the morningstar farms incident

Buster is a slab of a child, a barrel-chested boy of 2. Fresh from the bath and still undiapered he looks like he's been sculpted from butter: smooth, thick, uniformly solid.

He rolls out of tumbles with a smile. He's a puppy: friendly, clumsy, with big paws and a passion for gnawing wood.

(paws pictured actual size
door-sized mitts on this one
kid's got prospects
in fly swatting
gonna be the lebron
of smacking flies.)

When he runs, he holds his arms out behind him, like Iron Man. Usually, he roars.


Buster made "a new friend." That's how he saw it, anyway.

Let's call this kid Morningstar Farms, because he resembled Chicken, but was definitely not Chicken.

Buster was running on the gymnastics mat, arms held out behind him, roaring.
You know, like you do in gymnastics class.
He spotted Morningstar Farms.
His trajectory shifted.


Real quick, let's go on a journey.

Imagine you're at Starbucks, waiting for your latte.
Standard Tuesday.
Imagine, if you will, turning to see a thick, curly-headed man in a dinosaur shirt running straight toward you with his arms thrust out behind him like Iron Man.


Yeah, Morningstar Farms crapped his pants too.

Buster sacked the boy. I saw his feet leave the ground. Buster pinned Morningstar Farms with his ham hands, laughed a low, gravelly, smoker's "Hehehe," and proceeded to devour his intestines.

(FYI if you've never had a toddler devour your intestines, it consists of him rubbing his face on your belly, going NOMNOMNOM.)

MF had the eyes of a poet and the defensive capabilities of a deaf newborn kitten. Poor kid never had a chance.

And now Buster had acquired a taste for Morningstar Farms.

No matter how close I was to Buster, I couldn't keep my kid's meathooks off. At one point I had Buster LITERALLY IN MY HAND and looked down to see him strangling Morningstar Farms with the collar of his own shirt.

Then... Buster bit him.

At the shriek I turned around to see Buster's open mouth pressed against MF's leg. His jaw flexed.

He must've tasted like Chicken, too.

Mortified, I apologized to the boy's mother, who said, "Meh, you can barely see the tooth marks."

I held Buster by the shoulders and said, "Biting is NEVER OKAY. NEVER. You hurt your friend. Look how sad he is. Can you go check on him please?"

Buster stalked over, dropped a heavy hand on Morningstar Farms' shoulder. I held my breath.

He leaned into the boy, smiling, teeth dangling in the cave of his mouth like white bats, and spoke into his ear:




Word Count: 420

I'll write about why it's more than 300 tomorrow okay?


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