Saturday, January 10, 2009

Birthplace of Aviation. Home of My Poop.

Mommy and Daddy woke me up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 AM to drive to the airport so we could go to this place called New York City where Grandma and Grandpa and Nicky and Ava and Uncle Mike and Aunt Sue and so many other people live. Just like we did for San Diego, we went through the medal detector (I passed) and we made our way to the gate.

This time, we flew Jet Blue. And the seats were leather and each one had their own personal TV. When I sat on Mommy's lap, I watched Home and Garden shows, and when I sat on Daddy's lap, I watched college basketball.

Can't complain. The five hours we spent on the plane flew by, especially when you consider all the fun and games we played. You can never get too old of sticking your tongue out at your parents.

Anyways, somewhere between Cincinnati and Cleveland, Daddy smelled something suspicious on me down below. So, since Mommy was the closest to the aisle, he handed me to her and she took me to the changing table in the bathroom.

It was an explosion worthy of the altitude.

If they gave out wings for diaper damage, I'd get a box full.

If they announced what I did over the intercom, they'd put me in the seats with 38" of legroom just because they would be in awe of my abilities.

Nonetheless, I just ruined all the clothes I was wearing (yeah, my poop landed on each item, including socks) and returned to Daddy's arms.

Sorry about that, Ohio. It was nothing personal.

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