The Life & Times of Poopsie, Muma's Pen

Desired Wishes (Poopsie quickly tries to move in for ‘desired wishes’ from his own book) Pen: “Ww-was’nt dat da Cotton Candy Truck?” Muma : “Oh, hoo, goodness!” (Gone in a flash) Pen: ”Shee tinks she knows ev'ryting. Sthh, maan.” Swipes the air in stubborn greed, whilst pulling a fast one for desired wishes. To the readers, “Yeah, I’ll be 7 years ol’ in jus two days.” “Mmmm... I like...puuppies [said, accentuating each item to childish bliss], an kitteees, an fish, an movies, an roller skatin, an high divin; I never did buut...I’m not sure...I might high dive. Once!” “If anyone’s got any ex’ra playin cards - you could send me one. I’m dyin ta play. Heck! If ya got any ex’ra money - you could...send it my way, too.” “Lis’sen: I tink I could get de address for you ta send stuff to me. Remember, my b-day s’in two days, you guys. I hope you don ferget.” “So...um...okay, we’ll put/de address ‘ll beee…” (thinks hard and devious) Mama’s House Overweight Drive Unmarried City, over here “That’s all I know fer now, soo... Don’t ferget now. Don’t ferget. My birthday’s...shoot!” Muma: “Goodness. I’m full. You know, I feel that I’m forgetting something. Something small but significant. I can’t think what?” Pen:” (“Plghm”) Muma: “Poopsiee! You had better not do that again.” Pen: (“Plghm”) Muma: “And I mean it.” Pen: (“Plghm”) Muma: “So help me...” Pen: (“Plghm”) Fast as lightening and tiny as all get out. Muma: “Don’t you dare stick your tongue out at me again. Do-you-hear-me? What’s gotten into you?” Poopsie is not informing the muma of the secret memo he has sent out to all his readers - for desired wishes’ sake. It has to remain ‘on the sneak’, and so he ends this conversation with - Pen: (“Pthththththth”) Muma: “HUH!” And runs outta there faster than he’s ever run before. My Insincere Little Babe You wanna hear how [cough, cough, throat clear] sweet children are? Whenever mine is acting uppety...oh please, he acts like he’s an extremely experience’d, sophisticated, debonair and worldly, elderly Frenchman. Its sickening how he thinks he’s got one over us all, as to his incessant arrogant comments: “She iz crazy / Off wit her head / Dey all mus diiie / Chop her head off / She’ll never get me! / I am ze King / Vive Le France. Vive le Pluume. / You are all Marie Antoinettes; No foolin. / Don’t trust her. / Don’t let her kizz you.” Muma: “Seee! I told you. Incessant, arrogantness. Whatever. But I truly think he sincerely thinks he’s got one over us all. As in: he clearly, unashamedly, boldly and brashly thinks he’s better than (we), yes.” “I could just kick him. / Goodness me!? Venting. Just venting.” “I could never kick my Poop’s. Is somebody kidding? He’s a quarter inch thick. That’s no kind of a target at all.” “Did I just calculate that in my head?” “That is terrible. I must be punished. This has to be - A Muma’s Punishment.” Pen: “Wooow! Look what I jus made. Its a heart. A real pretty heart. It was soo pretty that I put anuder heart on top a it (smaller) in da middle. An look, I foun some white paper lace lying around so I took it. I took it, an put it on...I taped it on da heart (all along the edge). Look, look. Its a keeper.” Muma: “Oh, how sweeet! Its so darling.” Pen: “Uh huh.” Muma: “Its just the sweetest, prettiest thing I think I ever saw. Oh, honey, can I see it?” Sneakily trying to work up to ownership of it. “Bring it here, Poopsie.” Pen: “Uh huh. Look. Look. Its red, an de udder heart in da center...look...