This morning I had to warn the preschool teacher about Mini’s swearing problem.

This was a preemptive strike. I had hoped that the time that Mini repeated what I said in a moment of frustration had been just a one time thing, just a kind of slip-up. But as time has passed, it’s become clear that, though Mini might not be planning on swearing all of the time, it is something that could happen. And since I can no longer be certain that Mini won’t, in a fit of sandbox-induced rage, try out his new phrase on a classmate, I thought I might earn some points by giving them a heads up.

This was particularly odd conversation to be having, too, when you consider the fact that I don’t really, earnestly, believe this particular expression to be a bad word. For one thing, it’s two words, but that’s splitting hairs — and even still, it doesn’t even rank on the scale of phrases that are likely to offend me, even if it seems, I don’t know, a little trashy to have my two-year-old saying it.

And let’s be honest, it’s also pretty fucking funny to hear him say it.

In fact, Mr. Right-Click has taken to inciting Mini to say it, just for the joy of hearing it come out of a two-year-old’s mouth. Like this morning, when Mini was playing around with the closet door, and telling me to get out of the way, Mr. Right-Click says, “Get out of my way, Mommy, GOD DAMMIT!” and then Mini says, “Get out of my way, God DAMMIT!

The mother in me strictly believes that teaching him this stuff is wrong. But the comedian in me thinks it is kind of funny, and who cares? anyway, if it’s not even a real swear word. But then I think, “We cannot have a two year old going to school and saying this, right?”

So I’m torn. God DAMMIT.

The preschool teacher told me that this was not unusual, that she had heard it all. And then she told me about a kid who used to mispronounce the word “truck” because of his two-year-old pronunciation quirks, mixing up the tr– sound with the f-sound. And that his mother had been mortified, and had warned them, just in case he came to school demanding to play with his “FUCK!”

I said, “Yeah, this is not a mispronunciation. This is correct usage. On multiple occasions. And I know he learned it from me.”

She still said it was no big deal. That one time she had a kid who told her, “My Mommy says, ‘Fuck!’ But I’m not allowed to say it. It’s a bad word — Fuck is a bad word. I cannot say Fuck.” So that the kid, at final count, had managed to say the word three times in the process of explaining about how only adults can say “Fuck.”

And I said, yeah. Well anyway.

Because I didn’t want to get into a philosophical discussion with her about this, that there was pretty much a consensus that “fuck” was a word we should agree not to teach our kids to say at school, whereas God DAMMIT was a little bit of a grey area, given the fact that Mr. Right-Click is an athiest and I am an agnostic, and the phrase has no religious significance to us, or probably to most of the kids at Mini’s preschool, given the makeup of the school’s population.

But that we also know that there are certain people for whom this particular expression might in fact be very offensive, and that perhaps society asked of us to take those people into consideration when we think about what is funny to teach our kids, even if it first happened by accident, and even if we don’t see what the big goddamn deal about it is.

But then, I thought, fuck it.

"It IS A Bad Word, God Dammit” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on February 24, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

Mini is blessed child in many ways. He was born into a fair share of privilege and has already evident gifts and talents that extend beyond the average child. We know this.

Having a trick sphincter on your esophagus, though, is not one of them — the kid pukes at the drop of a hat.

It usually starts with coughing, and at present, Mini has the dregs of a respiratory bug, so coughing has been happening more often than usual. This would not be a big deal, if it weren’t for the fact that the kid has an esophagus that apparently goes both ways. He has a bisexual, switch-hitting esophagus that listens to Rod Stewart in its free time. Have I tortured this metaphor enough yet? No? Dude’s esophagus is only supposed to go one way, yet it’s been convincingly linked to both David Bowie and Iggy Pop circa 1970.

So, Mini will be coughing, and often the coughing will start right after he’s eaten or otherwise ingested some kind of substance. It could be anything, but it seems to happen in direct proportion to how disgusing the substance is that he’s ingested when it is regurgitated. Take bacon, for instance — Mini might be eating a piece of bacon, and then he starts coughing. The coughing then might escalate, and then I might start to break out into a cold sweat, because — yep, there’s the puke. So that first bout of puke was really just a cough kind of thing, too much food in the mouth/gullet while he’s trying to eat. But then, he’s seen that he’s puked, and that triggers another, in earnest puke, in the grand tradition of that anecdote from Stand By Me.

