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So, Its Come To This?

Zane Atkins. You little blackmailer.

This potty training adventure that we’ve been on is getting really old.

And then, suddenly, you oblige. Twice.

But not without cost.

I should just hang a sign around your neck that reads, “Will poop in the potty for new Transformers.”

Or,

“Will poop in the potty as long as I’m at SOMEONE ELSE’S HOUSE!” Like Justin Stein’s.

Hey bud. First of all, I don’t have extra cash hanging around to purchase you a new Transformer every time you unload in the pot rather than your pants.

Secondly, Justin is only home on tour for a few days and don’t think I’m about to keep driving up to Glencoe just so you can use his bathroom. That’s like . . . stalking.

Jellybeans used to do the trick. What happened?

You are just holding out for more loot and fame. I’ll think about getting you that new Transformer when we see daily progress over several days. And weeks. Maybe a month.

And as for fame? Kissing up to Justin will get you nowhere. You are all cute with your singing along to his songs, but really, his back-up dancers have been hired.

“Thanks. We’ll call you.”

When you are POTTY TRAINED!

Stinker.

I love you.

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