Reindeer Trouble

Well, Hanukkah is just about over and Christmas is around the corner. If you’re anything like me and I fervently hope that you are not, you are just waking up to the fact that you have done NOTHING to prepare for the holidays. The furthest I’ve gotten in the way of festivities, is to buy a new fake Christmas tree that is still in the damn box. I get really cranky driving around at night and see all of the decorations that my cheery neighbors put up in god damn OCTOBER. Those eager beavers and their active decorating do not make me feel cheery or charitable. It makes me hope there will be that ONE DAMN BULB that burns out in their string of lights so the whole damn thing doesn’t light up.

I used to have three of those lighted metal deer that I put in the yard at Christmas time to shut my kids up. They were always bemoaning the fact that our house was the only dark one on the street during the holidays, so I bought the deer thinking that they looked easy to set up. Little did I know that those fucking reindeer would become a horn in my side. After the first year, in which they were set up new out of the box, those deer decided to not cooperate. I would set them up, plug those assholes in to twinkle and shit, only to look out the window at my handwork, and see two of the deer indeed twinkling, only doing so while laying in three pieces in the dirt instead of in one piece standing proudly. It drove me crazy. I zip-tied, I duct taped, I did magic interpretive dances on the lawn, and it did not matter. Those fuckers fell apart anyway.

Now a normal person would have thrown those shitty reindeer in the garbage can at the first sight of them misbehaving. Not me, no siree. I pulled those boxes of disjointed reindeer out every year for about five more years. I was not going to let some crappy Chinese made metal deer beat my crafty American ass. After two years of trying to get those fucking deer to stand the hell up, I got smart. That year I took them out of the box and beat them at their own game by immediately throwing their asses right there in the dirt. That’s right… I saved them the damn trouble of falling apart by not setting them up in the first place. I looked at all those mangled pieces and giggling like a mad woman, plugged em in. It looked like Santa must have crashed into my bushes and killed Donner, Blitzen, and Comet. I wanted to go buy a giant plastic light up Santa and strap a gun in his hands so he looked like he shot them. Maybe even splash some red paint around and string some crime scene tape. Hubs, always the voice of REASON, nixed that fabulous idea.

I’m just not that into decorating to show my holiday spirit. For me, my holiday spirit comes alive when my kids are out of school and my parents fly in for a couple of weeks of card and board games, bad idea Christmas Eve movies (we did Borat one year; I think the girls were in 9th grade. We have followed up with Bad Santa, The Hangover, and other traditional bad choices), and drinking way too much. The holidays to me are about spending time with our family and laughing. I don’t want to spend time decorating or worrying about having to take all that shit down and put it away in January. I’m like those stupid deer during the holidays; I start out standing proudly but end up in a heap with everyone laughing. That’s the way we do Christmas here… crazy, chaotic and on the floor. Happy Holidays!


I have been known to drive around neighborhoods at night and do this with people’s lighted and upright reindeer.


Obligatory cute kid Christmas picture. I think they were five in this picture.

More Stories of Pussification

What the hell is going on with parents today? I really want to know. Everybody has moments of weakness and gives in to their kid occasionally, but I’m talking about peeps that let their kids run the whole fucking SHOW these days. For the love of the sweet baby Jesus in a manger, the foolishness I see when I am out amongst the populace is remarkable in its depth and breadth of stupidity. Peeps think our country is going to hell in a hand basket because of the republicans. Or the democrats. Or because of global warming, lack of religious conviction, welfare queens, racism, gay rights, all that shit. I submit that it is going to hell because of the Pussification of a Nation. And here is my fucking evidence because this is all scientific and shit.

