The Stores A Bawt Dawson

My son is officially an author.

Yah, that's right.

He wrote a book.

On his own.

Behind my back.

JUST FOR FUN!!!

DO YOU REALIZE WHAT THIS MEANS!?!?!?!?!?!!?

The boy IS related to me after all! He may look, talk, stand, sit, eat, smell, laugh, scratch, burp, and be every other physical likeness of his father... but the boy has blogger blood, I can smell it!

Anyways. The book.

Its a juicy autobiographical TELL ALL about a young boy's most intricate inner workings... and I am absolutely head over heels about it. Add it to your Amazon wish list ASAP. Its sure to be in most high demand once Oprah catches wind of it.

Since he is spelling phonetically, and his spellcheck was clearly not functioning on his MacBook the day of publication... (Yah, Tyson, that's right. I know what a MacBook is.)... you'll have to use your own translating skills. But I bet money he gets his stroke of literary genius across to you juuust fine thankyouverymuch.

Ahem.

The Stores A Bawt Dawson.

By Dawson.

Illastrated by Dawson.

Wuns a pon a thear wus a cid namd Dawson and he liced gowing to the prck.

One day Dawson fowd a black widoo.

The necst day Dawson saw a plan.

One day he saw a costoom and he ask his mom if he culd buy it his mom sed yes!


**************************************

TAH-DAHHHH!!!

Were you hanging on every word?

Do you like how the climax was clearly the "black widooo" (a nod to his dear Auntie who is deathly afraid, I am certain!), and were you not completely riveted at the end, when you waited to hear his mom's response to the "costoom" proposal (which technically *didn't actually happen* but clearly it was slightly elaborated for dramatic effect to keep the captive audience guessing)??!?

I dunno. I think Clark Kent may have some competition over at the Daily Planet one of these days in the not-so-distant future.

Move on over, Superman, here comes your kryptonite in the brave human form of Dawson Matthew! You can use one of these empty boxes from his book signings to clear out your desk...

(I just totally had one of those Scrubs moments where I stare past the heap of dishes stacked on the counter in front of me and daydream peacefully about all of that Dailey Planet crap actually happening. What a happy place to stay awhile....)

Ah, reality. Highly over rated.

Speaking of reality...

Here's a sobering thought:

The boy is six years old... in six days.

Six is the devil's number.

He can't really be that old.

...HoLy CoW, I have a six year old, and he writes books. This is heavy. Superman, maybe youre not fired after all... stick around awhile longer...?