Poop onna koilet

It's been about three days since a momentous event occurred at our house. My son pooped on the potty for the first time.

He's been peeing like a big boy for months now, but I had seriously begun to doubt number two would ever happen: we have been employing dynamic combinations of carrot, stick and Jedi mind-control for a long time, and been greeted by all the monolithic resistance a four-year-old boy can muster (and the little fucker can muster quite a bit, let me tell you).

One night, without a bit of advance prodding or fanfare, he just shut himself in the john. He emerged several minutes later to proudly proclaim that he "went poop onna koilet!" (As his mastery of the English language constantly and quickly improves, his childish imperfections disappear. I am quietly hanging on to his mild speech impediments as long as I can, and I celebrate the fact that he slightly mispronounces the word "toilet.")

He's gone from the stiffest of resistance, to pooping on his own volition and sleeping without a diaper, all in one day. My head still buzzes in amazement, especially at the whipsaw element of the transition.

Olympic-level disinterest

All I can say about it is: I just don't care about the Olympics. China's apparently a shamefully smoggy nation that backed out on all the pretty promises it made to entice the Olympic games into hosting there.

The games just have no appeal to me, and I don't think they ever did. It's like the run up to a Presidential election, which we'll see again soon enough: a bunch of bullshit that interrupts the true and best purpose of my television set: entertainment programming.

Boundless apathy; can't wait til it's over.