  1. Stop with the digital crap. Buy your kid a god damn book or some paper and crayons. When I look up from my food at an upscale resturant to see three small boys, barely out of diapers, playing on iPhones, I want to PUKE. Your kids can learn to converse and sit still without iPads and iPhones. The reason that same parent was walking around cutting up the kid’s pancakes instead of eating her hot meal, was because the kids are too busy playing a damn video game at dinner to learn how to use a knife and a fork together. Stop that shit. You are fucking up if you are a parent buying your eight year old an iPhone or iPad for Christmas instead of a Harry Potter book. Just don’t do it.
  2. Listen up… do you have a DVD player in your car for the kids? Do us all a favor and cut the damn thing’s wires. You don’t need that shit unless you are going on a fucking cross-country adventure. Talk to your kids, point shit out, what color is that, what shape is that, play car tag bingo, I Spy, and punch buggy or tell them to READ A DAMN BOOK. Teach ‘em something yourself before bellowing about how crappy the schools and teachers are. You might actually find out that your little nine month gift certificate is quite entertaining if you talk to them about stuff.
  3. Do not leave your damn kids for me to discipline. Seriously, you do not want that action. If you leave me a row of 11-12 year old girls that sit behind me at a basketball game to shriek and act stupid, I’m gonna give them a hard way to go. I raised two girls and they never acted that stupid and insipid because I would have slapped the shit out of them. Those girls spent the whole game leaping around, throwing trash and popcorn, and shrieking at funny cat videos on their… wait for it… IPHONES the entire fucking time. I told them to shut up and watch the game. The hilarious guy that talks smack about opposing players and refs with me at every game, told them to shut up and watch the game too, as did every other adult around. It got bad enough that I had hubs take drastic action. He let a couple of silent killers go. It smelled like a baby diaper that had been sitting out in the sun. The girls all blamed each other while we were cracking up. We figured the lack of oxygen would either make them pass out or leave.
  4. Dumbest shit I’ve heard in awhile… a parent whining that her kid doesn’t like turkey so she doesn’t make turkey for Thanksgiving. Are you shittin’ me, woman?! A five year old is menu planning for you? FUCK THAT. I’d laugh in his face and tell him to eat what I fix or go hungry. What happened to telling your kids about all the starving children in {insert country of choice here}? Oh wait, your little pussy is too busy playing with that iPhone instead of reading a fucking book to learn that there is a whole damn world out there that does not revolve around them.
  5. Get this… the pussification continues on into college with these kids. What do you expect with kids raised by technology, given “participation” trophies for sports, were always told they were the smartest and best, and for the most part have never stumbled or had a hardship? That’s right, they are even bigger pussies when they leave the nest, and mommy and daddy continue to support little Johnny no matter what the little shit is up to at college. They blame Johnny’s drinking not on Johnny, but on the lack of “supervision” at college… are you fucking insane?! Your kid is (mostly) 18 years old and a legal adult for most purposes and you want someone at college to give them a curfew and make sure they don’t get black out drunk every weekend? Um yeah… not the school’s job. These same parents whine and moan about their kid not getting the classes they need to graduate on time and start calling the dean and shit. Guess what? It’s a dog eat dog world out there and if your kid is just figuring that, you can blame your damn self and not the “system”. STFU.

If you just got done reading this and thinking that you might have fallen into the pussification hole (pun intended), there is still time to crawl out and grow a pair. Take that iPad that you bought your eight year old for Christmas back to the store. Buy them some nice books and toys so that their imaginations can run. Stop letting your kids run your damn life and making them the center of the universe. If you read this blog post and think it is “mean” and “harsh” then obviously I’m talking to YOU, you pussy, and it’s probably too late.


Is this a real book? I must investigate…


The Pussification of Halloween

Back in the day, kids were in charge of Halloween. You started driving your parents crazy about your costume at beginning of October and if you were lucky, they might take you to buy a shitty plastic mask and a costume that would burst into flames if they happened to be smoking a cig while they were helping you into said costume. If that trip to the store never materialized, you were destined to dress up as a farmer, a hobo, or a ghost and you were going to fucking LIKE it. I happened to be a third sort of kid and always got busy with the Elmer’s glue, assorted boxes and any other shit I found in the garbage or attic. You also got to wear your costume to school if Halloween was on a school day and didn’t have to worry about “offending” anyone. That was the best part of Halloween; the school day parade of costumes. In 2013, you’d be hard pressed to find a school that lets kids parade around in costumes. If we didn’t have parents picking the stupid costumes out, there wouldn’t be a problem with costumes at school. How the hell could anyone be offended by tiny random princesses, hobos, ghosts or farmers?

