The Funk
This is really quite amusing.
Whenever I go out to a designated store on some errand for my wife, I usually take along my youngest son, the two-year-old. He has an incredible ability to entertain me and make what would otherwise be a rather mundane task, something memorable. He is the oddball child, the wierdo, the one given to public fits of rage and distemper, continually clinging to "his Daddy" and usually screaming for some form of unhealthy, sugary substance while making no outward attempt to deserve such a prized commodity. However, when it is just he and I, there appears to be a kind of mellowing change that comes over him. We laugh, and he talks (often nonstop), and he actually listens to my commands and stays by my side, making the outing not only pleasurable, but quick and, oddly enough, painless.
It is usually his talent for mimicing anything from television commercials advertising McDonalds or AM PM, to his favorite lines from Madagascar (in character, I might add) that I find to be the most entertaining. Occasionally, however, he sings or even recites lyrics from songs heard on the radio as we progress through our given mission.
Yesterday, one such occurrence provided such hilarity to his proud father, that I could not refrain from repeating the story over and over to every family member with whom I would come in contact. With all of the recent media frenzy surrounding the tragic death of the "King of Pop," it is almost impossible to listen to the radio for any great length of time without being treated to one of Michael Jackson's hits. As my boy and I made our way to Home Depot to pick up some mulch for the landscaping activities my wife had planned for the afternoon, we enjoyed a playing of the title track from the Thriller album (yes, I said album). Though this song predates my son by over two decades, he is a quick study, especially when Dad is crooning from the driver's seat at the top of his lungs. Upon reaching the Vincent Price intoned eerie voice-over at the end of the track, my son picked up on my recital of the line: "The foulest stench is in the air--the funk of forty-thousand years." I don't know if it was the wording itself, or the funny way in which I emphasized the line (in full Vincent Price impression) that amused my boy so, but he began to giggle his cute little two-year-old giggle. Soon after, as we made our way to the garden center of the store, he announced to all who could hear: "The Funk of Forty-Thousand Years!' And being two and having very little sense of context or any notion of going "over the top" continued to do so much to his own delight.
I loved it. My laughter only increased as I noticed the curious looks from passers by, especially those who were quite elderly and hadn't the vaguest notion of what this small child was talking about. At one point, and this was priceless, the poor boy mixed it up and shouted the near vulgarity of "The Forty Funking Thousand Years!!" I thought I might laugh myself into a heart attack.
This little phrase was uttered several more times throughout the day, mostly when prompted to do so for the juvenile amusement of his father. I continue to hear it in my head, even now, and I find myself giggling. It never gets old. Apparently, neither will I.