Mulder and Scully arrive...

Today we were visited by Mulder and Scully, my parents' amigos, who now live in Washington D.C.

Mulder was dad's first college roommate and his family is the basis for the hit show Six Feet Under. Scully is a Hokie and has designed some of the most impressive architerctural feats in the world, including (but not limited to) the Eiffel Tower, the Vietnam War Memorial, the Forbidden City, the Parthenon, the Seattle Space Needle, and the Pirate's Cove Putt Putt on Rt. 78.

Mulder and Scully are expecting a little girl sometime soon. I can't wait to meet her. Maybe she'll be fine and we could become "friends". I know this is more than a decade down the road, but the best laid plans are laid years in advance of the plans working for what they were laid to do.

Mom and dad had a nice visit with the couple from DC. They brought me a kick-butt stuffed dog that I'm not allowed to play with until I'm three because it's dangerous. Who the hell ever heard of a dangerous stuffed animal? Where do they shop, Bob's World of Knives and Sharp Gifts?

I will let their transgression pass, and chalk it up to their having been so long immersed in the depravity of D.C. I hear you can run for mayor if you smoke crack. What a town, what a town.

That is all...

Santa likes Thai bird markets.

Apparently the jolly fat man from the ever-shrinking Arctic brought us a special kind of gift this year. The flu. Specifically, the Asian Bird Flu type H1-B.

You may say, whoa Waakabee, there's no way in heck that your family contracted the Asian Bird Flu.

Am I being overly dramatic? Is Waakabee exagerating? Does the pope *&^% in the woods? Does a bear wear a funny hat?

All I know is that on Christmas Eve both mom and dad were incapacitated for the entire day. Dad recovered by the next morning, mom by Christmas afternoon. Then Grandma got it. And Big Pop was surely next. At first, dad chalked it up to the feast they had at Red Lobster the eve of Christmas Eve. But later, over New Year's, Nannie got it. So clearly dad, the fisherman's platter with extra butter sauce and a butter roll and butter soup, had with a tasty butter dacquiri, topped off with butter cheesecake desert was not the source of your illness. It may, however, account for your gi-normous man-boobs. Maybe Santa should have brought you a mansiere for Christmas, instead of the shop-vac.

Regardless, Christmas was fun, though the excitement was somewhat muffled by the sounds of family members hugging the porcelain. I received many exciting gifts and toys, not the least of which was an Exer-saucer. Sweet Tiffany Amber Thiessen that thing ROCKS. It comes equipped with a mirror, touch pad (zebra skin, no less), dangly doo-jiggers, hibbly-doos, and many other delightful spinning toys all arranged about the occupant in a circular fashion, so that no matter where a boy turns, there is whimsical fun and excitement to be had. It makes me so happy, I drool.

I was able to hang out with my cousins, too, who came over to visit. In the picture here, Big Pop contemplates how I and Gaberdoody are each approximately the size of his feet.


So we all got great gifts. We all ate a ton of food (some more than others). We watched movies and a lot of poker tournaments (hello!) and basically enjoyed each others' company. All of this was done to celebrate the birthday of Jesus. That's some honor. Jesus musta been pretty special to get his own day (mom says he was). This led me to do some thinking. Here's my conclusion. If that kid Jesus was half as popular as I am (and will grow to be), they'll have to make a whole separate holiday just for me. I think it should be called B-Day. People will say "Happy B-Day!", and "Hope you have a great B-Day!". There will be cards, and songs, and food and fun. And dad says there should be something called "hookers". Mom just slapped dad, so maybe there shouldn't be. But B-day, think about it. A B-day could be a lot of fun!

I'm going back to play with my new toys, especially the noodle, the knot monkey, and the exersaucer. Dad says he's going to play with his toys. Mom says he's going to help clean. Regardless, I'm happy, they're happy, and the future is bright, especially since a new holiday looms in the future for everyone. Christmas every December, and then once a year, we all celebrate B-day. You will thank me. I know you will. Happy B-Day, everyone!

That is all...

Very disappointed...

You all suck. No one, except Aunt Jen(n), submitted any ideas for my blog slogan.

Where's the love, people? Do you no likey the Walker? The Walker not good enough for you? This site works through input from the readership. Give me input!

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cuteness

It's been a while since I've discussed how frackin' cute I am......I haven't the energy; here's a picture instead.

I need your opinion. I may not heed it, but regardless...

So it's time to go global with this baby. In order to facilitate that, I need a slogan. Despite my seemingly un-toppable excellence and cunning proficiency in the finer arts of writing and comedy, I might as well get some help.

