Mastercard ain’t got nothing on me
Neither does King King, for that matter. That, however, is another story all together.
Rather than mimic the entire Mastercard “Priceless” campaign, I’d ask that you just keep it in mind as I relate this morning’s wake-up call.
“Daddy,” says Mrs. Otis, “It’s time to wake up and take Mommy’s car to the shop.”
Mrs. Otis often speaks to me through the child. I only find it annoying when I’m waking up. It’s only fair, though. I speak to her through the dog, which in my opinion is even more funny.
L’il Otis is not so much concerned with Daddy’s wake-up call. He’s started rummaging through my underwear drawer.
I’m still groggy and internally bitching about about my wake-up call. I’ve grown quite used to not having an alarm clock and waking up on my own.
“Ball? Catch?”
I hear the kid’s voice before I see the object in his hand.
“It’s not time to play catch, buddy.”
“Catch?”
It’s too adorable to ignore, so I look. And my son is holding an athletic protective cup in his hands.
“Ball?”
I’d forgotten I had the thing, but I had not forgotten what the cup could be used for. I took it from the kid.
“Striker Ace! Striker Ace! We’ve been hit! We’re going down!”
Yeah, I put my own cup over my face like a fighter pilot’s oxygen mask. And yeah, I’m 32 years old.
Seconds later, L’il Otis was parroting me as I wandered toward the bathroom to get ready to get molested at the car dealership. Gotta be clean, you know.
As I left the room, Mrs. Otis took off the kid’s pant to change his diaper. By God, if the little one didn’t slap the cup over his boys. Kid’s smarter than his daddy, after all.
