Over the past couple of years, I’ve noticed that Kyle cycles through the shows he likes. His enjoyment of Blue’s Clues remains fairly constant, but whether he likes The Backyardigans one month and Wonder Pets another is entirely a matter of whim.

About a year ago, Kyle was on a Wonder Pets kick, and I was being exposed to a high level of guinea pig, duckling and turtle antics. Something inside me snapped; I began to consider an alternative explanation for the trio of helpful animals living in their little schoolhouse. What if, I thought, the whole thing is just the fever-dream of a guinea pig who is the test subject of a laboratory experiment?

The notion percolated in the back of my mind for a while and at some point I realized that, one way or another, I needed to get it out. So I sat down and wrote the beginning of a Linny (or Lynny, as it turns out) the guinea pig tale. Not long after I began, the winds of change blew through the International House of Johnson and Wonder Pets gave way to something else and without the regular exposure to Linny, Tuck and Ming-Ming, too, my mind wandered elsewhere and the story was abandoned.

I have no plans to return to the beleaguered guinea pig, but I present the incomplete tale here as a cautionary tale: this is what can happen when the adult mind comes under the assault of children’s television.

“The phone—”

“The phone is ringing,” Dr. Selig murmured. “I know, Walter; I can hear it. Unfortunately I’m a little occupied at the moment. As are you.” He tapped the side of the syringe a few times, then slowly depressed the plunger until a thin stream of clear liquid geysered from the tip of the hypodermic needle. “Besides, that’ll just be Nick calling to tell us they’ve decided to turn down our grant application. Again. Now, if you’ll move your finger just a little…yes, that’s excellent.”

The needle pierced the shaved skin at the base of the guinea pig’s skull and Dr. Selig injected what he suspected would be the final dose of the serum into the little mammal’s brain stem. A moment later, Walter returned the fidgeting rodent to its cage. Returned to the familiar bed of wood shavings, the guinea pig seemed content to sit motionless, peering out at the lab. It would have looked like any of a million other such animals living in similar cages in the bedrooms and living rooms of houses all across the country, were it not for the color-coded nodes that marked the location of nearly three dozen subdermal implants in the rodent’s head, spinal column and appendages.

Dr. Selig stripped off his latex gloves and dropped them into a nearby trash can. “Go ahead and run the connectivity check,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour. I trust you want your usual?”

Walter nodded. “No celery this time,” he said.

Dr. Selig sighed. This conversation was becoming a tiresome ritual. “I’ll tell them,” he said, as he always did, “just like I’ve told them a hundred times before.”

“How hard is it for them to understand that some people like Buffalo wings without celery?” Walter asked, just as indignant today as he was last Friday when it was Dr. Selig’s turn to pick up lunch.

“I’ll tell them,” Dr. Selig said again. “You run the connectivity check.”

The lab ran a predictable lunch schedule, and there was no one more predictable about lunch than Walter. On Monday, everyone brought lunch from home and Walter ate his leftover lasagna cold. On Tuesday, Josh—the lab’s other intern—would run to Happy Burger and Walter would invariably order a bacon cheeseburger with no pickles. Wednesdays meant Dr. Oxley taking orders for Mexarito’s, Walter mangling the pronunciation of “quesadilla” when he ordered. Thursdays were the only days when Walter wasn’t likely to complain about a botched order, as it was his day to venture out to the House of Ming for Chinese food, and he always made sure there was plenty of duck sauce for his eggroll and that his General Tso’s chicken contained no vegetables. Vegetables as a rule were shunned by Walter, but green peppers especially he held in high contempt.

Later in the afternoon, when they sent someone to Dairy Queen for their weekly ice cream treats, Walter would order a turtle sundae with no pecans. Anyone daring to argue that a turtle sundae prepared without pecans was simply a caramel-and-chocolate sundae would be loudly rebuked by Walter, and everyone in the lab had long since learned that it was folly to argue with Walter where food was concerned.

Dr. Selig shrugged off his lab coat, then turned around to survey the lab. Dr. Oxley was out for the day, trying to drum up some more funding in the vain hope of keeping the lab running for another three months. Josh was multi-tasking, as usual, his phone cradled on his left shoulder while he wrote something on a yellow legal pad, pausing occasionally to run a finger over the touchpad on his laptop.

