The post where I admit that I may have branded myself stupidly. But not really. I’m just being sarcastic. Get it? Ahahahaha. Ha.

Because there have been, and will continue to be, plenty of times when my posts and thoughts do not reflect the name of this website at all. And me?  I couldn’t care less.  But every now and again someone mentions to me that I’m not being sarcastic or whatever, and then I think about it.  And I’m all anxious and nervous for a little bit, thinking OMG IT IS FINALLY OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE THAT I AM A FAILURE IN ALL THAT I DO.  And then it kicks in: the not giving a shitness, but rather being annoyed at having it pointed out to me. (Because I am nothing if not a sensitive jerkface douche who can’t handle a little bit of criticism without blowing things all out of proportion. I rule.)

My real name is Lotus and I can assure you I do not smell flowery all the time.   I am also not an expensive, fast sports car.  I am more of a rusted pinto with a rotten fish in the back seat.  Mmmm, rotten fish.  Sexy.

So yeah, when I started this blog, I was in a hurry to get the show on the road, and I was sitting here going, “What should I call this thing?”

Ideas I Had:

1. Call it the secret name that you have for your vagina.
2. Use a couple of words that best describe who you are right now.
3. Steal the name of a popular blog and then pretend you didn’t know it existed.
4. Pay a hilarious and witty celebrity to name it for you.
5. Call it Tit Fingers.

Outcomes:

1. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. Especially to myself. Since my vagina hasn’t even told me its secret name yet. We have trust issues. That’s an entirely different story.  Anyway, a no-go.
2. Seemed good.  I asked myself, “Who am I right now?”
   SAHM who interacts with son & husband more than anyone else.
   Interaction with son: Mom
   Interaction with husband: Sarcastic Bitch (Loving Wife would be nice, but I suck.)

   Example Situation: I am standing at the stove with a spatula hovering over a pancake. John comes walking into the room, says, “Oooh, are you making pancakes?” I look at him in bewildered disgust and reply, “Hell no, I’m not making pancakes. I was just minding my own business when this flapjack jumped through the window, and then tried to escape through the back door. I am aware that this flapjack is harboring secrets against our government, however, and am currently administering heat torture to force him to speak. The spatula is just to keep him at bay. Damn communist flapjack. I tell you, I won’t have it. And you? You think this is just a pancake I’m making. You are a prime example of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket. Pancakes indeed.  I may have to kill you tonight.”

   I find myself incapable of giving him a straight answer. “Ooh, are you making pancakes?” “Yes, dear, I am.” WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

   So, it appeared I was: a) A Mom and b) An incurable sarcastic bitch in my daily life.

   Sarcastic Mom

3. The story I came up with to cover why I would call my blog Dooce was all about how I am obsessed with poop (Who does number two work for!?), but don’t spell well in French. Both of those things are actually true, so it’s this really awesome lie of a story made up of totally true elements. Which meant I might really even be able to pass a lie detector test and everything. Except for the part when they’d ask me if I knew that there already was a Dooce website. That and the thing about how Heather Armstrong would totally kick my ass stopped this plan dead in its tracks.
4. I was really keen on this but Conan O’Brien not only started refusing my phone calls, but informed me that used tin foil, dryer lint, and desperate sexual acts are not acceptable payment and that furthermore, he’s married, wasn’t interested, and I’m stupid and ugly. Then he requested a restraining order against me. It’s okay, I know it’s all a front to keep his wife in the dark about our secret love. Which is so secret that even he is not aware of it. But it kind of made me have to go with one of the other plans again.
5. This is totally still my backup blog name. I just checked; it’s available. Can you believe no one has snatched up TitFingers.com??? If this website ever disappears, and you want to find me, look that name up.

I have to warn. I might not always talk about tits. Or fingers. Or touching breasts with phalanges. You know, just FYI.

Oh, by the way, on the occasions where I say or write something that’s not sarcastic, please forget to inform me of this grave error.  I know it is highly unacceptable for a person to ever say or write anything that does not perfectly reflect their moniker or website name.  And yet?  Look how much I care.

I really should have my ass kicked for that.

