With one joke, my day is shot to hell.

Today my son laughed so hard, he threw up. And really, if you’re going to throw up for any reason, isn’t that the best one? I got the call from school that I have dreaded since his first day. Your son threw up, the school administrator said. But he’s fine! Just a bout of uncontrollable laughter! So you probably don’t need to come get him. But of course I did, how could I leave my poor post-vomit boy at school? Wouldn’t he be tired, or sore, or freaked out?

In short: no. If he was upset about anything, it was that I dared show up and ruin his good time. The teacher recounted to me how the other children barely registered that one of their own had just upchucked all over the lunch table. One of them—put down your corn dog when you read this—continued to eat the grapes that Henry had just thrown up on. I hasten to add that they were not the actual soiled grapes, but the few pristine grapes remaining in the bunch. I ask you, who could be so totally unfazed? Only a bunch of preschoolers, that’s who. Those adorable nitwits.

Anyway, on the way home Henry cheerfully shared with me the hilarity that caused his sickness. Are you ready? He and his best friend had invented Peanut Butter Man, “which were like our fingers walking across the table.” And Peanut Butter Man had a special gun that squirted peanut butter at bad guys. “It’s a peanut butter gun,” said Henry, sensibly.

“No,” said his friend, “It’s a penis butter gun.”


The End.