Walter was crouched in his chair, elbows on knees, peering into the guinea pig’s enclosure. Dr. Selig wondered briefly which of the two mammals—the placid guinea pig or the wide-eyed, neurotic intern—was more intelligent, then cleared his throat. “Walter,” he said, pointing to the computer terminal that processed the data feeds from the wireless sensors implanted beneath the guinea pig’s dermis. “Run the connectivity check.”

Walter swung the chair around and began tapping at the keyboard. Satisfied that the intern was following his directive, Dr. Selig left the laboratory, bound for Little Airplane Wings, an establishment that claimed to have “better Buffalo sauce than Buffalo!”

***

An hour later, the guinea pig was munching away at one of the unwanted celery sticks from Walter’s lunch. Though there was no outward indication, the chemical cocktail Dr. Selig had injected was working its magic: simultaneously inhibiting the rodent’s ErbB4 receptors and GABAergic interneurons. The former affected her cells’ ability to process Neuregulin-1, while the latter inhibited expression of parvalbumin, the combined upshot of which was severe, chemically-induced schizophrenia.

Her left eye twitched. An electric impulse was picked up by the sensor implanted near her left eye and a small packet of data was transmitted wirelessly to a nearby computer, where the strength and duration of the impulse were committed digitally to disc, along with thirty-three other data points that indicated other electrical impulses or lack thereof. Her left eye twitched again.

***

“She’s falling asleep,” Walter said, his face so close to the enclosure that his breath fogged up the glass. “Do you think she dreams, Dr. Selig?”

Dr. Selig wiped a dollop of barbecue sauce from the corner of his mouth with a napkin and considered the question for a moment before answering.

“There’s sufficient evidence to suggest that she does, Walter,” he said, reaching forward to tap one of the jagged lines marching across the LCD screen. “She’ll be entering her REM cycle shortly, just as you and I do every night. Her sleep patterns are similar enough to ours—including observable alterations in brain activity—that it’s entirely reasonable to conclude that she does, indeed, dream. But you can rest assured that her dreaming, or the fact that she does dream, has nothing to do with what we’re doing here.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Walter, who continued to stare at the guinea pig as he would do for what seemed like hours at a time if Dr. Selig didn’t find something else for him to do. This is what happens when you agree to hire your husband’s empty-headed younger brother, Dr. Selig thought, glancing ruefully over at Dr. Oxley’s empty chair and vowing for what must have been the ten-thousandth time to never again allow a colleague’s nepotism to supersede little things like talent and qualifications. Still, it was Friday, and in all likelihood they’d have to pack up the lab on Monday when Nick managed to deliver the bad news about the grant application and Dr. Oxley similarly reported her failure to find another backer, so where was the harm in letting Walter stare at a sleeping guinea pig all afternoon? It would certainly keep him out of Dr. Selig’s hair.

***

The guinea pig slept, unmindful of the voyeur looming beyond the glass, and she dreamed. On the nearby screen, unwatched by anyone in the lab, the lines that provided a visual indicator of the various electrical impulses in her brain grew more jagged as new neural pathways opened to compensate for those the chemicals had closed. The rodent’s brain behaved in ways no one in the laboratory had predicted. Neurotransmitters that had been disabled by previous variants of the experimental serum were activated again, while those that had been functioning normally only an hour before suddenly went quiet.

***

The alarm went off while Dr. Selig was in the restroom. Walter had no idea what it meant, nor what he should do. He looked to Josh, who was still on the phone. “I have to go,” Josh said quickly. “There’s an animal in trouble.” He fumbled the receiver onto its cradle and crossed to Walter’s workstation. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s the problem?”

Josh, unlike Walter, had been hired based on those two little things Dr. Selig felt were more important than nepotism: talent and qualifications. It took him only a quick glance at the EEG readouts on the monitor to realize that something was going horribly wrong in the guinea pig’s brain. He looked over at the animal’s enclosure; she was sleeping peacefully, the rapid in-out motion of her breathing the only indication that she was alive at all.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Josh said, frowning at the readout. “She should be wide awake and thrashing like an angry badger. When was the last time you calibrated these sensors?”

“Yesterday,” Dr. Selig said from the doorway. He crossed the lab quickly; if either intern noticed that the fly on his trousers was open they didn’t bother to point it out to him. “I heard the alarm. What’s going on?”

