From the lips of my sister and adopted by all in the family
I've got to get up at the butt-crack of dawn.
Chris gives old songs new lyrics. New words were given to the Diego Rescue Pack tune--
A poop attack
You better watch your backYou're gonna need some toilet paper for your butt-crack.
So really what chance do I have. Yesterday we were on our way to the library.
Momma (I know enough now to start praying at the first mmmm sound.)
Yes, I replied with great trepidation. I wanted to go to the library and knew we didn't have time for another Does-God-live-in-a-dark-and-gloomy-place conversation.
Will Daddy still be able to sing the butt-crack song in heaven?I don't know. (I wish for a certain answer, but how am I to know for sure that the One who created the man who writes such songs doesn't enjoy a good butt-crack lyric once in a while.)
Well, in her quite reasonable, perfectly logical voice, God doesn't have a problem with the butt-crack song. He just has a problem when we sing it too much and annoy our parents.
OK. Really, I ask, what else was there to say.
Besides after another conversation--
Your daddy is funny.
Yes, Daddy is funny. And Simon is funny. And I am funny some of the time. . . .After waiting till I was uncomfortable. What about me am I funny?
Without skipping a beat, No, Mommy, you're not funny.--
I don't think I have any authority on humor what-so-ever. (I console myself with the fact that when anything serious, sad, scary happens I am the one run to. Apparently non-funny parents are useful when the situation is dire.)