Shut Up, I Hate You

On The Couch. The Other Night. Watching Some Show.

John: Oooh! That reminds me! *pauses show* We did this thing on the way to the gig the other day; it was awesome!

Me: *gets excited at the prospect of hearing awesome! thing* Yeah?!

John: Yeah! Totally awesome! Get a load of THIS!!! We were switching the consonants in our first and last names!!!!!!!!!!! You know? Yeah! !!

Me: *blank stare*

John: !!!

Me: *blank stare in which I am actually considering killing him for his own good*

John: !!!! !!!!

Me: Really?

John: ! *inkling of my disapproval setting in* Yes? Yes! !!

Me: What. the. fuck.

John: You know! Like you’re Cotus Larroll! Hahahaha! !!!

Me: You’re saying that like it’s a thing.

John: It is a thing. *look of remembering what a bitch I am creeping into his face*

Me: No. No, really. It’s not. Nobody does that.

John: They do, too.

Me: No.

John: Uh-huh. *realization of how stupid this game is but refusing to let go*

Me: Who? Who does that?

John: People…

Me: Mmmhm. What kind of people do that? Do they use their brains productively most of the time?

John: *frustrated stare of defeat*

Me: *gloating sneer of victory*

John: Shut up. Shut up, I hate you.

*short pause*

Me: So what, was it quiet for like 3 hours and then all of a sudden someone goes, “OH MY GOD I KNOW WHAT WE CAN DO. IT’S THIS *THING*…”

John: I hate you. I’m not even going to tell you the rest of the story now. *turns show back on*

Me: So, you’re still a big vagina, then?

Because We All Know Vaginas Can’t Run

Conversation. Yesterday. Early morning. Cold(ish).

Me: So, we’re going to go running as soon as we get home from dropping Braden off, right?

John: *look of pain* No, it’s too cold. I’m not doing it.

Quiet moment.

Me: So, I just asked you if we were going to go running, and you said, “No, I’m a giant vagina.” Is that what you just said? ‘Cause that’s what I heard.

John: Yes. I am a giant vagina.

Me: Okay. I’m glad we got that settled.

 

These are the days of our lives.

 

PS: It is rare that I publish a post without a photo, but I think we all know that you appreciate the fact that I didn’t stage the appropriate photo for this one. You’re welcome.

“I Need To Ask You About A Part Of My Body I Don’t Know About”

That’s what I heard from the bathroom the other night during Braden’s bathtime. Was I afraid? No. Was I offput? No. I’ve always been frank and open with him about his body, including telling him the actual names for things rather than the cute ones. Now, if you want to teach your children that they have a pee-pee instead of a penis, I don’t hold it against you, but that’s just not for me, man. I teach my son that he has a penis, we fart instead of pooting, and when a bitch gets uppity, you gotta smack that bitch down. Okay, so maybe I got a little carried away there at the end, but you get what I mean.

So when Braden made this announcement, I marched right in there and told him to go for it. He was sitting there looking very calm and relaxed, and at my arrival he stood up. With a glorious erection. If that wasn’t enough (it really, really was enough. no. really.) then he yanked at his testicle skin and demanded, “What. is. THIS?”

“Testicles.”
“But what’s INSIDE there?”
“It’s skin on the outside, and on the inside those are your testicles.”
“Okay. But what happens if I… SQUISH THEM?”
“Um. Well. They are very delicate and if you hit, yank, smash, or SQUISH them, it will probably hurt very bad. So be careful with them, okay?”

>pause. pensive look.<

“Okay, Mommy.”

>sits back down in bath. more pensive look<

“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Actually? It feels very nice when I squish my testicles with my fingers. I like that. I like it very much.”
“Braden?”
“Yes, Mommy?”
“I’m happy for you. I’m going to leave the room now.”
“Okay, Mommy.”

>quiet moment<

From the bathroom:

“MY TESTICLES LOOK LIKE ALMONDS!”

“MOMMY? WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?”

once upon a time (there was a douchebag)

Okay, so maybe I got a leetle bit pissed off when I saw this image on Pinterest tonight.