Walter stood mute while Josh explained that the guinea pig appeared to be having some sort of neuropathic seizure. “Except she’s not,” he said, confusion clear in the tone of his voice. “She’s just…sleeping.”

“Comatose seems more likely,” Dr. Selig replied, “though these readings certainly don’t suggest it.”

Walter stared at the guinea pig, as concerned about her welfare as anyone in the lab but utterly incapable of doing anything to affect it. He looked at the half-eaten piece of celery, then over to the discarded remains of his lunch, the corner of the styrofoam takeout box poking out of the trash can, more convinced then ever that the vile stalk was not to be trusted. He leaned in close to the enclosure again, oblivious to the conversation going on just a few feet away. He saw the guinea pig’s left eye twitch. Rapid eye movement, he thought, recalling his earlier conversation with Dr. Selig, and again wondered if she was dreaming.

I must have mumbled.

“Daddy?” Kyle asked. “What does T-I-T spell?”

It’s just a good thing I didn’t have food in my mouth.

KYLE: Daddy, can I play the Xbox?

ME: [trying to coax a "please"] Can you play the Xbox…what?

KYLE: The Xbox 360!

“Look at this,” I said, pointing to the door handle shaped like a gas pump nozzle, “pretty cool, huh?”

No reaction, but he’s four years old and has never seen a gas pump nozzle up close, so I really don’t know what I was expecting.

The door closed behind us and I directed him to the urinal.

“Wow!” he exclaimed. “A new kind of toilet! This restaurant is awesome!“

KYLE: Daddy, don’t be dead!

ME (without opening my eyes): I’m not dead, I’m knocked out.

KYLE: Well, get knocked back in!

ME: I think I may buy one of those MacBooks the pretentious douchebags like.

BOB: Oh? Are you appropriately equipped to assume the mantle of pretentious douchebag?

ME: Well, the MacBook comes with a coupon for a free soul patch and form-fitting black turtleneck, but I’m concerned that I don’t have the right body type for the turtleneck.

BOB: How about a pair of hipster glasses and an ironic t-shirt?

Alas, I can’t afford hipster glasses just now as…well, I recently purchased a MacBook; but I hope this t-shirt is sufficiently ironic.

Laura and I will stop Kyle in his tracks and begin the process of (a) cleaning up whatever vomit has already been delivered and (b) attempting to catch any subsequent outbursts somewhere between his lips and the nearest horizontal surface (or his shirt). This latter act is typically achieved through the application of tissues, as they are usually the closest thing to a towel or washcloth within reach. Unfortunately, attempting to catch vomit—even from a four-year-old whose stomach is the size of (as near I can guess) a softball—with a tissue is a bit like trying to catch spaghetti with a broadsword, only slimier.

Yesterday, after Kyle’s lunch made an encore appearance on the living room carpet, Laura decided it was time to introduce “the pail”.  She retrieved an empty four-quart ice cream container from the garage, I filled the bottom with about a half-inch of water, and we instructed Kyle that—should he feel the need to vomit again—he should aim for the bucket. Kyle immediately decided that it an old ice cream pail with a bit of water in the bottom was pretty cool, which led to an “accidental” spill about 30 minutes later. “It was a accident,” he declared1 as Laura was cleaning up the spilled water.

Thankfully, there were no further spills, but later in the day there was more vomit, not all of which made it into the pail. Laura stood there, pail in hand, coaching Kyle on the proper angle of approach necessary to ensure optimum target efficiency, while I grabbed a pile of washclothes from the kitchen and made some attempt to clean up the mess, starting with Kyle’s face.2

None of this seems to phase Kyle in the slightest. “I puked,” he says, then stands by with what little patience a four year old can muster and waits for us to clean up the mess.3 If we weren’t there to hold him back, he’d just play around the puddle on the carpet for a bit, pausing only to make a new, smaller puddle when the aftershock hit. This isn’t how adults do it: we slump with our heads over the toilet (or the pail), often huddling there long after the last heave has been hove, just in case. Never does the thought of getting up and running around wander anywhere in thinking distance; we just want to be still. When we barf, we might as well clear our calendar for the rest of the day. Wimps.

