ssǝɹddns ɹou ɹɐǝɟ ɹǝɥʇıǝu plnoʍ ʎʇǝıɔos ǝǝɹɟ ʎlnɹʇ ɐ ʇɐɥʇ ƃuıʇnɔolɯnɔɹıɔ suıɐʇuoɔ ǝʇıs sıɥʇ

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Zach Attack: 8-years-old

So I survived the Great Heat Storm of 2011, only to find myself sitting in direct sunlight at a folding table in my son's back yard yesterday. Sitting with a well-guarded twelve-pack, I was.

We came together to celebrate Zach's arrival at the eighth anniversary of his birth.

Raise 'em right, no?
As you can discern from the cake, Zach is being raised to eschew those overpaid, overrated mercenaries from Philthydumpia. In addition to the most wonderful of cakes, he also received an Atlanta Braves ball cap. And he couldn't have been happier being that he is being prepped to burst onto the Little League scene in 2012, much like his father and his aunt did back in the day.  

I know, I know. Spare me the emails. I know we're supposed to limit his athletic pursuits to the fast-imploding world's lame game of But, we can afford more than one ball and a grassy knoll, so save that sleep-inducing soccer gibberish for the emaciated kids in Somalia.

In fact, not only can we afford more than one ball, my biggest present to Zach was a scaled-down basketball hoop. Actually, I envision not only Zach becoming quite adept at basketball, but both of his cantankerous brothers, too. Say what you want about the many Cours that have been inflicted upon the world by none other than me, but not a single one of us is lacking in any way for any God-given physical abilities.

You want to take us on at wiffleball?

Yeah! That's what I thought, champ!

Jeremy has the soft touch
Again, I survived the Great Heat Storm of 2011, only to find myself eating more heat all day long on my day off. Thing is, I'd eat most anything if it would guarantee the happiness of my grandchildren.


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