There Will Be Mud

Two little boys. Three days of rain. One poorly-tended lawn.

Oh, yes: There WILL be mud.

In your hair. In your ear. Embedded deeply into the very fibers of your hideously tacky Dr. Huxtable sweater. OK, so it's not all bad news.

But what about the cheddar bunnies? Don't tell me there'll be mud on them, too?

Hey kid, listen up. You want mud-free cheddar bunnies, maybe you oughtta stay home with your mama. In fact, if you're too afraid to get a little mud on you maybe you shouldn't even get out of bed in the morning. This here's no country for clean men, Jedediah. You want clean, you stay the fuck away from my mud puddle. I staked a claim on it when you were still wiping strained peas off your face. You know, ten minutes ago. Right after we had that little dust-up over the last raspberry popsicle. I guess you thought I'd forgotten that, huh. Infant.

All I'm saying here is, you want to mess with me, you're going to get dirty. I mean as in all the way, face down in the filthy, muddy muck, bro. That kind of dirty. I stand over you and laugh, deranged scent of victory flaring my nostrils.

I drink your chocolate milk!!!