Sad thing is, I know my readers. And chances are pretty good that with the post title alone I garnered a few dozen clicks. I’m going to have a field day with the tags too.

Oh, well. Let’s dive right in, shall we?

So, the wife and I have been waiting patiently – frugally, even – for the broke-ass Super 8 cassette camcorder to keel over and die so we could enter the late last century and upgrade to something that doesn’t weigh 50 pounds, take up

Pretty close to what we were working with, but not with as many nice features.

 it’s own suitcase and run on diesel.

The Good News: It finally died.

The Bad News: It died while at Disney.

Solid. It couldn’t have died during the 100+ hours I have of Weirdo and Crazy lip-synching to Hannah Montana or High School Musical. I have enough tape of that to mummy wrap the cast of The Biggest Loser, seasons 1-4.

Anywho though, off I went to the Buy That is Best and returned with a shiny new handheld video camera that uses memory sticks. It’s so tiny and cute, and I’m so happy with it I won’t even bother side-barring into a four-letter and four-syllable (MFer/MFing, folks. I won’t make you think too hard) laced rant about the moron sales chick that sent me home with a $60 back-up battery that doesn’t fit my camera.

See? I’m over it.

Well, I get the camera home and start showing off all the features to my wife, because that’s what guys do, and she could care less, because that’s what gals do. Nevertheless, I hook it up to the TV in the living room and turn it on.

BAM! Two kids, live on a 42″ plasma. Hannah Montana instantly leaps from the stereo, microphones come out of the woodwork and it’s a freaking Disney dance party right there in the Off the Pole living room.

Until things turned decidedly un-Disney.

Now, at this point it has been well-established that I’m not actually taping any of this. Rather, I’m merely feeding what the camera is focused on directly to the TV. So as I swing the camera from Weirdo and Crazy to my wife who, in an effort to be funny – and God bless her for it - pretends as if she is going to lift her shirt up.

Right on the screen Weirdo and Crazy are paying rapt attention to.

Well, I don’t need to tell you what happened next, but since it’s been on instant reply in my head for the past several weeks, eff it, I’m going to anyway.

Weirdo erupts in giggles and before either the wife or I can begin a hasty lecture on what’s appropriate and what is not, her shirt is yanked up to her chin.

And there it is, folks.

Boobies in 42″ high def.

Awesome. You know, if one of my kids becomes a stripper, that’s one me. But at this point, if they end up in a Girls Gone Wild video, that, my cardiac arrest, stroke and ensuing cirrhosis of the liver are on my wife.

So, you know, boobies are all the rage around my house right now. And unfortunately the subject shines an unforgiving spotlight on my failings as a mature role model for my daughters.

You see, there is this book I sometimes read to Weirdo before bedtime. It’s (ironically) a charming book about being proper and having good manners written by Fergie – the Duchess of York, not the man-faced, no-talent, every-song-rips-its-beat-from-something-I-once-roller-skated-to broad from the Black Eyed Peas. The book is called “Tea for Ruby,” but it is now magically known as “Tea for Boobie,” because every time I go to say “Ruby,” Weirdo shouts out “Boobie.”

And the word “Ruby” appears about 7 million times over the course of about 20 pages.

Now, instead of being a good parent and correcting her, I am reduced to a red-faced, trembling mound of snickers, tears and giggles. Oh, how Weirdo and I lay there in her bed, cackling with glee at the word Boobie.

Unfortunately she’s six and I’m 34.

Tea for Boobie. LOL…