Once you had your costume on Halloween night, you hit the mean streets of your town with your pint-sized gang of friends. I can’t ever remember my parents accompanying us once we could walk on our own. After snapping a few kodaks, the ‘rents stayed at home, boozing it up, and handing out their candy, and you went on your merry way getting your candy from your neighbors in your crappy plastic pumpkin.

These days Halloween chaps me off to NO END. Parents buy their kids overpriced Chinese made costumes and chaperone them around the neighborhood by CAR. Are you fucking kidding me?! If I see your douchebag self, driving around my neighborhood dropping off your kid at every house, I’m turning off my damn porch light and I’m gonna throw rocks at your pansy ass kids. No lie… I happened to be at an outdoor local mall a couple of days ago and apparently it was Mall and Treat day. Employees got dressed up like superheros and were handing out candy. It was a beautiful fall day. I counted three cars in my 10-minute excursion driving their kids from store to store. I wanted to slap the shit out of those parents. Wtf is WRONG with you?! Get your fat ass out of that car and walk with your kids if they need to be watched. Letting your three year old jump in and out of your car every twenty feet is so damn lame I just want to yank your reproductive parts off right there in the streets and burn them.

This year, Halloween is cancelled because of the weather. It’s supposed to be windy and stormy. To me that is PERFECT Halloween weather. Put your rain slicker on over your costume and brave the elements…. oh wait, I forgot… it would be dangerous for your parents to drive in this weather. Do we move Christmas or Easter or Yom Kippur if the weather is bad? Hell to the NO. Get out there and trick or treat your ass off. I’m waiting by the door tonight for kids whose parent’s had the good sense to leave them alone to be a kid.




Ok, there is one in every bunch that might be an asshole. I can’t decide if the front
row second from the left kid is a coal miner or in black face.

Hey… Fuck you, Death!!

Dear Grim Reaper:

Over the last month you decided to visit my friend’s family TWICE. Don’t you think that’s a bit much? There are thousands of dirtbag killers in prison on death row and you passed all those murdering assholes up for a young man and his aunt on two separate occasions in one month? Well, FUCK YOU.

Here’s the deal, you heartless bag of bones… you didn’t win here even though you think you did. These lovely people are heartbroken of course, and that was definitely an accomplishment for you to put on your shitty resume. However, what you can’t take away is how amazing this family is and how they will continue to remain amazing no matter how much you try to steal their joy. As a matter of fact, you may have changed their lives so much that they have no choice but to become even MORE amazing.

I am the one hating on you right now, Grim, and guess what my friends are doing right now? They are crying and getting ready to bury their son. But even though they hurt with a pain so deep that I can’t fathom it, they are comforting others during this time. Did you hear that? Yeah, THEY are comforting OTHERS that are grieving with and for them. That’s the kind of people you decided to take a crap on this last month – they have more strength and dignity and graciousness than anybody I can think of. They are fucking saints, you dumb shit. Their son was handicapped from birth but never once did I ever hear them whine, or complain or be resentful of any challenge that came their way. They loved that kid without any reservation just as they do his awesome sister.

Here is something else that I’m certain of… that me, and countless others, are better for knowing this kid and this family. They make everyone around them better. As a matter of fact, they could probably go on death row and make even those sociopaths better people. Making popes into saints is easy, but they aren’t the real saints. The real honest-to-God everyday saints are people like my friends. They toil in the trenches daily, making sure that your work product is totally irrelevant in the long view.

So in closing, Grim, you didn’t win. You have no real power. The real power is in loving those around you and in making the world a better place. You do neither of those things. You take the flesh, but you can’t take the memories and all of the good that came of Zach being in this world. So take a hike, hit the road jack, be gone. My friends aren’t afraid of you. I’m not afraid of you either, Grim. As a matter of fact, you can kiss. my. ass.


