Die Buchwalds

Stupid bee holders’ eyes, keeping all the humor. My comic today contains some very important advice. And one of the most favoritest lines of mine ever that I have written.

Amy doesn’t understand the humor content level of taking a relatively simple premise (grandchildren being children with all the fun and none of the inconveniences we had grown to love, or at least get used to) and then taking that presence, hitting it with a fast-moving positron or nuetron or some other tiny, fast-moving partical, like the particle of a cow, and mutating it into a completely ludicrous proposal. That proposal is that children are like taxes. How are they like taxes? They aren’t, but my mutation got them to be. Pretty soon our children will be walking around saying, “Hello, my name is W4, pleestameecha!” Well not our children, strictly speaking; they don’t exist yet.

But it’s okay, because I don’t understand her love of Punky Brewster. I suppose it averages out in the end. We could then find the essential supremum of the set of our differences and learn which activities exploded our understanding. It’ll be a grand ol’ party! Fiesta, that is.

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I created a little Buchwald Quiz. Click the link on the sidebar & see how well you know us. And feel free to leave us little comments using the comments link that appears below every post. Also, don’t forget to put your dot on our guest map. Thanks & enjoy the blogging!

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I do not find it fun to mail miscellaneous paper to people I don’t know. I also find it very very hard to follow my husband’s logic as posted below. Taxes are NOT like children. But my husband is really cute.

In other news, the Souzeks have officially made the Big Move, which involved an awful lot of time in my home state, but no visit with the Buchwald family. *pouts* We’re glad to hear that they made it safely and have furniture.

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The other night Amy and I were watching Seventh Heaven. No, I don’t know which night it was; Seventh Heaven is on like every night of the week. It’s everywhere. It’s so omnipresent that it’s on nine days a week! Okay so maybe not so much, but it’s there a lot. And we watch it. And we were watching it on that night during which our activities consisted of watching Seventh Heaven and doing other things. Which could be any night really. Hah hah hahaha! I just tricked you into a reading a whole freakin’ paragraph and all I basically said was, “Hey, I don’t remember what night that was exactly.” Sucker.

So during the show, there was dating stuff going on. There’s always dating stuff going on in that show, amongst whatever other moral lesson it happens to be bringing to you this fine evening in question. So, after said dating stuff occurred (does occurred have one r or two r’s? I can never quite decide), Amy emits these following words of impending doom: “See what we have to look forward to?”

I did what comes naturally: I used my male intellect to produce the best course of action that would prevent said impending doom and thus make her point invalid. I told her that our children simply weren’t going to date, because they were all going to be priests and nuns. I stood triumphant, beaming with pride at my quick thinking. That was until it was realised that we’d never have grandchildren at that rate, and grandchildren are good things. See, grandchildren are children with all the fun and none of the effort. It’s like you took something of mixed blessing, like taxes, and removed the bad parts. You get all the joy af mailing random pieces of paper to complete strangers without having to spend buttloads of money while doing so.

So this brings us to my point: taxes are like children. You heard it here first.

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Pansy has reappeared from a forced Internet sabatical.
She and partner-in-crime, Peony, hold down the fort at Two Sleepy Mommies, a marvelous blog about Catholic motherhood.

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