Mr. Butler’s World: Episode IVHi, I'm Mr. Butler. For those of you who don't know who I am, please refer to my previous posts by searching my mommy's blog for the words "Mr. Butler's World." I would provide links if I could, but I'm only three, and despite my advanced vocabulary, I am computer illiterate. Onward then.
I got up in this morning really early because I had a bad dream about some man with a head like a big, round ball.
Mommy was talking at the TV last night at that man, and called him a lot of naughty names. I think his real name is The Fat Robertson or something.
Anyway, I got up really early. It was fifteen o’clock, and it was dark, but I went pee-pee in my Pull-Ups a little, which was very uncomfortable, and I desperately wanted a peanut butter sandwich, so I made my way through the dark, scary house and woke Mommy up. She seemed angry and told me to go back to sleep. I, of course, did not. I felt that Mommy was wrong in not rising immediately to my demands, but I only screamed and punched her door for free minutes or so. I’m proud that I am able to control my tantrums. That must mean I’m becoming a big boy, which is a good thing. Mommy says that big boys get to go to school and have Nemos that won’t die, because big boys don’t go pee-pee and poopy in their Pull-Ups, so the teachers won’t get mad, and big boys don’t put Doritos in fish bowls and kill Nemos.
Yeah. And I watched cartoons until Mommy and Daddy finally woke up.
I tried to tell Mommy about my bad dream about The Fat Robertson, but all she said was “Oh, honey, there’s no such thing as ball-headed monsters.” As usual, she just didn’t understand. Seems to me that grown-ups understand very little.
Sometimes I wonder about things. I wonder if The Fat Robertson has a little boy, and if the little boy has a big ball head, too. Is The Fat Robertson nice to his little boy? Does The Fat Robertson tell big stories to scare his little boy like he does to other people?
Sometimes I tell big stories, but only if I really need to. Say I feel lonely, or bored, perhaps confused about something abstract that presented itself to me during the day, and my brain starts to hurt. I will tell a big story to make Mommy feel sorry, like the time I told her that there was a sad mousie named Cutie Nose in my tummy when there really wasn’t, and she picked me up regardless of my heavy thighs that put a strain on her back, and she kissed my head and pretended to bite my fatty arms. I liked that.
I wonder if The Fat Robertson tells big stories because he is confused, too.