The Not So Big List of Do Not’s

  • If you are a woman, do not call your significant other Big Daddy. It’s weird. Furthermore, do not go to a concert with Big Daddy and talk during the entire. fucking. concert. in your giant nasal sounding annoying ass voice. Sit down and shut the fuck up, weirdo. Oh, and the Woodstock dancing in aisle complete with head grabbing and hair tossing? Ummm… NO.
  • Do not go to the bathroom at a concert to smoke weed. You just can’t get away with that shit anymore. I mean we should be smarter than toking up in public by now. Just bake that shit up into a brownie for god’s sake. And do not bogart in either case. For tis better to give than receive said some smart dead person.
  • Do not give an opinion other than “you look FABULOUS!” when your wife asks what you think of her attire/clothes/make up/footwear. Apparently, Kanye tells that idiot Kardashian that he made a baby with what to wear. You tell me what to wear and I’m gonna wear the OPPOSITE. Kanye: “honey bubbykins, wear that sparkly low cut evening grown.” Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is: “Why sure Big Daddy! I’m wearing that cool pair of pajama bottoms and the t-shirt with the hole under the arm! I love your fashion sense, Big Daddy!” Fuck off, Kanye. I hope you lose your misogynistic voice.
  • Family feuds on facebook are so damn 10 years ago. PM it or text your nasty little notes to each other. Nobody gives a flying rat’s ass about your family drama. Unless it involves sex changes, elicit pregnancies, or somebody getting arrested, we. don’t. care. Everybody has dysfunction in their family. Keep it there. Thanks.
  • Do not get down on bended knee to your misbehaving little booger eater. Stand the fuck up. It’s pack order, baby. BE the alpha. Stand on a fucking chair if you have to reprimand that little shit. As a matter of fact, just swat his ass and save us from watching your shitty new age parenting crap. A crack on the ass never hurt anybody. As a matter of fact, I think if Big Daddy had someone pop his can when he was little, that Big Daddy nickname crap would have never stuck.


Ummm…. NO.



If this chair is in your house, burn it.

The High School Years = Hell


Let me be the first to welcome you and your child to four years of HELL. If your kid is planning on going to college, little Cathy or Bobby had better get their asses in gear and start feeding starving African children, cure cancer or discover how to make a car run on mouse turds. Of course, all that is in addition to being ranked #1 in some fucking sport, or if your kid isn’t athletic, he’d better by god find something that sounds like a sport to be numero uno in like midget wrestling or making balloon animals.

If your kid hasn’t been involved in any organized activities before freshman year, tell them to sign up for any and every damn thing that looks interesting. This year is supposed to be one that the college adcoms can see as a year of “exploration.” Of course by this time in a Modern Kids® life, they have already been involved in about fifty thousand activities so you should have some idea. If Bobby has never played any instrument and decides that he is going to play tuba in the band, that’s probably a shitty idea that you should discourage, unless you are some kind of psycho parent. Same thing with varsity sports teams. If Cathy wants to try out for basketball and she is 4’11” and never played any sport that involves a ball that is just a stupid fucking idea. Thankfully this is the year that you really don’t have to worry about shit like AP classes because most schools only offer that stupid AP Human Geography for freshman. Let them take it if the school offers it because it’s a gateway class and not because any college is going to give you credit for it because that ain’t happenin.

Sophomore year is when the adcoms expect you to have found your desired activities and to stick with them. Cathy and Bobby had better start jockeying in their various clubs to set themselves up to be vice president their junior year and president in senior year. Those adcoms LOVE that shit. They’d also better have signed up to take some AP or IB classes or the newest thing to hit the high school academic scene, dual enrollment classes. Colleges get all hot and orgasmic over something called “most rigorous course load.” That sounds like a bad period to me but whatevs, do it anyway. I forgot to mention earlier that your kid had better not get more than one B a year on that ole report card or they are obviously destined to flip burgers at Mickey D’s cuz they sure aren’t going to Harvard.