(SPLAT)” Poopsie tripped over his own shoe and the precious paper heart tore into pieces over his skinny body and even skinner legs. You might as well have gotten out the scissors. Muma: “Darn. Darn. Darn. I wanted that article that he made with his own heart (I mean hands) soo much; the ache is quite deeply felt.” Time will heal this tender wound. But I will not count on it soon. -- A Muma’s Punishment Secrets (Oops!) The muma is busy busy busy writing the day away - Pen: “Shhh. Bottlecap, yeah, come closer. I don wan mama to hear. She don gotta know...everything I think. Sheee thiinks she’s soo smart. I know!” “Listeen. I gotta secret. I’m pretty suure...she cleans me when I’m sleepin.” Bottlecap Sam: “Yeah?” Pen: “U-hu. Cuz...um, when I wake up, sometimes, I’m all clean. Not sticky, from da nite before. I’m pretty sure.” Bottlecap Sam: “Hmmm!? Ya know, sometimes, I wakes up an I’m put on da table like dat. Right next to you. An...an...I’m pretty sure...” Pen: “Don talk so loud - ya doodoobrain - we gotta be secret when we’re talkin secrets.” Bottlecap Sam: “Ok. Ok. Come closer. I gotta whisper in yer cottin pickin waxy ear.” Pen: “Ya buzzard.” Bottlecap Sam: “No way. Anyway, I wake up right next ta you, like dat. Its pretty cool, but I’m pretty sure dats not where I fell over - when I conk out ta sleep dat night.” Pen: “Huh?” Bottlecap Sam: “I me-ean” He was a smidge perturbed. “Poops, it don happe till it happens. I don stop bein up - till I fall asleep wherever I am.” Meaning: when he falls asleep, he conks over onto the ground, wherever that happens to be. Muma knows. Bottlecap Sam: “Dont’cha get it, you poopoohead...” Pen: “SUCKER!” Said vehemently childish. Bottlecap Sam: Ignoring the insult, “I think yer mama picks me up an puts me right next to you on da table at her...desk-thingie” Pen: “Ohh! Geez, we gotta be quie...” Muma: [Melody] “...move a rubber tree plant. Cuz he’s got...” Pen: “Leave-me-alone.” He pushes Bottlecap aside from their whispering. “That’s my fav'rite song.” And joins in at the top of his lungs. “...hi-igh hopes. He’s got hi-igh hopes. He’s got - high - apple pi-ie in the sky-iy hopes.” Their muma looked down in glee to see her two little babes in the terrific-enuf mood to be able to sing along to the outstandingly up-hearted song that brings joy, and kindness - the very next second that you finish the song. P.S. The muma had done her job for the day. Testimonial to Post Script (and tiny mention): Incidentally, ‘oops, there goes another rubber tree plant’. A Poopsie Tale Don’t look. Nobody look. Quick...Iiee don’t believe it. Somebody!? Please. And, I believe this is the only costume he could pull off without any help (from his friends). It’s Halloween, you know. The Halloween month, that is. Muma just looked down (so innocently), and there. . .to her pondering eyes did she see - The Poop’s got himself a broom he finagled to the top of his head. Don’t laugh. And don’t make jokes. Hee...thinks he’s the Cat’s Pajama’s or something. I don’t get it! Pen: “Ww-itches’s Breww. Ww-itches Breww.” Muma: “What? He seems completely emphatic to utter such a saying.” Pen: “Ww-itches’s Breww. Ww-itches Breww.” “Ww-itches’s Breww. Ww-itches Breww.” Muma: To herself, “I’m really not getting this!” To her buba (muma’s buba) “Poopsie!. . . What’s. . .?” Muma look down at her little Poopsie and his new cheap and seemingly used costume/prop/whatever - as he lean against the wall - so smug, whilst repeating to his muma: an absolutely ridiculous cry/age-old folklore/legend/myth/. . .knowledge, informed, calculated. . .WAIT! WHAT? What did I just write? I’ve no affiliation to agreeing with such and so forth of said ‘subject’; I’ve. . .I have no inclination to even speak on the subject - a subject I certainly. . .HUH? Muma look again, and suddenly (strangely) surprisingly, Poopsie no longer had his witches broom atop his head. For it was now serenely silently atop of the muma’s pen-in-hand - the broom.