Just pretend that my not being sarcastic is just me being really sarcastic about being sarcastic.

Yeah.  Stuff that in your pipe.

thepenismightier

The red phone rings.

You do know the red phone, right? It’s the one that all of us A-List rock star bloggers have that automatically connects us with each other.

“This is Avitable.”

“Hi, it’s Lotus.”

“What’s today’s password?”

“Heather sticks her tongue in men’s assholes.”

“Correct. So, what’s up?”

“I need a guest post.”

“I knew you’d call in that favor sometime. I guess I owe you for getting rid of that dead hooker for me.”

“Too bad for you that you didn’t know anyone else with lots of lyme and a chainsaw.”

“True, true. Are there any parameters to this guest post? Restrictions? Demands?”

“Just no full frontal nudity. Everything else is okay with me.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“Damn straight you will. *click*”

************

I’ve racked my brain. How do I, of all people, appeal to an audience that reads a blog like this one? She used to have a picture of a fucking pacifier in the header and has a kid and talks about being a mom and baby poop and pregnancy and topics like that. This is all emotional shit here – how can a childless man even understand or empathize? I hear stuff like “You don’t have kids, so you wouldn’t understand” or “You’re just a man, you wouldn’t understand” all of the time. And it’s probably true. I don’t understand babies or the love of them. I don’t understand why people continue to procreate. I don’t understand why children aren’t locked up until they’re 10.

But I’m still a sensitive, emotional guy. I use Aveda moisturizing face wash and I love the Gilmore Girls. I can talk on the phone for hours and think most men have a short circuit in their brains. I notice when my wife gets her hair cut or wears a new outfit. So I know I have it in me to convince you, dear reader of Sarcastic Mom, that I am one of you.

Then it hit me. Last year, to show solidarity for all of the women who wrote letters to their bodies as part of that BlogHer initiative, I wrote my own. What better way to show my sensitive side, to fit in with the Sarcastic Mom readers, than to repost it here?

Dear Body,

I love you.

I knew that a steady diet of cheeseburgers, french fries, pizza, and butter would make you into an object of desire and affection.

I love that you can displace all of the water in a pool with one cannonball.
I love that your pants would feed a largish village in Africa.
I love that I get to use a mirror to see my penis and feet, since that lets me just gaze at myself.

Your breasts started out firm, but after having many Baby Ruths, they have become a bit saggy, but that’s okay. I’d never be able to lick my own nipples otherwise.

Your stomach, pregnant with many, many food babies, has expanded, but that’s okay. It’s a good place to sit a book or balance a tray.

Your thighs, once glistening pillars of steel, now brush together, but that’s okay. If I get trapped out in the wilderness, I can just wear corduroy and walk around to start a small fire.

Your penis, a mighty warrior of slightly above average size, has now hidden itself among your girth, but that’s okay. The smaller size makes it easier for smaller hands, say that of a high school aged girl.

Your butt, once shapely and taut, has become completely flat, but that’s okay. Now I can drop my pants easily without worrying about snags.

Your hair still covers every inch of you, except on the top of your head, but that’s okay. I enjoy being able to explore fashion trends with different types of hats.

Being the size of six normal people just means that you are six times as awesome! Being able to ride in solace in an elevator because you meet the weight limit alone is gratifying. Bringing your own titanium chair to restaurants allows you to protect the environment, and buying four seats on an airplane before you board gives you the comfort that none of those other passengers will ever experience.

Body, you’ll never understand how important I feel when the people at the Burger King drive-through know me by name. And that’s all thanks to you. And having the city of Altamonte Springs offer me my own roving zip code – that just warmed the cockles of my heart. When cars move out of the way as I cross the street because they don’t want to hit the large zoo animal who has clearly escaped, I always nod my head and secretly thank you. For I truly am special.

I love you, Body.

_____________________________________________________________________
When Avitable’s not busy smearing his asscrack across other people’s websites, he welcomes you to his with the flick of his bird. If you, too, believe that “tact is for pussies,” you’ll be kicking yourself in your own mightypenis if you don’t head over. *snicker*