But it is not just after eating. It could also be that he’s gotten too upset and is gasping for too much air. Like if we tell him he cannot have something, go somewhere, do something, and he gets upset (like a normal toddler who has been deflected from his desired goals), but if he happens to be tired or hungry at the time of this disappointment, the level of upset will escalate and possibly turn into crying. If this happens, all endeavors must be immediately taken to get him to calm down, or else vomit will be forthcoming. It’s gotten to the point that if Mini’s starting to get upset, I’ll have to say, “Mini, you have got to calm down, or else you’r’e going to throw up.” Which tends to just make things worse.

So, the other day we’re at school and Mini says, “I threw up dragon juice!” in front of one of his teachers. For the record, “dragon juice” is Tylenol in the parlance of the Right-Click household. We had given him some the other night, probably ill-advisedly, because we thought maybe he was sick. It turns out he wasn’t. So now I’m at school, where the only rule about when kids need to stay home is if they’ve had a fever, which Mini most definitely does not have, but the teacher’s looking at me because first of all what the hell is dragon juice? Oh, it’s Tylenol is it? And your kid is throwing it up? And you’re saying he’s not sick?

So then I feel like I’m lying to the preschool teacher, and I’m the scumbag trying to pawn off a vomiting kid with a fever masked by Tylenol on her, because clearly I’m the worst mother in the world, and I’d rather have my dragon juice vomiting kid at school than have to deal with him myself. But really, it was all just a misunderstanding. And a trick esophagus.

"The Kid With The Trick Esophagus” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on February 05, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

Mr. Right-Click finally convinced Mini to wear the pair of Superman pajamas we bought for him a year ago by informing Mini that Superman is the greatest of all superheroes. Mini has always been a child that celebrates achievement, and so this fact about the supremacy of Superman piqued his interest enough for him to put the pajamas on, and run into our bedroom shrieking, “I a super hero to the rescue! Super hero to rescue!” Still, when Mr. Right-Click tried to confirm that Mini was a superhero, Mini said, “Yes, I’m a superhero. I’m a baby superhero.”

Mini’s invention of a Baby Superhero is one of those little metaphors you stumble across every once in a while that somehow perfectly captures a moment in time. In this case, it perfectly encapsulates Mini’s stage of development: he wants to grow up, but he doesn’t. He wants to be a big boy, but he doesn’t. He wants Mommy to coddle him, but he doesn’t. It can all be very confusing, and it can (and does) turn on a dime. The fact that Mini is completely fluent now only complicates things, because we no longer have the luxury of kidding ourselves that he doesn’t understand things, or underestimating the depth of the emotions he feels, or ignoring the gentleness of the soul that lurks beneath those big blue eyes.

And so we are back into a stage in which my heart gets ripped out of my chest and smashed into a billion pieces each morning when I take Mini to school. Mini’s teacher says that the reason that school dropoffs have become difficult again for Mini is that he is growing up. She says he is torn between the lure of becoming more independent from me, but at the same time he is terrified by the change that this suggests. She says that two year olds struggle with transitions.

So this is how it goes: each morning we get into the car, and on the way to school I will pull out every last trick in my bag to assuage Mini’s fears and anxieties about the forthcoming separation. I will do the fast-food rule, I will point out the snow on the mountains (yes, this happens sometimes, even here), I will ask him to count trucks or school buses with me. I will tell him what we’re going to do in the afternoon, I will say, “I understand,” when he says he wants to go home. I will even pretend to let Bruin Bear drive the car on occasion to get his mind off things. Usually, by the time we get to school he is nearing something like excited to be there, and this lasts for as long as I stay there, playing with him and his little preschool friends. In recent months the time in between us arriving at school and me leaving has become longer incrementally, something I did not notice until I realized some of the other preschoolers had taken to referring to me as “Mini’s Mom,” as in, “Mini’s Mom, will you move that bike out of the way?” or “Mini’s mom, come play with cars!”

