I'd shoot Aslan's head off

My daddy was crushed, smashed, perforated, stabbed, shot in his face/body/and limbs of all kinds, driven over, ignited, blown up, and pulverized last night. It was a cute little deathmatch from what I could tell. I especially liked the part when uncle Jon smashed my daddy against the wall or when daddy got so excited about finding a bazooka that he didn't realize he wasn't the only one who did and got blasted into oblivion. Don't take me wrong, I like my daddy—but there is still a strange kind of satisfaction in the fact that since he doesn’t want me cover his back (and instead, he insists on me falling asleep at 8pm while listening to Narnia), he then gets his head shot off. It's not that I mind talking lions and mice, but I sincerely believe that the Russian mob and Little Jacob have more practical life lessons in store for me than Caspian and Lucy combined. It's tough but true, ain't it uncle Jon?

PS: Can I be on your team next time?

Sport fever's cured

I've never really cared for soccer, you know, but since daddy insists I choose one sport, I thought I'd give it a chance. I mean, what other option is there? The American "football" with its crooked ball or the 'm-falling-asleep-just-hearing-'bout-it baseball? And I certainly ain't gonna shoot hoops or have anything to do with water, horses, ice, or any kind of sticks. So, soccer it is, I guess.

So, I fast-forward-watched the Czech vs. Portugal match yesterday and let me tell you, it sucked. First of all, the guys hardly moved… and if they did, they usually stumbled, fell down, or were trying to hide the ball from sight by kicking it towards the audience, which only delayed the inevitable - we lost. 3:1. And the worst part is, we lost against Portuguese who didn't want to be there in the first place. Why else would that Ricardo/Ferreira/Ronaldo (or whatever his name was) guy be wearing Dorothy's ruby slippers if not to secretly wish to get home to his wine-sipping walk through winding streets of his quaint village? And let me tell you, he should've definitely clicked the heels. Maybe then, we wouldn't have lost and my soccer excitement would have lasted more than 12 minutes. Now, what do I do? What sport do I take on? Does GTA count? But before you say something hasty about not moving, don't forget about the six-axis controller, daddy!

Age has nothing to do with it...

This weekend was pretty hectic. Our friends stopped by and cooked us an amazing dinner… at least I think it was amazing. I was the only one who didn’t get a taste of it (even the damn dog was better off than I, as always when it comes to chow). Let me tell you, I can’t wait till nobody won’t be able to use the “age” excuse anymore: you’re too young to eat, you’re too young to drink, you’re too young to play GTA, you’re too young to have a myspace web page… but obviously, I ain’t too young for some really freaky pictures made by a troubled dead gal. I mean, first, I thought the Frida exhibition was kind-a cool. I really liked the monkeys. But then, the pictures got surreal, weird, and bloody. I mean, the GTA’s not supposed to be good for me and this is? I don’t get it. So, I got my opinions known (really, really known) and some old lady made fun of me: “such a young boy and such a harsh art critic.” You bet I am, old lady! But remember, age has nothing to do with it! Nothing at all…