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...