Smokey the Magnificent

Failing the Turing Test since 1986


I had to get a blood test today. Miles came along. He likes watching me exsanguinate.

Small girl in waiting room: “I don’t want to play with your boy.”
Me: “Oh! Why?”
Small girl: “He’s biting at me.”
Me: “Oh. He’s just being a cheetah. He does that. Miles! Can you stop being a cheetah? You’re scaring this girl.” To girl: “It’s OK, he won’t really bite you.”
Miles, kindly but firmly: “I will, though. ‘Cause I’m a cheetah.”


Miles: “Ooh Mummy, there’s a scales here! I can see how heavy I am.”
Me: “Oh, cool! Let’s see if you’ve attained a pood. …Wow, you’re 17 kilos!”
Miles: “Does that mean I’m a pood now?”
Me: “It does!”
Miles: “YAY! I’m a pood!”
Me, thinking: “Should I explain to the phlebotomist that a pood is a Russian unit of weight, namely sixteen kilos or the weight of a smallish kettle-bell, and that we as a family are so enamoured of this unit that we promised Miles, a runty wee thing, a celebratory Pood Cake when he tipped the scales? Ehh. She’s over there. She probably didn’t notice. Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”
Miles: “I’m a pood! I’M A POOD!”


Miles, watching me wince as I am drained of lifeblood: “Do you know, Mum, when I had my constipoops it hurt even worse than having blood taken out. I weeped and WEEPED.”
Phlebotomist: [no reaction whatsoever]

[On the way out, after Miles spotted an exciting loo and felt a consequent need]

Me: “That took a long time. Did you wash your hands?”
Miles: “Yep! I washed them.”
Me: “Excellent.”
Miles: “They had yellow soap.”
Me: “Awesome.”
Miles: “It smelled nasty.”
Me: “Oh ar?”
Miles: “And it tasted HORRIBLE.”

  1. Hannah

    So….was the yellow soap actually soap, or a specimen left behind by the last patient? :-/