Gas Attack

My arch nemesis has once again launched a full scale assault on all human senses. After nearly killing me in the music store he changed his tactics this morning. After eating his pancakes this morning he subdued my parental intuition by quietly playing with his set of Jenga blocks a Thomas the Tank Engine floor puzzle and 237 other lethal weapons. Mere mortals call these objects of parental destruction "toys" for some odd reason. In the hands of my son a Jenga block is like a wooden bullet. As innocuous as a floor puzzle may sound Shay turned that into a floor mounted, tailbone shattering tool of disaster by laying the puzzle over a film of olive oil he stole from the kitchen. After gliding nearly four feet across the living room floor I was no longer able to maintain my  balance and slammed butt first onto the hardwood floor. To add insult to injury he stood over me smiling and repeating "lubby-doo daddy, lubby-doo." This is when, thinking that he was really sorry for his action, he came in for the kill. With my head on the ground he tried to sit on it and unleashed a noxious, aft mounted, diaper encased 13 ton "poop-splosion." The Germans used nerve gas attacks during WWI and I can now fully sympathize with the poor British soldiers who encountered this wretched device of human torture. I do not know how long I was unconcious for, or how I managed to keep from tossing my cookies, but as I slowly regained consiousness, once again there he stood looking down at the pathetic heap of a gas-attacked father lying on the floor. As the fog cleared from my cerebral mass and the internal picture taking mechanism began to regain focusing capabilities I heard the faint speakings of the dictator that applied such evil to the parental unit.  "daddy, i got poopies"

I faintly recall thinking "No Schitt!?!?!?