Week 47: '37 Ford

Today's featured Hot Wheels car is a Woody. It sports wood. And I say this without any innuendo.

A household of kids has done that to me. No more are the days of the "That's what she says," comments, or the juvenile tittering over someone saying bush pilot. Even the word "tittering" brings forth no tittering.

No, my vulgar quipping has ceased in favor of straight-faced acceptance there is no adult audience with which to playfully quip.

Years of children's books with playful pussies and strutting cocks on the farm have anesthetized me to any inclination to giggle. Years of my children innocently using unintentional vulgar sentence constructions has numbed me to a pursuit of base humor. Years of listening to talk concerning breast feeding has taken away that mainstay of male humor, the boob joke, from me. Years of enduring that particular childhood phase when the word "poop" is randomly inserted in place of another word (rollercoaster = rollerpooper, lollipop = lollipoop, tennis shoes = tennis poops), in addition to annoying me, has destroyed even the slightest desire toward scatological humor.

Even this picture, from one of my vintage children's book, brings no comment.

Okay, maybe this picture might, but I wouldn't say anything out loud. I think you can understand my pain.

I'VE BECOME APPROPRIATE!!!

*sigh*

At least I can still get a hearty laugh at a good shot to the groin with a football.

But even the two-year-old laughs at that.

Photo of my Woody courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

What?