It says I spent my third birthday in Tijuana with my best friend, Superman.
or . . .
Superman Piñata has seen some shit.
or . . .
"Cake now."
or . . .
"What? We was just talking. Ain't that right Clarky?"
I could probably go on all day.
All day.
But I would be very remiss if I didn't at least mention how supremely creepy a Superman Piñata is.
And, I don't know how my mother managed it, but how was she able to tuck my shirt into my belt?
The belt isn't holding up anything.
It's literally just wrapped around my belly.
At least I know where my son gets his cowlicks from.
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