My girlfriend is a professional night time parking lot cleaner.  What this job entails exactly, I’m not sure (other than the obvious).

I’m unemployed, so I take care of her infant son (or is it ours?) who is about, oh, twelve-inches-tall-with-his-legs-curled-up old.  He wears a one piece pajama suit the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, minus the chocolate chips.  He barely knows how to use any of his limbs, so it shocks me the day he asks me telepathically:

“Can I have I bite of that burger?”

At first, I look around.  There’s no way the baby said something.  Besides, do you know what it took for me to get this burger from Applebee’s Carside to Go without a car?

“Yeah, it’s me.  I can speak with my mind.”

I looked the baby in the eyes, and he raised his eyebrows to prove it.

“Okay, so even though you may be able to speak in thoughts,” I told him, “you don’t have any teeth.  Plus, I don’t think you do a good job digesting what you get as it is.”

“Try eating what I do, and see what happens to you,” he warned.  “My gums are the toughest gums you’ll ever meet.  Go on and stick out your finger.  I’ll bite it clean off.”

I believed him, so I cut off a piece of the burger and fed it to him.  He chewed with such delight that his smile made his eyes almost disappear behind chubby cheeks.

“Now let’s go get some chili cheese curly fries,” he suggested.

I chastised him.  “Don’t think with your mouth full.”  Then I got up and grabbed my coat and his blankets and carriage.

INGREDIENTS: Game 1 of the World Series… and two hours of Lego Batman: The Videogame

(CAVEAT LECTOR: For the sake of keeping the dream retelling from going completely off the deep end, I omitted the part where the baby just turned into a floating head.)