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Whatever, Huh Whatever.

If my thirteen year old son was a secret agent...

  • First of all he's clumsy as all you know what because he's growing like a weed --- he's as tall as his mother (she's not short) and he's chasing me down each day --- he wouldn't make it past lunch on his first day on the job.
  • Second, if the way he is with his cell phone, wallet and homework is any indication, he'd probably report to work without his gun. And if he happened to bring the gun, it definitely wouldn't have any bullets.
  • Third, he is a bull in a China shop and walks as heavy as one too. He ain't sneaking up on a soul. My baby is quieter than he is and she's built to be loud.
  • Fourth, based on the mess I find everywhere he's been --- barbecue sauce on the walls, cheese on the living room floor, Jello containers in his drawers, Frito-smelling socks under the dining room table, crumpled up homework on the front porch, snotty tissues stuffed into the back seat of my truck --- he'll never break in or out of anywhere trying to gather evidence without leaving a DNA riddled path right back to his doorstep.

But none of this matters because based on his outlook and apparent oblivion to what's going on right in front of him. He'd walk up to some teenage damsel or secret villain, announce himself, putting on his crackly deep voice as suave as he could and mumble...

"My name is Whatever...Huh Whatever."

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