Why did I agree to do this? I don't know the first thing about taking care of a kid. The reason quickly comes to me: this little guy's mom is smokin' hot and I thought it might get me laid. Single moms always have a soft spot in their pants for a man who is willing to watch their child while they run errands. Well, if I am going to make a good impression I should probably feed the little dude. Or at least water him.

I have always been an avid fan and hardcore supporter of child labor, especially when it comes to my food. How can the little bastard do it? How is it possible? How can one person watch the same episode of Ricky Sprocket for four consecutive hours? He's showing absolutely no signs of fatigue. He's not human, he's a four and a half year old cartoon watching machine. I grab the little maniac by his ankles and pull his feet out from under him. As he hits the ground laughing he asks me in drooling broken English, "What you do?" Off come both socks before I answer with a dead pan stare on my face, "I'm looking for the ‘Off' button." I don't think the little guy really understands that I am in fact really looking for an "Off" button. I must stop the madness. The little man continues to laugh in a tone that chills me to my inner core; all he needs is a knife and a pair of overalls and I would probably shit myself in fear. I have to find something else for us to do to pass the time because if I have to watch one more minute of this show I think I am going to blow my fucking brains out.

Looking over at the kid I find that he has his head stuck between two cushions on the couch. His legs are kicking in an up and downward motion very similar to a swimming frog. I think he is trying to drive his head right through the bottom of my couch to free himself. "Hey kid, if you find any money down there, we split it." I receive absolutely no response, but his legs are still moving so I know he's alive. After two minutes of having his head stuck between my couch cushions the little fart finally frees himself. I could have helped him out but it was more fun to just watch it all go down.

The little guy's hilarious journey appeared to be quite taxing on him so I am sure he must need some food. I know I would. I smack my hands on my thighs to gain the little man's attention, the way I would for a dog. "Hey little guy, you hungry? Want some food?" I ask in a convincingly caring tone of voice. All I receive in response is a blank stare. Maybe the kid can't speak English, I think to myself, so I take another approach. "Speaka the English…espanyol…you wantsa some fooda eha?" This time the response is the middle finger. What is this world coming to when a grown man is subjected to a non-verbal assault delivered by a four and a half year old child? Where does a little kid learn to give the middle finger as a response to a question anyway? I'm speechless. All I can do is smile at the little guy and return the favor. Normally I don't flip the bird at children under five, but I feel this situation requires a much needed policy change, and hey, he started it.

Rifling through my refrigerator and cupboards, I desperately search for something a child would consume without protest. I stop for a second and try to remember what I liked to eat as a kid. I was a picky eater but there was one thing I loved more than anything else in this world: fruity pirate adventure sandwiches. This delicacy is constructed by spreading a generous amount of crunchy peanut butter between two pieces of white bread, then blanketing the spread with a large handful of Captain Crunch cereal and exactly thirteen orange Tic-Tacs. The flavor combination is out of this world. It does not take me long to find all the ingredients to make this welfare delicacy and begin construction. The little man stands at my feet and watches me prepare this new eating experience. I make sure to describe exactly what I am doing so that next time he can be the one to make it for us. He may be young but that doesn't bother me in the slightest. I have always been an avid fan and hardcore supporter of child labor, especially when it comes to my food.

It would take considerable effort to find two semi-clean plates, so I do the next best thing—I throw the sandwiches directly on the table. Why use plates or utensils when you don't have to? Before I have a chance to inform the little guy that his food is waiting for him, he has already pulled himself up onto a chair and started devouring his sandwich. I stare at the little turd with pride. It's nice to see another food connoisseur enjoy such a delicacy. All we need now is something great to wash these tasty snacks down. I decide to make my all time favorite drink, root beer with pop rock depth charges. Most people are unaware of the pop rock depth charge. The construct of a depth charge is simple: just dump a full packet of pop rocks into an empty glass and top with root beer. Remember to drink it fast because if you don't you will surely be wearing it. We devour our sandwiches and guzzle back our drinks. Well, I guzzle mine; the little guy chooses to wear his instead. I think more of it goes up his nose than into his mouth. We both sit back in our chairs and unbutton our pants. The kid is mirroring my every move. I always knew that someday I would have a side kick—a side kick with a really hot mom.

A knock at the door wakes me up from my nap. It's his mom and she is bend-me-over-and-drive-it-home-random-guy drunk.It is apparent that this little guy had a hard time eating; he is covered from head to toe in root beer and peanut butter. I try to keep a respectably clean home so if anyone is going to mess it up by smearing clothing covered with peanut butter and root beer all over the place it is going to be me. I am going to have to find a change of clothes for this kid. The only thing I have that might fit him is my vintage 1980 Iron Maiden t-shirt with matching head band. I pass the kid his new outfit and direct him to the washroom. Five minutes pass before the bathroom door opens, and out walks a miniature rocker. I could not be prouder. He looks like a real rock star, and then he starts to behave like one. He's trashing my house! It takes me half an hour to catch the manically belligerent bastard and begin to chill him out. I calm the little guy down by tightly wrapping him in a blanket, then placing him on the couch and putting his favorite show on fast forward so it can keep up with his eye movements.

Looking at my watch I am amazed to find that four hours have just passed me by. This little dude's mom said she only needed to run to the store to pick up milk and she would be right back. She said twenty minutes, max. I don't want to complain too much though—the longer she stays out the more sex I will get. It's pretty weak logic but it's all I have. I try my hardest to stay upbeat and alert but this little monkey has taken away all my strength. I periodically slap myself across the face to stay awake but it fails, like most things in my life. I nod off and fall asleep.

A knock at the door wakes me up from my nap. It's his mom and she is drunk—bend-me-over-and-drive-it-home-random-guy drunk, and escorted by a dude who smells like a burning joint. She pops her head in, "Sorry it tooks me so longs. I ran ins to old friend and we starts to catch up, you knows."

I respond with "Yeah, I know how that is. Happens to me all the time." Actually, I have no idea how that is; nothing seems to be the only thing that happens to me all the time. We look over at her son lying on my couch, fast asleep. She opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she can speak by placing my right pointer finger over her mouth. "It's okay, he can spend the night. You go have fun catching up with your friend. You can pick him up in the morning."

The hot little momma grabs my hand and begins to slid my finger into her mouth, then she stops for a second and looks me in the eyes and slurs, "You're a real life saver, I owe you big sucky sucky. After my friend leaves, I'lls comes back and pay yous back."

The idea of being blown by this sexy little momma turns me on, but the thought of another drunken woman puking on my cock quickly turns me off. I respond to her with, "Thanks for the oral invite but I'm going to have to take a sucky sucky rain check." She simply smiles and walks away.

My cock protests. I look down at my first mate and say, "You'll thank me in the morning. Trust me, we can't handle another session of vomit. We're still suffering the skin irritation from the last time." I close the door and head for bed. I pray the hot little mommy will remember her promise tomorrow.


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