It was Tuesday morning (a week ago). ‘Make sure you say goodbye to Dad before you go to school,’ I instructed our oldest boy-child, ‘because he’s going to be gone for a few days.’
‘Where’s he going,’ the Gort asked. And I had to chuckle at the evidence of the Johnson’s fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants approach to parenting. Apparently we hadn’t told the boys the professor was going away. To another continent.
It seemed the Gort was somewhat familiar with the place, because he said ‘that’s where they have the poopers.’
And I had to wonder if I had heard him correctly: ‘the poopers?’
‘Yeah, Madame Matthews told us at Christmas they have these little figures that are pooping.’ I had to wonder how much of the real story had gotten lost in translation. Still, something about the way he’d explained it convinced me ‘the poopers‘ were real.
We dropped the professor off at the airport. ‘The Hen wants you to bring back a pooper,’ I texted after he let me know he’d checked in. ‘A what?’ he replied. ‘A pooper.’
A couple of days passed before I heard from him again. ‘I did see the pooping ornaments. I didn’t buy any, but if the boys really want one, I can.’
I responded in the affirmative, that yes, given all the hype surrounding the poopers, he really ought to bring one home; perhaps a superhero pooper.
The next thing I knew, our highly sleep deprived, jet-lagged paternus familias posted what is best described as a ‘classic professor’ rambling on his fantasy football league’s message board. Apparently the poopers had inspired his weekly pre-cap, which I’ve edited ‘slightly’ for my punctuation-averse better half.
‘Well if you thought last week’s pre-cap was full of unintelligible jibberish, hold on to your pelotas. This week we join you from Barcelona. Why Barcelona you ask? Why not.
So each of these matchups will focus on the unexplained that we find here in this city of tici taca, paella and not so awesome coffee.
Somos v. Jack.
Well obviously Somos los Campeones is all you hear around here, albeit in Catalan and with lithping s’s ….
Somos by 50
[Did I mention I was 0-5 on these last week.]
Spanktra v. Buttbombs.
OK, for you Mr. Bombing Buttocks, I give you the Caganer. Yes, it’s a wonderful Barcelona tradition of placing a figurine in the corner of the nativity scene, “cagando” as it were. Yup, nothing says Christmas like a miniature Lionel Messi dropping the deuce behind one of the donkeys. Apparently this tradition is hundreds of years old. Think of it as the Betty White in a film, you just put her in the corner somewhere to add a little humor to the scene.
Bombs by 9
Calgary v. Butkus
The Cagatio is hidden in the woods. Children go find him and bring him back. They feed him, and he grows and then craps candles and christmas presents. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. But lest you are confused that the Cagatio might mean the dumping uncle, it does not. It is a log, Ren and stimpy style. This log has a face and is covered by a blanket. Parents will buy different sized logs so that they can fool their children into thinking that feeding A FREAKING LOG makes it grow and crap presents. And candles.
I am not sure what the obsession with scatophelia is here or why it is combined with Christmas, but there you have it. So next time you are worried that telling your kids lies about Santa might be undercutting your credibility, remember at least you aren’t trying to sell the idea of a crapping log with a Santa hat…..
Enjoy the week and remember, if you are looking for some way to mask those holiday farts, just install a Caganer in your manger scene and Cagatio under your tree and blameshift.
Five days after he left, the professor returned. With a Spiderman pooper in his carry-on.
Let the Christmas season begin