At length, it will be time to go, and Mini, sensing this, will grab onto me and, under the pretense of “walking [me] to the gate,” he’ll take both my hands. Then he’ll say, “I want to climb on you,” and uses my hands as grappling hooks so he can climb up the side of my legs, so now he’s perpendicular to me, and it’s impossible that I move even an inch, much less actually leave the school premises, or else he will crash to the ground. [And it’s moments like those when I really don’t get those people who complain about bloggers talking about their kids, because was there ever an experience more ripe with writing prompts than a small child and his negotiation of the world? Because sometimes it feels like the sky above the preschool is constantly raining metaphors, and all we have to do is gather them up and spit them out on a page.]

Inevitably, a teacher will come over to us to “help [Mini] say goodbye,” much is made of giving lots of kisses, and just one more, and just one big one more, until finally there is that moment in which I have to just rip off the bandaid already, and I say, “Good bye, buddy! See you in a few hours,” and I hear the wails for “Momma! I want my Momma back! I want my momma back!” as I walk out the gate and run to the parking lot, get into my car, and drive away before I can even think about going back.

Transitions are no fucking picnic for 36-year-olds, either.

"Torn” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on January 27, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

We gave Mini a special toddler tough camera for Christmas. Much hilarity ensued.

Hilarity, and many, many pictures of feet and various kinds of flooring.

His own feet.

Daddy’s feet.

Mommy’s feet.

But Mini doesn’t seem to want to limit himself to just feet and flooring. No, he’s also an expert on Mommy pictures.

Mini feels that Mommy cannot be captured in just one, straight-on, in-focus shot.

Mini also finds pedestrian the modern reliance upon constructs like makeup and flattering lighting to ease the egos of subjects. In Mini’s studio, subjects are not even allowed to put in their contacts before they are photographed.

Nor does he demand that his subjects pay attention to him while he’s photographing them; instead, Mini favors a cinema verite approach to his high art photography.

He can identify art in the highest of the high and the lowest of the low, as is demonstrated by the following, “Mommy Cleaning Out The Diaper Pail,” 2010.

But far more intriguing are his set of admittedly dark self-portraits.

Keep clicking, little shutterbug.

"A Portrait of The Photographer As A Toddler” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on January 06, 2010. Copyright ®2010 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

Mini’s preschool teacher asked us where Mini had learned to break dance, but the thing is, breakers aren’t so much taught as they are born.

Now, that’s not to say that you just wake up one day and decide to go show off your cool tricks on Yo Gabba Gabba.

No, breaking — if you want to do it right — takes a lot of time and practice.

You have to be ready to make the sacrifices when you’re a breaker.

When you’re a breaker, you have to make tough decisions.

Other kids will come up to you and be like, “Relax, dude, the bridge is just the path to the slide. It’s not a metaphor for life.” But you have to learn how to tune them out.

Because they don’t know what it takes to be great. They don’t know what it takes to break.

No, we didn’t teach Mini to break dance: he was born a breaker.

"Breakin’ 2 1/2: Electric Mini-Moo” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on December 30, 2009. Copyright ®2009 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

We went Christmas tree shopping last week, and Mini wore his new rain gear for the occasion. Few things: 1) yes, it does rain here sometimes; but 2) no, this does not happen very often, which is probably why 3) I was so astonished by the prospect of having to buy rain boots for Mini after his first post-rain day at school a few weeks back. It honestly never occurred to me that he would need rain boots: I mean, I don’t ever need to wear rain boots, why should he need to?

Admittedly, this was a foolhardy assumption on my part. Still, is he not the cutest child in the history of the world? I mean, even with mud smeared everywhere?

Anyway, when we were Christmas tree shopping, I asked Mini which tree he wanted, and he chose this one.

Which seems odd because he’s never seen A Charlie Brown Christmas. Not to mention the fact that I believe that’s technically a bush, not a tree. In any case, we went a different direction with the tree. He seemed OK with it.

