My mom came into the room when Finn was banging a wooden ball on a wooden box. She said, "Well, aren't you a playboy. Noisy little playboy."
The Noisy Little Playboy. I picture a 1950's Manhattan apartment scaled down to toddler size with the free jazz on the phonograph, and Finn with a little pencil mustache frying late night omelettes for a bevy of tiny martini-swilling dames. Meanwhile, Roger the very small accountant from upstairs is banging on the floor with a broomstick trying to get him to pipe down.
No can do, Rog.
Ladies? Camel me*.
A particularly raucous evening Chez Finn. The conga line snaked
directly to his pied-a-terre and they all decided to go for a world's record. Roger practically had a coronary.
*This is the new request Finn makes all the time. "Camel me." I love it. I don't really know what it means. It's camel, but it's more than camel. Show me a camel? Turn me into a camel? Hand me that camel? Is it like a high-five? Camel me. Oh, yeah. That's what I'm talking about.