1. He pronounces the word “ASS-i-dent” and uses it like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card or his own little form of diplomatic immunity. I imagine that I’m Murtaugh on the deck of the Alba Varden, Kyle has just shot Riggs, and he looks up at me and sneers, “It was a assident.” What’s a father to do?
2. If there’s anything worse than a puking child, it’s a puking child with a runny nose. And diarrhea, but that didn’t play a factor in this particular incident.
3. Or rather, that’s how it worked yesterday. I’m told that sometime this morning he announced his intention to be sick, trotted over to the pail, and proceeded to cantar oaxaca directly into it. They grow up so quickly.

Later this week, we’ll have a review of the Star Trek Online beta from one of our intrepid field reporters and possibly a review of the zombie/Star Wars hybrid novel Star Wars: Death Troopers by Joe Schreiber (provided I actually finish the book on time). I have no idea what Miller has cooked up for tomorrow morning, but I’m sure it will be curmudgeonly.

Meanwhile, my wife has launched her own blog, The Unreal Me, which is an exercise in creative writing. She’s already posted one poem, a couple of character sketches and a short story.2 A running theme thus far seems to be women who are seeking a break from demanding children, dirty laundry, and husbands who leave the empty milk jug in the sink instead of rinsing it out and putting it in the blasted recycling bin where it belongs. Naturally, I have no idea where she gets her inspiration, but as far as writing goes, Laura is definitely winning this year.3

Even Kyle has done more writing than I have this year. I’m making coffee and he comes into the kitchen and rearranges the magnetic letters on the fridge. “Daddy, what does this spell?” he asks. “Skuh-fred-jah-wicks,” I say; how else would you pronounce “SKUFRDJAWYX”? Maybe he’ll get another set of letters for his birthday so his refrigerator words aren’t limited to what he can assemble from a single run through the alphabet.

The only critters residing at the International House of Johnson who aren’t generating more words than me so far this year are Rosie and Gil, but I think both of them made a New Year’s resolution to be at least as lazy—if not lazier—than me. They’re making a fair go at it, but I’m definitely giving them a run for their money.

I have a slight advantage over the cats in that I have an almost-four-year-old boy at my disposal who is ever eager to help his daddy with the most menial of chores. Last night, during a brief intermission from Wallace & Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit, I looked at my empty glass and asked Kyle if he would get me the milk jug from the bottom shelf of the fridge. He dutifully ran to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door—from my vantage point on the couch I could see the word “BLEMNTORD” spelled in primary colors on the front.

Does he know “bottom”? I wondered. Up and down and under, yes, but what about bottom?

“Give me a hint,” I heard him say.

“Bottom shelf,” I said. “The milk jug; it’s almost empty.”

There was a pause, then an excited “Oh!” and then he was dashing across the living room with the jug in his hand. He watched as I uncapped it, then poured almost a full glass.

“What are you gonna do with that?” he asked.

“I’m gonna drink it,” I said, handing him the empty jug. “Put that in the sink for me, okay?”

1. Also on the list: Health Nut, Dance Maniac, America’s Sweetheart.
2. To be fair, the short story was written back in July of 2009, when Chris Miller and I decided to write a new essay or piece of short fiction based on a particular theme every two weeks. Our first theme was “coffee”, and Laura decided to join in the fun. Chris’ essay, “The Significance of the Coffee” can be found on his blog, Laura’s short story, “Coffee Break” (intended for mature audiences) has just been posted, and mine…well, mine has a beginning and an end and absolutely nothing in the middle.
3. It’s not a race.

Before I go, I want to thank everyone who participated in How Not to Grow a Beard Month this year. More importantly, thank you for spreading the word far and wide about Beards4Boobs, and for bringing in donations to fund breast cancer research. Last week, I was wondering whether we’d hit $2,000; yesterday morning I thought we might not hit our goal of $2,500; I went to bed last night happy that we’d managed to exceed the goal by nearly $200; this morning, I woke up to a final total of $3,663.23! My flabber is officially gasted. So a huge “Thank You” to everyone who participated, putting their scruffy cheeks and chin on display all through the month of November, and another huge “Thank You” to everyone who sponsored a beard. You are all awesome, generous people who clearly have much love for boobs in your hearts.

That’s it from me until January. I hope your holidays are happy.