If you are wondering why it seems like only the top third of the tree is fully decorated, then I know you do not have any toddlers in your household. Sigh. It’s killing me, people, to have the tree half-decorated. This is the sacrifice I make. I have to cluster up my eight favorite ornaments, too, because they cannot be in said toddler’s reach.

On the other hand, this Christmas thing is a whole other ballgame with a little kid who hasn’t really understood it before. It almost seems a little magical, actually. Even when you find suspicious holes in the wrapping paper of said little kid’s presents.

I have to admit that I’m a little proud of him, though: I think I was like six or something before I started trying to rip open packages and find out what I was getting before Christmas. Mini’s an over-achiever, just like his Mamma! Sniff.

"Christmas Trees And Toddlers” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on December 18, 2009. Copyright ®2009 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

One of the teachers at Mini’s school took me aside the other afternoon to inform me of a biting “incident” involving Mini and “another child.” Apparently, Mini had a tricycle and the other kid wanted it, so the other kid bit Mini. Which is a totally reasonable way of handling frustration and jealousy. Who hasn’t thought about going up to Dooce at the next blogging conference and just gnawing on her arm until she hands over her contract with Federated Media? I mean, if I had a dime for every time somebody tells me –

Wait. What the fuck am I talking about? BITING?! Couple things: who the fuck bites a kid over a tricycle? Is Mini going to school with Mike Tyson? There are like forty tricycles at that school! They have more tricycles than kids, for Pete’s sake! Also, what do you mean by saying that “Mini got a bite”? Am I to believe that he was just walking around and whoops! — hey Mini, look at that — you got a bite! Is there no ownership of the person taking the bite out of the other person’s arm? Is it something that just “happens” in a vacuum, sans free will? Am I to expect, then, that Mini’s explanation for a potty training related accident is going to be something like, “Well, Mommy, let’s just say that mistakes were made”?

The teacher explained to me that, at this age, kids don’t know how to handle frustration. This was also super valuable information for me to have about toddlers. Because with Mini, he’s pretty much always a paradigm of patience and well-controlled expectations. This is particularly true when you use terms like “bedtime,” “diaper change” or “No, you’re not getting that toy.” But I guess most toddlers aren’t as into Buddhist self-actualization as Mini is.

The teacher handed me a “Band-Aid Bulletin” describing the incident and the care that was taken of Mini in its aftermath. The thing is, it was about a year ago that Mini bit me (looks like the shoe is on the other foot now, eh, Mini?). I was pretty freaked out about it at the time, but it turns out that if you freak out about it enough, they kid stops doing it. Who knew? Maybe I should let this other kid’s parents in on this super fantastic parenting technique upon which I’ve stumbled — oh yeah, they don’t tell you who the other kid is. They don’t tell you who the kid who was also involved on that happenstance occasion in which Mini “got a bite,” I suppose so that you don’t go bullying the other parents or become biased against the other kids. Well, tough for them. Because I’ve watched enough Criminal Minds to know what to look for here, and I am way ahead of the game. I’ve been running profiles on these kids since day one and advising Mini which ones to stay away from for weeks. But just to check that my profiling skills were up to snuff, I checked with Mini:

“Mini, did you get an owie?”
“Yeah. Bite.”
“Somebody bit you? Did it hurt?”
“Yeah. Hurt. Bite. Rulliver.”
“Wait, who did it?
“Rulliver. Bite. NO BITE MY ARM.”
“Oliver? Was it Oliver?”
“Yeah, Rulliver.”
“I KNEW IT.”
“Rulliver bite.”
“Mini, remember how Oliver’s dad came in the other day and told the teacher that Oliver had thrown a knife at his sister?”
“Yeah.”
“And I whispered to you, ‘Stay away from that kid, Mini.’”
“Yeah. Member.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Rulliver bite my arm. I DON’T LIKE THAT.”
“I know! That’s why you’ve gotta stay away from Oliver, OK?”
“OK, Mommy.”
“And if it ever happens again, what do you say?”
“NO BITE MY ARM, RULLIVER. I DON’T LIKE THAT.”
“Right.”

