I never should have started the fart games. It was bound to backfire. I should have known better, but I couldn’t resist. Pulling of one’s finger is a long, time-honored tradition in pseudo-civilized society, and one might argue that the passing of it is indeed innate.
The boys are good at it. Too good. One fart led to another and now we all have pinkeye. Damn the pillows.
Now, I’m no doctor, but if pinkeye can be passed by gas in the movies, it must be true. Hollywood is about the only thing we can trust anymore.
The boys have the worst of it. They woke yesterday with crud in their sockets and went to bed with their eyes caked shut like Rocky after a dance with Clubber Lane. They just laid there, begging to be cut.
Tricia and I woke up this morning with little nuggets of carrier monkey poop in our respective eyes. I fear we may have it, too.
I passed her in the hall at 6 in the morning, her eyes were red and puffy. “You have wife eyes,” I told her.
She ignored me.
Damn, “30 Rock” sure is funny.
She went to work, hoping she didn’t have the highly contagious ailment. I made coffee and started cleaning.
The boys watched Elf through swollen eyes and made the complaints of children who are suffering. Now and again I’d hear a laugh emerge from their den of disease followed by the weakened shouts of exhausted pride.
“He farted!” was their constant cry.
It made my eyes itch every time.
Read about our other adventure from last night at DadCentric. It doesn’t involve farts.