The Kid Stays In The Picture, His Dad Can Eat It
President Bush 2: Son Of Ridicula, nominated John G. Roberts, Jr. for Supreme Court justice sometime in the past few weeks. I don't watch much news unless I'm on it. So John G. Roberts, Jr., who may be even whiter than his name belies, brings his family to the White House for the announcement by W. of John G. Roberts, Jr.'s nomination.
The nation that kind of cares watches as the Prez recites what is written for him on a Kid's Menu from Air Force One (re-named Air Force Fun on Saturdays). And as John G. Roberts, Jr. stands near the 6th Most Powerful Man in the Nation (behind Jordan, Dr. Phil, and the alien controlling Cheney's pacemaker -tie- Tom Cruise, and whomever has Lance Armstrong's preserved jingler), Robert's son starts GOING FOR IT!
YOU WANT A HERO, YOU F*CKING GOT A HERO
Let's go over this picture, clockwise.
Left to right, dad's trying to keep his composure. He's realizing that he can't do the normal beating of the boy on TV, even if the President would be cheering him on, but he's planning a good guilt trip the boy will take with him into his career as a GloryHole. Daddy John's got a sort of sick pride in the boy, and likes that he's rambunctious enough to off-set the queer saddle shoes.
W., well, he may be oblivious. It's not uncommon for him to blank out when kids fidget, if you remember story-time on that fateful September morning. The script doesn't say anything about acknowledging child-like, gleeful seizures, so words words words "say, I sure could go for a twirl myself right now."
Wifey's mortified. That boy would be stifling sobs right now if it weren't for the 3 Xanax she chewed down with the mimosa. She can't even look at what her loins have produced. She's either counting backwards from 10, or trying to remember the name of that homeless man she gave a dollar to in hopes of plotting a child abuction. "the code word is... damn him... the code word is FootLoose."
The daughter's got a death-grip on mom, trying to kill little John with her thoughts, knowing that if she so much as sighed she'd get a Richter-scale shaking. This is one moment that will be replayed when she's found at a party with a joint and 4 hickeys, two from her gym teacher, Ms. Danskin.
And finally, our Protagonist, Little John. Crunkin' the conference up like it ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' but sugar and a Little Titans marathon. He's a mascara smudge and tear-drop away from the first-ever televised Honky Krumpin'. And that soundtrack that kids have when they are in the flow, oh man:
"My dad, is the KING and my sister is a FART, and my mom is a BRAT, and I can DANCE like a ROBOT and a ROBOT goes like THIS and I FART and my sister SMELLS it because she is a FART BRAT and I go pee on the CAT that my sister cannot HAVE because Daddy ran it OVER in the car that Mom THREW UP inside, after all that JUICE at Uncle DAN's party farty farty fart fart BUTT BOOBS..." (to the bridge)
Unhinged, unsolicited, unconscious. The kid's got style. Rock on, little weirdo. You may never be able to drive a car or understand why your first family left you at a Toys R Us, but I'm in your corner. I hope your dad gets the appointment, and I hope you dance so well that someday you get Britney Spears' sister pregnant.
I hope you dance.
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the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
The nation that kind of cares watches as the Prez recites what is written for him on a Kid's Menu from Air Force One (re-named Air Force Fun on Saturdays). And as John G. Roberts, Jr. stands near the 6th Most Powerful Man in the Nation (behind Jordan, Dr. Phil, and the alien controlling Cheney's pacemaker -tie- Tom Cruise, and whomever has Lance Armstrong's preserved jingler), Robert's son starts GOING FOR IT!
YOU WANT A HERO, YOU F*CKING GOT A HERO
Let's go over this picture, clockwise.
Left to right, dad's trying to keep his composure. He's realizing that he can't do the normal beating of the boy on TV, even if the President would be cheering him on, but he's planning a good guilt trip the boy will take with him into his career as a GloryHole. Daddy John's got a sort of sick pride in the boy, and likes that he's rambunctious enough to off-set the queer saddle shoes.
W., well, he may be oblivious. It's not uncommon for him to blank out when kids fidget, if you remember story-time on that fateful September morning. The script doesn't say anything about acknowledging child-like, gleeful seizures, so words words words "say, I sure could go for a twirl myself right now."
Wifey's mortified. That boy would be stifling sobs right now if it weren't for the 3 Xanax she chewed down with the mimosa. She can't even look at what her loins have produced. She's either counting backwards from 10, or trying to remember the name of that homeless man she gave a dollar to in hopes of plotting a child abuction. "the code word is... damn him... the code word is FootLoose."
The daughter's got a death-grip on mom, trying to kill little John with her thoughts, knowing that if she so much as sighed she'd get a Richter-scale shaking. This is one moment that will be replayed when she's found at a party with a joint and 4 hickeys, two from her gym teacher, Ms. Danskin.
And finally, our Protagonist, Little John. Crunkin' the conference up like it ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' but sugar and a Little Titans marathon. He's a mascara smudge and tear-drop away from the first-ever televised Honky Krumpin'. And that soundtrack that kids have when they are in the flow, oh man:
"My dad, is the KING and my sister is a FART, and my mom is a BRAT, and I can DANCE like a ROBOT and a ROBOT goes like THIS and I FART and my sister SMELLS it because she is a FART BRAT and I go pee on the CAT that my sister cannot HAVE because Daddy ran it OVER in the car that Mom THREW UP inside, after all that JUICE at Uncle DAN's party farty farty fart fart BUTT BOOBS..." (to the bridge)
Unhinged, unsolicited, unconscious. The kid's got style. Rock on, little weirdo. You may never be able to drive a car or understand why your first family left you at a Toys R Us, but I'm in your corner. I hope your dad gets the appointment, and I hope you dance so well that someday you get Britney Spears' sister pregnant.
I hope you dance.
============
the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