Listen, you can talk all you want about the everyone’s equal and everyone makes mistakes crap with toddlers but sometimes you’ve got to go with your gut. And my gut says, kid who throws a knife at his sister is trouble. I’ve spent time with this kid, and I don’t think he gets enough attention or something, because he’s already shown that he’s jealous of some of the kids in the class in various ways. So it’s not like I’m not sympathetic. But we’re talking about my baby here — you don’t get a second chance to bite my baby.

"Band-Aid Bulletin” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on December 09, 2009. Copyright ®2009 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

The other morning, Mini was bugging me about something right when I was trying to find my contacts. Stupidly, I had taken off my glasses before finding the contact lens case, and so I was searching around, half-blind, for a contact lens case with this little munchkin at my heels demanding, “FIND DOC! FIND DOC! FIND MY DOC, MAMMA!” For your reference, this is Doc.

We couldn’t find him.

But Mini was insistent that I not only must I FIND DOC, but that I must FIND DOC right that second, and I couldn’t see a damn thing, and besides, I hadn’t had any coffee yet. Truthfully, I had not even yet fully adjusted to having been jolted awake by the recessed lighting in my bedroom being turned on at full blast at 6:00 am as Mini announced his arrival in our bedroom. So, after the sixty thousandth “FIND MY DOC!!!’ and the thirty-fifth opened cupboard yielding — still — no contact lens case, I felt around for my glasses and yelled: “MINI WOULD YOU GIVE ME A SECOND?! PLEASE!! I BEG OF YOU!!”

Before you ask — yes, I yelled, and yes, I really did say, “I BEG OF YOU!” I don’t yell at Mini often, but when I do it has quite an impact. It may be the fact that it doesn’t happen that often that makes him think the toddler version of “Oh, shit.” He has the same reaction to me saying, in a calm voice, “You are making Mommy mad.”

But the other morning I did. And I sat him down and told him we’d find Doc when I got out of the shower. Just to underscore how much trouble he was in, I forced him to watch Little Bill while I was in the shower. He didn’t cry. I’m not sure what threat is inherent in this to Mini, but it is apparently very serious. It hurt my heart a little bit to think about it. Somewhere in the middle of my shower, when the steam finally got to my head, I could not take it anymore, and then I was standing in front of Mini, hair still dripping wet from the shower, me still wrapped in a towel, begging for forgiveness.

“Mini,” I said, trying to get him to look me in the eye, “Mommy is so sorry she got angry with you. I love you very much and I got frustrated, but I’m so sorry. Can I have a hug?”

And in response, a smile that could melt the polar icecaps (if they weren’t already melting) spread across Mini’s face, as he ran over to me.

“Mamma, in my heart!” he said and hugged me around the waist.

“Yes, baby, you’re in my heart, too.”

"In My Heart” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on December 04, 2009. Copyright ®2009 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

On Sunday morning, we took Mini to go see Yo Gabba Gabba Live at the Shrine Auditorium in LA. And even though Mini was probably initially disappointed that this “Gaga” show did not include an explosion of fake blood and a scantily clad woman(?) hanging from a noose, it was still pretty much awesome.

Let me tell you, you would be hard-pressed to find a more hipster filled crowd at a kids show than the crowd at Yo Gabba Gabba Live. Why, if self-congratulatory irony could vomit all over the inside of an auditorium, well, then that would be about the same crowd you’d see at Yo Gabba Gabba Live.

In fact, if skinny jeans and henleys could somehow be repurposed as a vaccine for the H1N1 virus, then not only would everyone in the crowd have been immunized two times over just by showing up to this show, but also they would have generated enough surplus vaccine to stave off the swine flu from half of Southern California. That is one superfluously, ostentatiously hip crowd, my friends. But enough tortured metaphors — it wouldn’t be Los Angeles if we didn’t see some luminary of some kind, and we did recognize Tia Carrere there with her kids, which is probably not a sign of the apocalypse or anything but … well, let’s just say we didn’t see her at Disney Live!

Everybody got a pair of DJ Lance glasses on their seats, and naturally, Mini would have no part of them. Mr. Right-Click and I of course put them on stat. Mr. Right-Click also used the opportunity to flash an LA gang sign. The sign of LA, that is, not of any particular gang within LA proper.

