I’m givin’ you a shout out today, cellulite,
I’m givin’ you a shout out today, cellulite,
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.
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.
Roses? Breakfast? I love Mother’s Day!
Scrappy girls. I fucking love them. Ponytails loose and all askew. Dirty scabby knees. Shorts and sneakers with frayed laces, untied and trailing. Tree climbing, tag playing, ball throwing, dirt digging, bug collecting, SCRAPPY GIRLS.
Did you know that the male hippopotamus will helicopter his tail so as to frantically spew piss and shit in all directions just to get the attention of a female? Although I think that if my three year old had a tail, she would do this just for fun, I don’t think my husband doing this would get him a piece of ass. Well, not a human piece of ass anyway.
This is a topic that’s close to my motherfuckin’ heart. I love it because it begs repeating generation after generation. It’s a little bit “Poor me” and a little bit “Poor you” and although there’s a timelessness to it, it has modern day dickery plugged in to all the right places. It’s basically a free pass to be a crabby bastard just because someone’s considered “old”. Now when I say “old”, I’m really referring to someone who’s at an age where a bunch of shit they grew up with is obsolete. Fortunately, and UNfortunately for me, technology is moving so fast, I can actually claim “Old Lady Status” at the tender age of thirty-go-fuck-yourself-it’s-none-of-your-goddamn-business.
What do we want for our kids?