Junior year is when you start to leave little skid marks in your dainty drawers every time you even hear the word college. PSATs in October are your big damn notice that college is lurking around the corner like Freddy Kruger. In between building playgrounds for disabled children, sports, clubs and studying for classes and SAT/ACT prep, you now have to wreck all of your remaining weekends visiting colleges and doing what the adcoms call “showing interest.” This part of the process drives me batty. WE the parents paying the damn tuition BILLS, are the ones that have to show “interest.” Are you shittin me, mister? Do I go to the car dealership just to show “interest” to give them my money? Hell to the NO. Anyway, just buy some old lady or man shoes and schlep on, my friend.

Senior year comes and SHIT JUST GOT REAL. It’s happening… your kid got their senior pictures taken and you, dear parent, are freaking out. I suggest a trip to your doctor and a prescription for a nice supply of “nerve pills.” The Common App usually goes live for the year on August 1st. The next few months will see you doing nothing other than beating application essays out of your kid. They will stall, then write dumb shit and you will start to despair that they will ever move out of your basement. Your hands will become worn down into tiny nubs from wringing them. Then, miraculously, everything gets submitted and your kid gets his or her first acceptance letter. You are excited until you see the price tag and then the hand wringing starts anew. You start seriously considering listing your husband’s kidney on Craigslist and wonder how much strippers actually make for a lap dance.

Somewhere in all this madness you start to realize that your families life is about to change. You know your kid is ready to set out on a big adventure and you are so proud of them that you could burst. But something keeps you from being totally, blissfully happy. It’s that tiny little voice in your head that tells you the bottom line truth that this 18 year long chapter is almost over. It’s a terrible realization that your family is forever changed because you did your job well and your kid is ready to fly the nest. I won’t tell you it’s easy because it’s not. It’s weird and disjointing. Somehow you get on with building a new life and end up writing blogs or going back to work or school. I can’t tell you how long it takes to build a new normal because I’m in this phase myself.

Good luck to you. This is my last installment of parenting blogs, at least for now. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing them. Check back on Monday for a new, scintillating blog about nothing in particular. Cheers!


Twin A and Twin B at graduation.

Your Middle Schooler and You – Why You’re F%$*(@#&!


Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy… I am rubbing my hands together with unsuppressed glee. Today I get to cover parenting advice for the middle and high school years. This is the time in your kid’s life where they are most likely to be strangled by you or perhaps offered up to a passing chain gang. If you can survive ages 12-18, it makes the rest of your life look like a damn walk in the park.

Middle School

Remember Billy and Mary, the former genius kindergarteners from yesterday’s blog? By the time middle school rolls around, they have become pot heads and spend most of their time trying to be as big of an asshole as their stupid parents. Because of those kings of assholery, your kid will be miserable for a couple of more years. Middle school is like a god damn shark tank and your kid is probably the biggest piece of chum those fuckers have ever seen. Just make sure your kid knows how to spot those sharks and how not to become a remora or a stupid pilot fish.

Middle schoolers are Jekyll and Hyde beings. One minute they will want to climb into your lap and be hugged like a little kid. And then in the next minute they’ll turn around and rip out your fucking throat with their teeth if you try and talk to them about what is bothering them. They still want help with their homework, but will beat you with that damn textbook if you can’t do that quantum physics problem just like their teacher did on the board. It’s maddening. I recommend strongly daily partaking of the juice of the fermented grape. Some days you may need something stronger and illegal but that’s your call. No judging here.

