Okay, I lied, he lost two teeth. Okay, I lied again, we know exactly where they are. They fell right the fuck out of his mouth; one a victim of Mister PBJ, in the kitchen, with a gob of peanut butter, and the other a victim of Miss Apple, on the Blue’s Clue’s plate, also in the kitchen.
The kitchen is a dangerous place to take your teeth into, these days, Watson.
The Tooth Fairy extorted us out of four shiny quarters last night (what, you only give them one? cheap fucker…) and she’s coming for payback again, tonight. We leave the Baggie with their ex chopper in it under their pillow, and replace it with The Baggie O’ Quarters. Imagine their surprise.
Nat looks like shit today. Like she stayed up most of the night waiting to spot the Tooth Fairy. John commences to snoring like a hog, and sleeping like a log, but Nat lurks, oh yes she does.
To no good effect, though, because the wife is A) not stupid and B) has to answer The Call Of The Bladder in the early AM (must be her prostate) and has programmed herself to do the tooth-switch at the crusty crack of dawn, when all good children have lost consciousness.
John alarumed me some, showing up at my elbow, blood drooling over his chin, when he should have been brain-deep in Dora. We have been sopping up his Special Sauce, here and there, off and on, all weekend. I get this odd craving for grenadine. Beware of ‘tards bearing teeth…
…okay, that’s just sick and wrong…Lord, I apologise…