Runderpants and Kelly Clarkson

We can't always fly, unless listening to Kelly Clarkson

This morning my daughter asked, "Are we in the TV?"
After I assured her we are not, she followed up with, "How can we get in the TV?"
"We can't get in there. It's like a book... or an alternate universe."
She squished up her nose, and asked, "Are we in a fish bowl?"
I said, "no."
Then she said, "Yes, we are," and walked away.
After the kids ate breakfast we went on a jog. Kiki is out of school, which really adds intensity to my run because I use a double stroller, and push 70 pounds of kid instead of 30 pound George in the single stroller.
The heat also adds intensity. Sacramento turns into a sunspot during summer. It's surprising everything doesn't melt and puddle into a pool of ruins. If we don't go on our run before 8 am, then the risk of death increases by a lot. Running in the heat has given me a greater understanding of the lure for Runderpants.
What I lack in tits, I make up for in ass, so if I tried to run in a pair of Runderpants, my butt would bounce up and down in a primal rhythm that might make cars crash into each other.
It'd probably make some of the bums, who lounge under their staked out shady trees, get up and chase me down. A scene resembling hunters chasing down a rhinoceros in the safari, except the hunters are pushing grocery carts.
To keep my daughter happy on the ride, I play her music. My daughter's unintentional philosophical touts give the impression she would be into high art, however, her taste in music indicates otherwise. I try to play her Callas, but she prefers her, and America's first, idol, Kelly Clarkson. As we run down the street, Kelly Clarkson is playing at full volume, and my daughter sways to the music looking at birds flying, pit bulls lunging at us from behind chain link fences, and pancaked roadkill.
I felt the music as well, especially, Stronger, at which point I started sprinting, imagining myself running in chonies along side a rhino, dodging spears.
The innocuous nonsensical questions of children might sound philosophical, and philosophers might sound like inquisitive children, but rhino butts sound like a giant drum, bum bum bum bum.