Monday with Trot.

I wish I'd have had the presence of mind to get my camera out. In fact, I've given serious thought to strapping one to a Red Sox cap and putting it on every night when I get home from work and just record everything, sort of like "The Blair Witch Project" on steroids.

But it was 8 a.m., I'd just gotten out of the shower, and frankly I don't really function all that well until I've downed at LEAST 2 Mt Dew's and my daily allowance of Vitamin B12.

There was my youngest son, wearing nothing but his Spiderman underoos and a smile with an entire dryer's worth of laundry heaped on top of him while he giggled like a raving lunatic at Patrick Starr dressed up like a girl, complete with lipstick and a halter top. Patrick, not Trot although that wouldn't have totally surprised me either.

His answer to my obvious question of "What are you doing and why don't you have any clothes on?"

"I'm told, Dad. And dese are WARM."

If those morons from "Jersey Shore" can get a television show then I'm sitting on a gold mine.