Not that I was one to imbibe in externally acquired digested chemical enhancements, but, for the sake of this post, if, say during my college years, I acquired a taste for, I don’t know, shrooms or acid, I have recently discovered a natural and safer alternative.

My three year-old son.

Living with him is much like I imagine living with William boroughs might have been. Without the shooting. But the violence, alas, is similar. My son has become my psychedelic enhancement. All I have to do is listen to him.

Today, for instance, he said, “I don’t like to eat the talking fish bones.”

Words lo live by. But not only that, it sort of sent me into some kind of meditative trance. My first thought was that these words might never have before, in human history, been put together in that order. If you are a frequenter of this blog, you may remember that is something that I generally strive to accomplish. So the pride factor that my three year old accomplished this feat was quite high. The next thought was how in the hell did he come up with that? Is it from some cartoon that I should clearly know about? Finally, I simply wondered what on earth that might mean to his clearly firing and conscious mind.

Daily. Daily he delivers at least one of these acid-worthy gems.

“The donkey is a princess,” he has said.

“The donkey is a princess?” I ask from the front seat of the car.

“Yes, but he’s not very pretty.” I look in the rear-view and he has never been more earnest.

He has also said, “The dish is a hickory stick.”

We had a good five-minute discussion on this one because I simply could not comprehend what he was saying to me. It was undeniably boggling.

It’s good stuff. The acid is never brown. And there are no pesky flashbacks. Yet.