January 4, 2012

Turd nugget

Today my sister and I had a conversation about our children which in turn led to her reminding me what a turd I was.

I know.  I was shocked too.

Yep. You heard me. Turd. As in, "Get your turd off my lawn!"

Or as the dictionary calls it, vulgar slang for a lump of excrement. Classy right?  Right!

Apparently as a child I was a wee bit precocious. Picture a three foot tall car salesman with great people skills and an orange afro. That was me. The turd.

She called to witness the memory of us having to clean our rooms. If I remember correctly, (and I always do), my dad said, "I want to see your floors!"

Right away daddio!

So, the little orange turd went and quickly cleared her floors. I remember my sister and brother breaking sweats in their room actually tidying and organizing while probably listening to the Oakridge Boys or Sylvia while I went and triumphantly told my dad I was done.

He bragged on me and was amazed.. Then he did the unthinkable and opened my closet. A three foot tall wasteland crammed tight with yarn dolls, wadded up pieces of paper and probably half sucked on jolly ranchers.

And he laughed.

And they had to help me clean my room.

Because I was the baby.  And funny.

And she dares call me a turd!?

The moral of the story is, nobody picks on a turd.

The end.

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