Let me tell you what the little son of a biscuit eater does not need:
A cap gun.
Never, ever in my life have I been more over one single thing than I am over this stinking cap gun. He "capped" me while I was in the bathroom. I punted a full wicker hamper from one end of the bathroom to the other, putting a hole in the side of it. I then attempted to kick it through the bathroom door while he jogged in place and giggled like a merry little sprite gone mad.
When I recovered from that, I set up camp in the bedroom since he'd decided to have Journey Day and I was officially not in the mood for music after having eight years taken off my life in addition to a sore foot. Totsi the Dog joined me. Didgeridoo Boy appeared in the doorway, got a very deliberate look on his face, and then whipped out the damned cap gun again. He fired it into the air about six times, and did a dance.
I wrote on his Facebook wall that he is to take his cap gun and stick it up his butt. For a moment, I considered putting it there for him.
He's assured me the thing won't be coming back out today. I've assured him that if it does, it is going directly into the trash compactor.
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