And a real nasty one, too.
Those of you who don't recall the above lines have no appreciation for American pop culture. I'll give you another hint:
(Hallway 1)
Ray: (picks up his walkie-talkie) Venkman! I saw it! I saw it! I saw it!
(Hallway 2)
Peter: (into walkie-talkie) It's right here, Ray. It's looking at me.
Ray: (on walkie-talkie) He's an ugly little spud, isn't he?
Peter: (into walkie-talkie) I think he can hear you, Ray.
The phrase "slimed" takes on a whole new meaning when you have an infant around. In the last two months, I've been pissed on, puked on, and, yes, even pooped on.
Numerous times... projectile-style.
You get to the point where the sight of regurgitated breastmilk on your shoulder doesn't even faze you. Which is, I imagine, the feeling Dr. Venkman must have experienced while lying prostrate in that hotel hallway, covered in slime: "Man, I feel so funky," he said.
Funky indeed, Dr. Venkman.
(Side note: for those of you who did not know, my youngest brother - and Jack's youngest uncle, Chris - was a huge Ghostbuster's fan... like, I came home from school every day for a year to find him watching the movie, dressed in a miniature ghostbusting outfit complete with proton pack and styrofoam proton stream.)
So this one's for you, Chris. May young Jack take to his childhood with half the enthusiasm and commitment to playtime as you did.
