"I need food to be strong, when the wolves come." - Conan, Conan the Barbarian

Looke upone the workse of ye mightye and dispaire. Er, that's Emperor Pugsley the Magnificent to y'all. Did I mean ya'lle?

At least I know what Pugsley will be when he grows up.

Pugsley’s going to be an Airborne Ranger. Or a Green Beret. Maybe just a prison escapee.

At the tender age of two-and-change, Pugsley’s developed a new habit. After taking his nightly bath to remove the grubby-boyness from his smelly self, he scurries his still damp hiney and runs to his room. Normal, right?

Then, Pugsley goes up to his crib, grabs hold, and hurls himself like a Soviet Chinese gymnast on steroids up and over the railing (which is in the up position) into the crib. Oh, sure, there’s some awful cute baby huffing and puffing, but he nevertheless lifts his forty-five pounds of sturdy self over the wall, then smiles and waits while his diaper is applied.

The Mrs. is fairly unflappable. The Mrs. thinks it’s fairly normal that when Pugsley was sitting next to a kid twice his age the other day at the park that Pugsley already has four inches in height and that his mighty-oak legs are bigger than the other kid’s chest.

Normal, sure.

My ancestors were Vikings, which means (if you’ve any European roots in you) that my ancestors took your ancestor’s stuff, because they were big, blonde, hairy, and were generally disagreeable, but they did have nifty iron hats. Unless, of course, that your ancestors were Vikings too. Which, thinking about it, is likely, so, welcome, cousin!

The Boy seems to be above average size for his age, but Pugsley is enormous. Not fat, mind you, but just seriously huge. Pugsley will gather enormous hordes of women hot for his form.

I combine this in my mind with The Boy’s humongous brain. Pugsley will be the conqueror, trampling the world ‘neath his sandaled feet (yes, stolen from “Conan the Barbarian”), yet The Boy will have more fun. He’ll be The Boy’s Karl Rove. Pugsley will have to make all the hard decisions, but The Boy will have to just poke fun at the media.

(Note and full disclosure: My Brother, ummm, call him John, has been called up to some political leadership thingamabob. I helped him develop a policy position. Let’s just say the communists Democrats didn’t ask him to come. Listen, would John Wilder as Chief of Staff be worse than ANYTHING WE’VE EVER HAD? Me, I vote a “Nay” on that.)

How much fun is that? It’s way better than being a Kennedy, yet with twice the calories. Except for Teddy, who’s had like, well, sixteen bazillion calories already. Would you let Teddy near a school? Aren’t you worried he’d eat the children?

Well, don’t worry about Pugsley. He likes steak.

Who doesn’t want a President who likes steak?

Lenin didn’t. Fidel doesn’t. Osama hates Americans who like steak. I think*.

(The *I think added because I’m not sure Osama can’t sue me.)