My Mack Daddy Baby KingI wish my webcam wasn’t broken. I so want to show you my boy, my Mr. Butler (to my newer readers, Mr. Butler is a name that came out of thin air -- I know of no Butlers, nor does my son condone being called Mr. Butler). He is also known as Poppy, Papa, Wiener-Roaster, Phlump, Chicken-Pee, and Chumpie-Blump, all equally hated by him.
He is, without a doubt, the cutest little man ever to walk the earth. Oh, I realize that everyone thinks their own children are the cutest ever, but I’m telling you now -- Mr. Butler would kick your kids’ asses in the cute department.
Allow me the honor of describing Mr. Butler, of painting a Butler picture so Butlerish, you’ll want to trade your kid in for mine. So imagine this (be prepared to feel ashamed that your child isn’t as cute as Mr. Butler):
Thirty-five months old, Mr. Butler is approximately two feet all, weighs in at a hefty 40 pounds, all muscle, with wide linebacker shoulders, and huge thighs of doughy delight that shake with each slap of his adorable, fat, Fred Flintstone feet. Blonde, devastatingly so, with blue-gray eyes that are fringed with lashes so golden, so long, they cause serious envy in most grown women. My boy could make Dick Cheney weep with love.
Mr. Butler enjoys the ladies, and makes no secret of that fact. In his short time here on earth, he has amassed a harem to rival that of Hugh Hefner’s. One look at my boy, and, if you’re of the female persuasion, you will completely understand how the legend of Mr. Butler came to be. In certain circles, Mr. Butler is known as MDBK (Mack Daddy Baby King). Despite the adoration, Mr. Butler remains humble, and he truly thrives on every single kiss and hug he receives. He is quick to compliment, oftentimes sniffing a lady’s hair or made-up face and exclaiming, “You smell good. I like your smell.”
They can be dangerous, those compliments of his; many women have collapsed in a heap of glorious wonder over his genuine appreciation. One woman, a friend of mine who’d not yet experienced the charms of my boy -- let’s call her “Joan” -- actually melted after Mr. Butler whispered in her ear, “I like your necklace -- can I borrow it?” after which he said, “Your ear smells good. I like your ear.” When I say “melted,” I mean that literally. Joan slid from her chair, her body collapsing onto itself like an accordian, her legs dissolving first, then her torso, then, finally, her head. There was a pool of Joan shimmering on my kitchen floor for two whole days, which, I must say, was a bit of a nuisance. The cat repeatedly scratched at the tile in her ever hopeful attempts at covering the unsightly mess. We, my husband, kids and I, all had a good laugh over that.
Not only does Mr. Butler compliment to the point of liquefying ladies, he’s also capable of causing grown men to make cooing sounds in his presence. My husband will attest to that. Many a time, my boy has turned the manliest of men into simpering pansy-asses just by smiling his gap-toothed smile, flashing his almost-but-not-quite-deep-enough-to-be- called-dimples dimples and uttering “Are you Spiderman? Yeah, you are.”
They float...they all float.
I witnessed such a pansification just this morning. It was, oh, around 6:00 a.m., when Mr. Butler entered the living room where my husband was having his coffee and watching the news. Mr. Butler was upset, kept saying “I had a bad dream!” but wouldn’t elaborate. Finally, after I’d woken to his sweet screeches of woe and joined them, Mr. Butler explained to us that “There were big cups there, but they were empty!” So Lar said, “Empty?” And Mr. Butler said, “Yes! There was no pop in them! No pop!” Then he laid his head on Lar’s chest and moaned, “It was terrible!”
I swear to Christ that Lar grew boobs right then, big, bodacious 38 D’s. His voice became high-pitched, babyish, like Anna Nicole Smith’s only more sickening, and he batted his eyelashes and swooned as he said, “Awwwww! Big boy had a bad dream?” over and over again until I threw up in my coffee mug.
No exaggeration here, folks.
You just wait until I buy a new webcam, dammit. You’ll see then. You will all see.