Monthly Archives: July 2012

The Karmic Claw or A Lesson Given, A Lesson Gained

So I was at Chuck E. Cheese, (don’t fucking laugh and act like you’ve never been there, I recognized you even with that dollar store ‘disguise’ mustache on) and I was getting a little bored after beating my child at skeeball for the 17th time.  Being that she, like most kids, is a sore-ass-loser I gave her my 10 billion tickets so she could at least have a shot at claiming one of those nickel shit toys on the second tier. 



Oh yeaaaaaa…

“Chin up” I tell her, “You just need a little more practice!”

Not looking convinced, she moped away trailing a line of yellow tickets behind her like a tail.

I then wandered around looking for another challenge to peak my interest.  Bypassing the flashing lights and ‘pew! pew! pews!’ sounds of the arcade shooting games,  the bouncing, scrunched heads of little girls spazzing out to pop music on those simulated dance games, and the terribly creepy animated mascots with fixed, unblinking eyes and stiff, robotic arms, I found myself at the outskirts of this adult hell on earth and that’s when…. I SAW IT.

Two words: CREE PY.

Shining like a grail, sharp taloned and enticing, the Grab A Crappy Stuffed Animal With A Metal Claw Using Only Two Directional Buttons Game called to me like the dirty whore that it is.  Now, I’m a competitive bitch (just ask my kids when they’re done crying after our last Uno match) and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I may spend every last dirty brass Chuck E. Cheese coin in my pocket to defeat this Claw Machine Motherfucker… but rest assured, I WILL defeat it.


My Nemesis.


I approached this behemoth rip off of a device and began mapping out a strategy.  As you know, obtaining ANYTHING from this game is knowing that although you may want the nicest piece of shit imprisoned in this glass case, you must be aware that it will most likely be wedged in too tightly or situated just beyond the Claw’s reach and so, you must opt for what is actually ATTAINABLE. In this case, a frazzled looking yellow bird thing.

Don’t look so sad there frazzled yellow bird thing, I’m gonna break you outta this joint.  You deserve to be loved by a sticky child for a couple of days before being abandoned for a Barbie… you deserve being ripped apart cheap seam by cheap seam by the dog.  Let’s do this…


Something like this….


Coin one.
Just slightly off to the side, the slender metal finger dips down only to grab the stifled, encased AIR. To be expected, I’m getting the feel for this particular Bitchass Grabber… That was a warm up, a trial run… a minor flesh wound.

Coin two.
Here birdie, birdie, birdie, you will be mine and I shall name you George…
FUCK! Premature button pressing. I’m waaay off and the talon grabs the wispy orange hair of one a Troll doll whose skin looks inappropriately vaginal.  I must be letting the nerves get to me… Still lots of jingle in my pocket though, I got this…

Coin three.
FUCK YOU!  I HAD THAT YELLOW BASTARD IN MY CLUTCHES!!  You dirty sonofabitch… I see how you wanna play this. At least I got that bird a bit more unwedged so my third effort wasn’t totally in vain….

Coin four.
Soooo close!!  Well played Claw Grabber.. well played, but we’ll see who get’s the last laugh…

Coin five.
Now I’m starting to feel like a old crow at a slot machine.  I’m bec
oming addicted. I can’t stop.  I WON’T stop.  This WILL happen… I just need more patience grasshopper…. concentrate Daniel Son.

Coin six…
Coin seven…
Coin thirteen…

Coin twenty…. LAST COIN.
My hands are sweating, there is no more jingle in my pocket there is, however, a line of jabbering children behind me waiting to have a go at this Black Magic Machine of Trickery… 

“SHHHHH!!!!!” I think to myself.  “Don’t these snot noses know I NEED SILENCE right now????  FUUUUUUUU…”

It’s MAKE OR BREAK and although I feel as if the shiny plastic eyes of the frazzled yellow bird thing are almost taunting me by now, I MUST persevere.  I don’t even give a fuck at this point what that damn bird wants.  Maybe he likes it in that glass box amongst all the other sad and dusty toys.  Maybe he’s content and warm in there snuggled next to the Vagina Troll… Or MAYBE, he’s the mastermind behind everything!!!  Maybe his whole plan was to give the appearance of being “ATTAINABLE” but is actually in cahoots with the shiny talon, conspiring as a team to take all my brassy, fake money coins… 

Maybe I’m losing my fucking mind thinking that this dumb doll conceived in China has any thoughts at all!!  No matter, last coin. Fuck it.

I’m about to slide the coin into the slot and my child walks up to me.

“Where have you BEEN this whole time???”  she says.

“Oh you know… just walking around…. you know…..”

“Uhhh, ok… anyway, look what I got with the tickets!!”

She dangles a plastic Fly Eye keychain in my face and a splatter painted snap bracelet.

“Cool..” I say, clearly distracted and drawn away towards the yellow devil in the box.

“You should go for that yellow bird thing.”

“I KNOW THIS, GODAM … uh.. I mean, you think so??” I try to keep my cool.

“Totally, it’s like, so easy.”

