Today, I went with my wife and 16-month-old daughter, E, to a live butterfly exhibit at the local museum. We do this quite often and it's always a hit, but today E got cranky. I coaxed a butterfly onto my finger and held it in front of E to cheer her up. She reached out and crushed the shit out of the motherfucker. My wife screamed as if our only child had just murdered someone. Just when I thought museum officials would descend upon us, we pried open our daughter's hand and the butterfly flitted away none the worse for wear. Black butterfly residue marked E's hand with the stain of guilt. We briskly fled the butterfly exhibit without apprehension. I laughed. E pouted. My wife wondered where we went wrong as parents to raise such a monster.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Please Hate Me
Well, I think I exhausted my stash of abandoned comic material. Back to sketchbook scribblings.
Today, I went with my wife and 16-month-old daughter, E, to a live butterfly exhibit at the local museum. We do this quite often and it's always a hit, but today E got cranky. I coaxed a butterfly onto my finger and held it in front of E to cheer her up. She reached out and crushed the shit out of the motherfucker. My wife screamed as if our only child had just murdered someone. Just when I thought museum officials would descend upon us, we pried open our daughter's hand and the butterfly flitted away none the worse for wear. Black butterfly residue marked E's hand with the stain of guilt. We briskly fled the butterfly exhibit without apprehension. I laughed. E pouted. My wife wondered where we went wrong as parents to raise such a monster.
Today, I went with my wife and 16-month-old daughter, E, to a live butterfly exhibit at the local museum. We do this quite often and it's always a hit, but today E got cranky. I coaxed a butterfly onto my finger and held it in front of E to cheer her up. She reached out and crushed the shit out of the motherfucker. My wife screamed as if our only child had just murdered someone. Just when I thought museum officials would descend upon us, we pried open our daughter's hand and the butterfly flitted away none the worse for wear. Black butterfly residue marked E's hand with the stain of guilt. We briskly fled the butterfly exhibit without apprehension. I laughed. E pouted. My wife wondered where we went wrong as parents to raise such a monster.
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2 comments:
I think this is one of the funniest stories I've ever read. I reread that paragraph at least 5 times, and each time busted a gut.
Thanks so much! That gives me a much-needed pick-me-up.
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