It really cracks me up when I hear parent’s talk about something called “privacy” in reference to their kid. In my world, they don’t GET to have privacy until they move the fuck out. You want a facebook/instagram/vine/snapchat, kid? Sure, but you have to friend me and I get all the passwords. Cell phone? Okay, but I reserve the right to read all of your texts. You don’t like my rules? Tough beans. This isn’t helicopter parenting; it’s stealth parenting because they eventually forget that you have access to everything if you keep your yap shut and don’t post anything on their little social media lives. It also has the advantage of letting you know exactly what their little creep friends are up to. I also recommend chaperoning field trips and stuff because if you listen to the convos on the bus, you learn a lot of good shit. It’s like they just sort of forget you are there and keep yakking about how Billy and Mary almost “did it” and the party at Susy’s where they broke into her parents liquor cabinet. Very informative stuff.

I have one sort of serious piece of advice for parenting a middle school kid. Let them fail. Yes, fail… as in do not save them from themselves. Grades from middle school DO NOT count for college admission. These are the years that they need to figure shit out for themselves. Like when to study, when to play, all that “life” stuff. Unless, of course, you fully intend on holding their hand all through high school and college. Not that I don’t mean you shouldn’t give them a swift kick in the britches for fucking around and not studying, but they gotta learn to figure out how and when to get that work done without you scheduling it for them. If they forget their homework, don’t take it up to the school. Let them deal with the teacher and the consequences.

I was going to tackle the high school years today too, but this is getting long and I know I have other shit to do. My college kids are coming home this weekend and I haven’t seen Twin B in six weeks. I figure I’d better at least do some damn laundry so that she can have clean sheets on her bed here at home. I’m fairly certain that the sheets she has on her bed at school are probably ready to get up and walk to the washer themselves. That’s her problem though. Because I’m not a helicopter parent, I don’t know and I don’t care. See how my plan worked?

Peace and One Love until tomorrow…



I’d personally give this an A+ for creativity. This teacher had no sense of humor.

Parenting 102

Ok, we left off yesterday with The Toddler Years. If you’ve managed to keep your ankle biters alive and out of foster care from infancy to age three, let me congratulate you on a job well done. With out further ado, let’s jump right in to the next stages of parenting.


  • Lesson #1: Preschool is the most precious time of your life. The kid doesn’t care if he goes to school or not, but you, Dear Parent, most certainly do. This is your first call back to FREEDOM. Don’t blow it. Find a preschool that will take your kid and knock some early learnin’ into his or her thick skull as many days a week as you can afford. If it means selling all of your furniture and your size 2 clothes on eBay to pay for school, so be it. Let’s face it, the only way you’re going to get back in those clothes is to sew some of them together to make a size 10. Suck it up, buttercup.
  • Lesson #2: Don’t drink any of that kool aid that any preschool or other parent offers you. I don’t mean don’t drink the real kool aid, cuz that shit is pretty good. I mean the figurative kool aid that Do Re Me Preschool is the ONE preschool on the face of the PLANET that will ensure little Suzy or Johnny gets a leg up on college applications. The only real job a preschool has is to teach your little carpet monkey not to eat their boogers in public and to share whatever they have – excluding boogers – without slugging the other kid. If Do Re Me Preschool accomplishes just those two things, the kid will be in good shape for Kindergarten.


  • Lesson #1: Oh hells bells. This is the time, if you are like most of middle ‘Murica, that you and your precious start dealing with the morass that is Public Edumacation. Put on those big girl panties (you, not the kid) and get ready to be pissed off for the next 13 years. Not at the teachers, cuz most of them are pretty good. I’m talking about those god damn administrators. Holy shit, it’s like they have NOTHING to do all day but sit around in a circle jerk with you in the middle. Buy a raincoat, that’s all I can say.
  • Lesson #2: Kindergarten is the place where you first meet the braggy pants parents that you will be most likely be stuck with for awhile. On the first day of Kinder, you will find out that all of the other 25 kids in that class are fucking GENIUSES. According to the parents, little Mary or Billy is destined to just go ahead and skip all this Kindergarten bullshit and head straight to middle school at least. The one upsmanship is obnoxious and makes one fervently wish for a cocktail. I personally liked to stand there nodding and agreeing and then helpfully add that MY little progeny pooped in the potty instead of behind the bedroom door for the first time just that very morning.

