Mitchell's Pie Projectile Pandemonium

Blaze, Mitchell's caretaker, stood in a state of stunned disbelief as the apple pie sailed across the room—a golden-crusted missile of pure toddler rebellion that would make abstract artists weep with joy.

The pie left a trail of destruction, splattering against the wall like a culinary crime scene. Mitchell stood, shirt slightly askew, Pampers already hinting at the chaos to come, a look of pure, unfiltered triumph spreading across his face.

"That's it," Blaze declared, his voice cutting through the room like a knife of parental authority. "Timeout."

Mitchell's tiny body moved with the confidence of a tiny dictator. The toilet became his next battlefield. Timeout meant nothing to a champion of infant destruction.

His face scrunched with that telltale look of toddler concentration. A thunderous fart erupted—loud enough to make the bathroom tiles tremble. The Pampers began to expand, telling a story of pure, unfiltered infant audacity.

Another poop arrived with military precision.

"No preschool workbook for a month," Blaze warned, his voice a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration. "Until you can be a big boy."

Mitchell giggled. Not just a giggle. A declaration of victory. His thumb, moments ago a comfort, was swiftly replaced with a pacifier. A strategic move in the ongoing war of toddler dominance.

Unbothered. Victorious.

Mitchell: Infant Chaos Incarnate.

Another day in the life of domestic warfare.