Guess who’s holding his own bottle of powdered poison and not even pretending to like it a little bit?
This guy. And screaming (his satisfaction? approval?) for all the world to hear.
We found an obliging pharmacist who sold us the goods – stashed behind the counter, naturally, being a controlled substance and all – and he is presently screaming 6 inches from Joey’s ear while they lie in side-by-side baby cages, pretending to take naps, with a fatty bottle of the good stuff clutched in his inefficient little paws. (Any tips on teaching a baby to hold his own bottle would be welcome here, this is a safe place.)
I was only a little bit confused and a whole lot relieved to find the magic powder hidden safely in the back of the shop, and I only blinked slightly rapidly whilst whisking past the condom and cigarette vending machines (what?) to make my dirty little purchase.
Sufficiently shamed and very much optimistic about this evening, I bid you a fond farewell as I prepare to grit my teeth for a dueling banjo screamfest for the next 90 minutes of’ ‘quiet time.’