So here's the pitch:
I'm looking for help on coming up with a phrase which is both catchy and whimsical. It must be funny, and not gay. And by gay I mean in the way someone could accurately say "Full House was gay", not "Tom Cruise is clearly gay."

Here's an example: "He poops, you cry. He laughs, you pee. WalkerB.blogspot.com."

This example shows that clearly, I am born with a stellar aptitude for marketing and creativity. However, even a ruler must at some point acknowledge that his subjects might, *might* have something to add to life's great discussion.

So start responding, posting comments, etc. with your ideas for my catchphrase(s). The lucky winners will likely not be recognized nor rewarded, but they would know in their heart of hearts that I have heard the call of the proletariat and have at least given a kind of half-wave, half-nod in recognition.

That is all...

Sorry Ralph but I Win

This morning I discovered Ralphie's tail and fur. He was not pleased. I, on the other hand, was highly amused by the fist full of fur that remained in my hand when Ralphie ran away. Ralphie wanted very badly to retaliate but Daddy kept him from doing so. And so marks the beginning of my ability to do wrong and get away with it because I'm so cute. I win.

p.s. I've been hearing Mom and Dad talk a lot about our bag lady cat, Dirty. I don't think she's too bright - they don't like her, yet she continues to hang around. Perhaps I'll compose an anonymous note:

Dear Dirty,
Please run away.

That is all...............

Animal Farm meets Macy's

Ever found yourself getting a ride out of some cute little porker and decided to do it under cover so no one can see you? Well we did the same not too long ago!

We went christmas shopping and then rode the Pink Pig at Macy's. For those who are not familiar with this Pig, as daddy was not, I shall explain it.

• It is a train.
• A train whose cars are made to look like pigs.
• You pay someone to ride this pig train around the inside of a large tent.
• Your ride lasts 2.2498 minutes, and you hear a "story" about the pig.
• You get off the train, and then buy numerous Pink Pig-themed items.
• You go home satisfied, Mr. Macy's goes home a rich man.

No one notices that the Pig is an overt symbol for 1. greed, 2. capitalism, 3. corporate indulgence, 4. fat chicks, and 5. rampant consumerism.

No one notices that the Pink Pig pops up in the parking lot of a major retailer *at Christmas*, that people are charged to ride it, or that the novelty items which are overpriced and yet somehow on sale in the tent are reminders to all that you paid someone to ride said Pig.

People stand in line for the Pink Pig, and talk about what a tradition it is for kids to ride the Pink Pig. Some people talk about how their grandchildren are riding it, and their children rode it, and in fact they themselves rode it as children back in the 1700's. I hear the Iroquois helped the Pilgrims build the original Pink Pig, which was used to give little injun and religious-nut children rides around the forts of New England. Ahhh, tradition.

Anyone else think that Squealer here is FRACKIN' SCARY?! What shoddy parenting school did you attend that they teach you it is ok to subject me to this? Get ready for some therapy bills, mom.

Needless to say, mom was pumped to have me ride the Pink Pig. So I obliged. The seats are just big enough for one baby and a garden gnome to sit side by side, so daddy had to ride in a separate car. Ours was named "Napoleon", and daddy's was named "Old Major". He was snickering about some irony, but since I can't stand on my own two legs nor control my bodily functions yet, I don't even know what irony means.

We rode the pig around and around and that was interesting. Some of the decorations were rather, colorful. The interior of this tent is decorated in all pink. It's as if Mr. Bubble exploded inside the tent and his innards coat everything. But the ride was fun and I'm told we'll do it again next year. Mom even bought an ornament that will serve to remind us that next year, Mr Macy and his Pink Pig will be waiting for holiday shoppers.

That is all...

Goodbye Boob, Hello Spoon

Today I impressed my parents by eating from a spoon. Not the Tiffany spoon I was led to believe that I would have as the scion of this prestigious family, but rather some flimsy plastic spoon that looks like it was last used to stir Smurf soup.

I ate some mush, people, that's what I'm saying. Rice cereal mixed in with some milk from MRB = tasty goo. Slurp slurp, yum yum, and my parents couldn't have acted more excited.

So I guess they're phasing out dining at MLB and MRB. I love those places. Soon, my access will be denied, just like Daddy says happened to him. He said it was about the time he gave her her ring. Don't know what that means, but I will not be giving mommy any rings anytime soon, in the hopes of keeping my membership open for as long as possible.


That is all...

Soylent B is made of Walker!