During the “Gaga Show,” Mini sat on my shoulders so he could get a better view. For a little while, I thought maybe he wasn’t having fun, because he was so quiet. But then I remembered that when Mini goes unresponsive at some kind of spectacle, this means he really, really likes it.

At intermission, we got Mini a kids meal from the concession stand. This included a jelly sandwich. Yeah, that’s right, it was a jelly sandwich, not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Look, that’s what they had. I don’t plan ahead and pack a lunch on weekends!

The big surprise of the show was when Snoop Dogg took the stage to teach us a dancy-dance called the “Peanut Butter Smash.” It’s possible the adults were most excited by this development. Here’s a clear photo of Snoop onstage via Rap-Up:

Here’s what my picture of the excitement looks like. Thank you iPhone 3G, for your consistent craptastic photo quality!

At the end of the show, we sang the Goodbye song along with DJ Lance and the gang. Except when Mini sings it, the chorus sounds more like “Dubai! Dubai! Dubai! Dubai!”

Mr. Right-Click and I then improvised and changed “Goodbye, see ya later, we had fun,” to “Dubai, they make islands in the ocean out … of … sand …” and “Dubai, they make islands in the ocean in the shape … of … the … globe.” Because you’re never so witty as when there is only a two-year old around to hear your smart ass remarks.

"Yo Gabba Gabba Live!” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on November 18, 2009. Copyright ®2009 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.

Uggh. I need to vacuum, don’t I?

Sometimes if it’s cold in the mornings, Mr. Right-Click will put long tube socks on Mini and pull them up really high, like how old skool basketball players would wear them. If it’s really, really cold (like, say 60), he’ll pull the socks up on the outside of Mini’s sweatpants, making them go all the way up to his knee with the sweatpants tucked in. Then he’ll bring him in to me, and he’ll say, “Mini, did you tell Mommy that you’re ready to stroll the yards at Corcoran State Prison?”

I don’t know — maybe there are other convicts who stroll the yards with grilled cheese and sippy cups. What do I know?

Usually, Mini will ignore this, or say “No?” as a question, like, “Is this one of those instances where it doesn’t matter if I understand what you’re talking about?” And then he’ll ask to watch “the show.”

So, this morning Mini comes into the bedroom and he’s got on a choice strolling-the-yards outfit. The only things that would make it more complete would be a hairnet and a flannel shirt with just the top button buttoned. And Mr. Right-Click says, “Your son is a gangster.” And I say, “Mini, you’re in a gang?” and he says, “Yeah.” And then Mr. Right-Click says, “He’s ready to stroll the yards at Corcoran.” This is pretty much business as usual at our house. Except for after that, Mr. Right-Click asks Mini if he wants a bite of this breakfast bar thing that he’s got, and I guess this must be secret toddler jailhouse slang for something, because Mini yells, “NO!” and keeps repeating, “Nonononononono!”

And then, things got really weird.

Mini runs over to the corner of the bedroom and stands there, butt to the wall, and I’m thinking, “Now where the fuck did he learn that?” So I say, “Mini, have they been trying to get you to drop the soap over at preschool? Or something?” While I’m busy doing this, Mr. Right-Click grabs a banana, and he’s coming at Mini with it in his left hand like a shank, and is saying things like, “I’m coming after you, punk!” and then Mini says, “RAWR!” and Mr. Right-Click runs away screaming. Then Mr. Right-Click picks up Bruin Bear and Lamby Lamb, and he says, “We’re coming after you in numbers, dude!” But somehow Mini manages to win Bruin Bear and Lamby Lamb over into his gang, and then it’s just Buzz and Mr. Right-Click standing alone. And before I know it, Mini is forcing Mr. Right-Click to brew jailhouse wine and give him all of his cigarettes.

And I’m back at the part where Mini knows that the corner boasts the best and safest view in the circumstance of a jailhouse riot.

"Strolling The Yards At Corcoran” was written by Anna Viele for ABDPBT and was originally posted on October 30, 2009. Copyright ®2009 Anna Viele for ABDPBT, Inc. and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 3.00. All other rights reserved.