The Elementary Years (1st through 5th grade)

  • Lesson #1: Once your little knucklehead learns to read, you can relax until about 3rd grade. Then you have to start hiring tutors because they are trying to teach your kid calculus by then. I swear to god, it’s freaking ridiculous. Girls also start to get all snippy and mouthy at about age 8. The combination of math and mouth makes you wish you could freeze dry the little ape until she turns about 20. I can’t speak personally to boys because I don’t have any, but they always seem to be pretending to shoot imaginary guns at their friends or fart or burp in each other’s faces. I’d take that over sassy mouth any day.
  • Lesson #2: The elementary years is when people start putting their kids in organized sports and trying to make them into the next Brett Favre or Missy Franklin so that they can be rich and famous. Stop the madness. I personally am just happy that my kids grew up not to be serial killers or homeless bums. Anything more than that is good. Set the bar low. It’s a lot easier.


Parenting 101

Let my children breathe sayeth the LORDdAH…. Ok Jesus never said that, but he would have if he had seen the way we raise our kids in these progressive days. Since I mentioned dispensing my amazing parenting advice yesterday, I decided to fling some more bitchin ideas your way. That’s right… it’s your lucky damn day.

Let’s start at the very beginning because it’s a very good place to start.


  • If somebody asks to touch your belly, ask if you can touch some body part of theirs first. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if it was a dude that asked, you immediately grab their balls. Hard.
  • If someone asks if you know what you are having, you can go with the tried and true “a baby, asshole.” or look at them blankly and ask them what the hell they are talking about like you have no idea that you are pregnant. I also liked answering “a martini”.
  • “When are you due?” is a great question. Count out nine months from when they asked you, especially at the end when you are huge and not interested in entertaining the masses. They end up thinking you are birthing at least sextuplets. Go with that and ask for donations.

In the Birthing Room

  • This is your one shot in life to try out new swears and to get away with anything. I suggest writing some down in advance to make sure they sound as bad as you think. I suggest a Taco Bell drive thru as your testing ground. I think Taco Bell employees have heard everything. If you are worried they won’t speak English and understand your amazing swears, use a Mexican accent to help get your point across.
  • A lot of women are concerned about crapping on the floor while they are grunting out that little puke monster. My advice? Don’t worry about it. In fact, totally enjoy making a mess that someone else has to clean up, probably for the last time in your LIFE. Poop all over that floor and wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care. Insert one of those new Mexican accent swears here too.

The Baby Years

  • Get a cardboard box, a towel, and some pampers if you must. Buying anything else is way overkill. It’s a BABY. It has no thought process and won’t remember if you forgot to buy it a five thousand dollar high chair. They will just shit on it and throw food on the walls anyway. Get a couple of old belts and attach that baby to a regular fucking chair. Fuck you, Consumer Product Safety Commission.
  •  Invest in about 800 pacifiers. Don’t let that little fucker find his thumb cuz he won’t ever stop with the oral fixation. That’s what’s wrong with most men. It would be better to just cut their thumbs off at the same time as the foreskin. Just sayin.

The Toddler Years

  • Don’t buy all those fucking plastic toys. Tell people your are a liberal, bra burning, hairy legged, Birkenstock wearing hippie and give the kid some rocks, sticks, and maybe a refrigerator box for Christmas. The kid will grow up to be the next Steve Jobs and then you can hire hundreds of people to shave your legs for you if you feel like it.
  • Potty training is easy. Just let them poop all over your house and when people come over to visit and start judging you, tell them your pet mountain lion left those piles. Yell for “Kitty” and those judgey pants nosy bitches will leave toot sweet. Then enroll your kid in preschool for about a month and they can do all the potty training dirty work while you go get a manicure.

I know you can’t get enough of this shit. I can feel you taking notes or forwarding this crap to your friends. I know you just are holding your toddler back from becoming a preschooler because you know you can’t do it without my sage advice. I’ll try and help you out tomorrow. Stay tuned…