So I have been sniffly and coughy for about the last, oh MONTH. Strange how the timing of my illness(es) directly correlates to when I started daycare.

Thanks a lot, parents, for putting me in the zoo with all the sick monkeys. Now I'm a carrier, too. I hope that this bird flu I'm surely carrying kills you two first. Then I hope it kills that damn robin who likes to sit outside my window and sing. If I was old enough to put my hands on a bbgun (much less lift it), I'd bust a cap that little winged devil. Tweet, tweet, rockin' robin. Tweet tweet indeed.

Anyway, I was googling myself the other day (minds out of the gutter, kids) when I found an interesting link. Appearently there is a serious infant disease named after someone with the same name as me! WalkerDyson(!)syndrome affects dozens of young infants worldwide (Locally, WalkerDyson syndrome has also been known to make the ladies swoon, but I digress), and is the focus of study of several prominent researchers (meaning their grad students do all the work, the poor schleps)! Apparently it's really super fatal and causes babies to turn ugly and pimply, and ultimately one's head will explode in a cloud of red spray and noise.

Whoa whoa whoa, wait a minute! I'm the only Walker B that I know... and it affects infants... HOLY S*!@, it's MY disease! Named after ME! I'm going to die!? WHAT THE F*&^? No one told me this crap! So much wasted! So little time! I've been laxidasically spending my weeks learning to spit, stick out my tongue, and control my hands and arms, when really I should have been living life! I have been misled, misinformed, led by the nose, hoodwinked, and lied to! Damn you, parents!!

Ah lawdy me, what is a boy to do? I guess I had better get my affairs in order...

I, Walker B, being of sound mind and body (OR SO I WAS TOLD!), do hereby declare and decree, that all my possessions shall stay in the family. My books go to dad. He reads them to me and seems to enjoy them. Keep up the good work, dad. Your pronunciation and speed are really improving. My clothes go to mommy. I overheard her say that she "has no clothes" and so I figure she can use them. Love you most. My nucks and bottle nipples go to Ralphie, so he can chew them. Good kitty. My blankets, stuffed animals, and other things laying around go to the dogs, so they can steal them and fight over them and carry them around, etc. etc. Good dogs. My white polar bear stuffed animal goes to Dirty, cause I saw her once attack it as it lay under the christmas tree, and bite it and either try to hump it or sleep on it, I couldn't tell which (there was a lot of white fur and gyration). I would say "good kitty" to you, but you're a frackin' nutjob. Oh, and my little bugs get buried with me. *sniff* I'm really going to miss you guys...

Wait...
What?....
Oh...
Really?...You sure?
Ok... I've just been told by dad that this Walker Dyson syndrome is more along the lines of developmental retardation, rather than horrific death. Thanks for clearing that up, champ. Rather than a quick and tragic, yet motivating death followed by a scholarship fund in my name, a huge statue, a spot in Time magazine, and a tearful yet dignified funeral attended by thousands of loyal fans, I should rest easy knowing that I'm simply going to grow up special, and basically never be able to become an ass-kicking Army Ranger or an A-bomb building nuclear scientist. Knowing that really makes me breathe easier. I feel MUCH better, now! Thank goodness! YES, DAD, I'M BEING SARCASTIC! OOOOOOHHHH THE HUMANITY! MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!

That is all...

Escape from Mabletraz

Ralphie pulled his famous disappering trick today. He disappeared sometime Thursday night or Friday morning; Mommy isn't sure which. Daddy came home from a long trip to Denver; not into the waiting arms of his loving wife, but rather, to the question of, "Did you see Ralphie squished on the road when you came in?" Late into the wee hours of the morning, Mom and Dad searched for Ralphie all around the house and property but to no avail. First thing Saturday morning (I get up really early), Mommy made "Lost Kitty" fliers (see above image) and notified the local pet wranglers (aka - animal control) while Dad ate cereal and we watched cartoons. Just as Mom was grabbing keys and proofs to go print fliers, the puppies herded a familiar face to the back window. The look on Ralphie's face was pure terror -- "Please let me in before this great lump of golden furred sh*t eats me!"

In the end, Ralphie seemed unscathed physically; although, he hid for two days, refusing to leave the confines of Mom and Dad's room, even for a treat. If I was really quiet, I swear I could hear him say, "I'll get you, frackin' chipmunks! Frackers."

Oh, and below is the flier we pulled down from the neighborhood. Weird, huh?

My dad is a slacker

For all who wish my pop would get off his butt and blog, please feel free to send him an email.

Get movin', tex. You're killing us with your lack of blogs.

That is all...