i said, "hey, remember that poem, "rotten walnuts", that i wrote last month? well i submitted it to the international society of poets who rhyme stuff run by world renown poeteer howard ely."
my son replied, “how could i forget?”
i said, “well, mr. smarty pants, it’s so good they want to put it in a handsome, 100% synthetic leatherette bound, poetry anthology called, the everlasting light of american and some canadian but not the french parts poetry anthology. how about them apples?”
my son said, “it's a scam. howard ely doesn't even exist.”
i said, “oh you’re just jealous of your old man's poetry skills.”
he said, “dad, you rhymed "rotten walnuts" with "gotten doughnuts". the poem was pedestrian at best.”
i said, “what do ya mean? i thought that was so genius.” i took pause to ponder his dismissive attitude.
then i said, “you know for a ten year old you’re a little too big for your britches sometimes.”
he said, “okay, you're right. hey, you want to play chess?”
i said, “oh sure. can't beat me at rhyming. so switch to something you can win at.”
he said, “fine big baby, how about candy land?”
i said, “now your talkin'. prepare to eat dirt gummy boy!”