well, then I really don’t care.

Son: Dad, how come the dog smells like Cheerios?
Me: Because I gave her some earlier and she just farted.
Wife: Get a life, will you?

Son: Hey Dad, do we have anything for lunch?
Me: I think there’s a carton of poop in the fridge.
Son: No, seriously.
Me: I’m just kidding. There’s also a jar of pee.