The Secret Diary of a 3 Year Old

MONDAY
Daddy looked at my drawing today and said, ‘Nice house!’ It was a fucking car, the philistine tit.

TUESDAY
Mummy CONSTANTLY asks me to refrain from twanging my trouser snake but as someone who doesn’t own any actual real estate in the schlong department I’m not sure she entirely grasps just what delightful fun it is. I reckon Daddy knows.

WEDNESDAY
How come a stand up piss at home gets a round of applause but a stand up dump incites a riot in Sainsbury’s?

THURSDAY
Saw some toddler wearing a Nirvana shirt. Asked him what his favourite song was. He said ‘Wheels on the Bus.’ Gonna assume he didn’t dress himself.

FRIDAY
Went full beelzebastard at breakfast. Mummy looked broken and Daddy was apologising profusely for having to go to work but I defo saw him punching the air and mouthing ‘yes!’ as he danced his way to the car for a nice relaxing day at the office.

SATURDAY
Was zooming all over the place on my balance bike and laughed so hard down the hill that I missed the seat and grazed my scrotum on the back wheel. Pretty sure I’ll never have kids now. Good job really. I fucking hate kids.

SUNDAY
Why does Mummy sit down? She must know by now that it’s utterly futile – wherever she is I’ll find her and force her to get up again. I always ask nicely at first but if she’s not on her feet within a tenth of a second of my first request then I think it’s only fair to start shouting at her with increasing volume and indignation. She must stand up, always. Be ready, woman. I may not need you right this instant but if you’re sitting down you’re literally no good to anybody.

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