I refrain from flipping the fuck out and gently slide the coin in to the machine.
Baaaaack…. a little more… okaaayyy
Leeeeftt… leeft okaaay, looks perfect, looks square on.  That fucking bird is coming home with me….. DOWN CLAW!

The claw opens, it drops down directly on the birds head, it closes around it’s neck, it begins to rise taking the elusive yellow bastard with it…

“YES…” I think… “YESYESYESYESSSSSS!!!!!”

And then, the weight of the ensuing booty I’m about to plunder is all too much.  The claw cannot hold it.  The bird slides, the claw clutches, the bird is now dangling precariously by its beak/bill/whateverthefuckthatis and then, one inch shy from the exit hole….. it drops.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!” I yell, “NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” again.  

My eyebrows are more knitted than an Irish sweater, my teeth are clenched, lips curled back like a rabid fucking dog.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I hit the machine with my fist as mothers usher their children away from me.  My daughter looks at me.  Confused, scared.


Yep, just like that.

*sigh* 
I have been defeated.

My daughter pats my back softly, her eyes are filled with a lot of pity but also a twinge of satisfaction.

“Chin up Mom, you just need more practice!”

And now I realize, here at Chuck E. Cheese, that Karma is like a shiny metal claw, ready to bite you in the ass but never strong enough to save you from the box of dusty old crap you’ve imprisoned yourself in.

Uno!




Life’s Greatest Accomplishment — And Even 12-Year-Olds Can Do It! (Guest blog by Kimmy Dee)

Four soul-crushingly blissful years ago I gave birth to my first—and only, if I can remember to take those damn pills on time—child. She’s the light of my life, apple of my eye, blah blah blah. Whatever. We all love our own kids and hate everyone else’s, so I’m not going to sit here and try to make you fall in love with mine. She’s beautiful, smart, and witty as fuck—it’s almost as if I impregnated myself. And maybe I did, I was pretty drunk. But, as I always do on my own crappy blog, I digress.

I’m not here to talk about my daughter. I’m here to discuss an epiphany I had the other day, one of very few in my life that didn’t come to me on the toilet. (Admit it; we ALL do our best thinking there.) 

I was at my doctor’s office for my yearly physical. Not the “put your feet in the stirrups, this might pinch a little” kind, the one where you lie your ass off and say you only drink in moderation (and only on weekends!) and eat a shit ton of fruit and vegetables every day so that your insurance will continue to cover the ticking time bomb that is your janky ass body. As the nurse was grilling me on my evil exploits err daily life she got around to asking if I smoke.

“Nope, I quit almost three years ago. It was the best thing I’ve ever done,” I said. [Note: not a lie, I really did quit smoking <golf clap>.] 

A look of judgment passed across the nurse’s face and I realized my error immediately. She knows I’ve given birth. I broke the cardinal rule of parenthood—I credited something with top billing in my life’s success stories that didn’t include the person who tunneled their way out of my lady bits.

You see, once that kid pops its boogery head out of your crotch, you’re not allowed to refer to any of your other life’s achievements as being superior. It’s a contract signed by all parents in gooey afterbirth. You’re a parent now, and nothing else fucking matters—adding to the overpopulation of the Earth is the greatest thing you’ve ever done or ever will do. Period.

Don’t worry, I quickly added “—besides becoming a parent,” to my statement to appease the nurse and keep her from calling in the Cunt Crusaders to execute me. But it got me thinking about the things (besides my amazing, aggravating, astounding daughter) that I’m proudest of in my life, and how they aren’t worth shit because I’m a parent.

Please note: I haven’t actually done much in my life, so this list may seem a little sad. Shut up.


I met Lou Ferrigno.

So what, you had a baby Hulk-Smashing around inside your body for nine months, destroying evil doers such as your ribcage and bladder. That trumps the shit out of shaking hands with a washed up celebrity who’s probably a season or two away from headlining a dancing/rehab/eating gross bugs reality show.


My first published article had over a million page views.

Big deal assface, at least that many people were staring into your cavernous vagina as a tiny human spelunked her way out. 


I rode in a racecar at over 170 mph around Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

Whoop-de-fucking-do, a mini person launched herself head first through your birth canal at a rate of a millimeter an hour. Life’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon. And 36 hours of labor earns you a brand new tiny person to worry about for the rest of your life, what did the racecar earn you? A plaque? Pffffft.


I licked the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile.

Now that’s something you just shouldn’t be proud of.


I won the Nobel Prize when I cured cancer while simultaneously solving world hunger and drafting a successful Middle East peace treaty.

Even so, a drunken night of reckless sex led to far more life (and diaper) fulfilling joy.



The lesson here of course (listen up, kids!) is that despite all the negativity surrounding unprotected sex, if you’re a lazy turd like I am and don’t feel like going out and changing the world or doing anything significant for humankind, you should probably engage in this activity as often as possible. Who needs hopes and dreams; all you need is a little fertility and you can change the world—by adding yet another damn person to it.


I’ll have to end this here, it smells like the best thing I ever did in my life just dropped a deuce behind the sofa.


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