And maybe I went a leetle bit overboard on the “description” when I repinned it.

and the princess didn’t have her heart broken by a man who couldn’t keep his dick to himself for more than five seconds because she was smart enough to say no to the pretty face that was hiding the vile creature behind it. And she had all the time in the world to then pursue her own interests and be the person she was meant to be, reveling in her identity and fulfilling her aspirations fully. She spent as much time as she wanted with the best girlfriends who always built her up and cared about what she was saying rather than pretending to listen and hoping she was soon done. And she hand selected the finest young men to keep her company (and then sent them on their way when she was bored with them) and she read books and made beautiful art and sun bathed and nobody ever left the fucking toilet seat up or made her have to drag their feelings out of them like driving nails into brick because they were such poor communicators that she just wanted to scream into infinity in those miserable moments of complete relationship hell when she would rather be twirling through the living room, singing her favorite song at top volume. She didn’t have to share the remote or watch any sports she didn’t want to, and she only got foot rubs with her pedicures and nobody expected her to have sex with them just for doing it. She smiled every day because she wanted to, not because she was pretending she was happy, and nobody needed her to fetch them a beer or make their food first so that by the time she ate hers it was cold. She played with lady bugs and stopped to smell the flowers every day. Her friends and family thought she was fucking awesome because she was able to live her life to her full potential instead of for some loser who resented her for not wanting him to drink jack daniels every fucking night. And she never had to sleep in the goddamned wet spot. THE END.

Yeah, maybe a little too far.

Maybe.

(Who am I kidding?! That shit had it coming.)

Fatherhood: It’s all about providing a positive role model.

No, really.

What?  Hey, I can guarantee you that there is some serious wrecking with the alcohol going on right about the time this here beauty publishes.

Here’s hoping that 2011 will bring to all of you the things you most desire from it, anything you didn’t find (but wanted) in 2010, and also… lots of cheese. (You can never have too much cheese.)

Remember too, that all the low points your year is bound to have will only serve to create stark contrast with the great joys you are sure to experience.

May we all be able to focus more greatly on the latter.

Happy 2011, Y’all.

How do you follow penis train tracks? Well.

I kind of screwed myself by posting the most awesome Thanksgiving Day post EVER last year.

I mean, now that you’ve seen penis train tracks, you’re back this year to see what I have for you this time, aren’t you? Of course you are. I bet you sat up all night wondering. Have you been refreshing my page over and over again? Well, I mean, even more than usual?

(Your Thanksgiving present to me is that you pretend that’s true instead of reminding me that you only check here about once every 6 months, and only to see if I’ve died a comically tragic death yet in a horrible (but hilarious) accident involving a staple gun, a bungee cord and a day-glo green thong.)

So how do you follow penis train tracks? Like this.

Bewbs trump wieners every time, my friends.

And yes, that is Percy at the station.  Or, as my son might say, “Pussy is wooking weally hawd today!”

Happy Thanksgiving, Ya’ll. May all your train tracks be bewbies.

It’s shit like this that creates super villains.

Oh, Raw Honey, look at you sitting there waiting for me!  I heard you whispering for me to come over, Raw Honey.  And you are sounding soooo really, very good to me right now.  Let’s get better acquainted in a situation involving bread and butter, m’kay?

What the hell, Raw Honey…

YOU’RE EMPTY?

Why would you toy with me so, Raw Honey? Why would you sit there, practically beckoning to me with your sweet, delicious Raw Honeyness… and then… and then… be… EMTPY?

How cruel you are, Raw Honey!

How. Very. Cruel.  You have hurt me deeply, Raw Honey.

*deep, heavy sobs*

What is that you say, Raw Honey?  You mean, you didn’t do this to me on purpose?  You say it was beyond your control, Raw Honey?  You were just sitting there, being Raw Honey and someone came along and emptied all the delicious Raw and sweet Honey inside of you out?

You are telling me that someone scraped you clean, selfishly enjoying every last drop of you, Raw Honey?  Someone didn’t share you, but just ate you all in private?  Someone ELSE did this to you and then PUT. YOU. BACK?

Just to fool me?

What is that you say, Raw Honey? Yes, Raw Honey, you are right, I *am* feeling rather stabby.

Don’t worry, Raw Honey.  I’ll get even.  I make all the meals around here after all, right, Raw Honey? People eat what I prepare, without question.

Hahahaha.

What is that, Raw Honey? You say there’s a funny tone to my laugh?  Oh, Raw Honey, just ignore that.  Everything is just fine.  I am in a peaceful state, don’t you worry.  Just overlook the strange new element in my laughter, Raw Honey.  I promise, I’m okay.  You just rest.  Shhh, shhhh, now, Raw Honey.

Someone else better watch his Raw Honey Thieving, Trickin’ a Bitch Ass, though, Raw Honey.

But you?  You just sleep now, Raw Honey. Shhhh.

Shhhhhhh.