Missive

Dear Uncle Gred,

Thank you for your recent inquiry into my health and well-being. I have asked father to attach a number of photos to show what rude red health I have come to know. The rudest, the reddest of health.

Mother is always worried that something will be wrong with me, while father seems to hold the opposite bias, that nothing on Earth could possibly go wrong with me. They are yin to each other's yang, and their conversations on the subject of my health afford me countless minutes of amusement, before I again fall into a deep sleep, which is what I am about to do right . . .

I'm back! And now my parents are discussing the uselessness of diapers in preventing my wetting and/or soiling of the various surfaces of the house and car. Totally, unequivocally useless!

Today we went to the park, or at least we went to the park . . . ing lot. That is to say, we got to the parking lot of the park, and just as father pulled into a "parking space," I exploded an enormous orange poo through the several layers of my clothing. Father had to grumblingly pull out his "diaper bag" and change me right in the back seat, and meanwhile, in the car next to ours, a middle-aged buffoon of a man was playing heavy metal music loudly in preparation for what appeared to be some redneck version of tai chi. The changing required an extraordinary number of wipeys!!! And then home again without even setting foot in the park, home to a bath and a nap, such as the one I may take right . . .

I'm back! But only to sign off. Farewell, Uncle Gred. Until we meet . . .

Elijah Beck Riker