When the Hancocks take a road trip, they go all out! Rarely is there a dull moment in our lives, but when we hit the road, we really pull out all the stops. this past trip was no exception. For starters, I realized that the oldest spawn and I seem to have synced up our monthly cycles. Two "women" with PMS in a confined space for 19 hours with a loud-mouthed 1st grader, a farting dog and a man with a stomach bug = a bloody good time, y'all.
Aside from dealing with the curse Mother Nature has bestowed upon women, we always head north forgetting one simple fact: high altitude = gassy Hancocks. Our dog, evidently, is no exception to the rule. Even if she doesn't fart much. She's just a great scapegoat for when you fart and want to blame someone else. She can't speak...so she can't deny anything. Some people, though, are too dumb let the dog take the blame...
Hubber: Please tell me that was the dog again.
Me: That was the dog again. It's too foul to be human. Wait. Maybe it's a skunk.
Little Spawn: You mean that fart? That was me! Hahahahaha! <fart, fart>
Big Spawn: Ewwww! There's something rotting inside you!
But, if there was a bright side to the long road trip it would have to be the acres and acres of cotton fields. That's right... people still grow cotton! Who'da thunk it!?
Not only do they GROW the shit, they very rarely fence it in. Huge mistake, cotton growers. HUGE. Because, if this heifer has a chance to pick some free cotton, you best believe she's gonna pull her large ass over to the side of the road and get to pickin'! I love picking cotton! I don't know what all those slaves complained about. Cotton is soft and fluffy and fun to pick.
Me: Hey, Hubber... look at all the cotton left on those crops. Those cotton picking machines are slacking! They need to get some slaves out there to finish picking that shit. I wanna see those bushes picked dry!
Hubber: "Bushes picked dry"? Really?
Me: Perv. But, seriously. If we lived on a cotton farm, I'd make the girls go out every day to follow those machines around and pick all the cotton scraps. They'd be my slaves. I'd be all... "pick that cotton, slave child!"... and, "spin that cotton into silk, slave girls!"...
Hubber: You can't even get them to put their dirty panties in the hamper.
Me: It'd be different on a cotton farm. That's what I'm saying. Oh... and look at all those hay bales all rolled up everywhere!
Hubber: You are easily sidetracked.
Me: Yeah, well, I think I could totally be a country girl. I'd be picking cotton and rolling around on those hay bales.
Hubber: I'd like to see you try to roll on one of those bales.
Me: They're round. They roll. How hard can it be?
Hubber: Not hard at all, until it takes one turn and SQUASHES the shit out of you. Those things weigh a ton.
Me: They're made of HAY, Hub. HAY don't weigh shit. But, just to be sure, maybe I'll let the girls try to roll on one first.
Hubber: Now you're talkin'!
But, he wouldn't pull over and let the girls try to roll on a hay bale for me. Something about cow patties and barbed wire fences and ranchers with shot guns. Party pooper.
But... at least I got this:
In the spirit of the holiday season, I did my motherly duty and humped a reindeer today. It's the least I could do to ensure my kids get some good loot this year. We all know that their questionable behavior all year hasn't earned them any brownie points with the big guy... and now that we're poorer than ever, these gals need all the help they can get. So, Hubber and I dragged them 999 miles north to Santa's Workshop in North Pole, Colorado to sit on Santa's lap.
It was Hubber's idea that I suck it up and hump a reindeer or two to increase our chances of having Santa make extra stops to our home on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, the pic posted here is pre-hump. The good humpity pic was "accidentally" deleted by some a-hole kid. You'd think they'd be more grateful for my extra efforts to get them a bunch of useless shit for Christmas. But, noooooo. I even went the extra mile and whispered sweet nothings into this guy's ear:
The soul patch, Santa-face hoodie and hard hat are all proof that he's some big wig up there at the North Pole. So, I'm pretty sure I covered all the bases.
Turns out Santa doesn't give out cell phones to little kids. Thank the 6 lb, 8 oz baby Geezus for that! I woulda kicked his fat, jolly ass if he had agreed to that shit when the littlest Spawn started spewing out all the ridiculous crap she wants for Christmas. She didn't give HIM a hard time about it, though. She saved that shit for ME when Santa was out of ear-shot.
Spawn: Well, it's official. Santa doesn't buy cell phones. I guess YOU'LL have to get me one after all.
Me: Maybe when you're 10.
Spawn: But, I can't wait that long! I'll DIE! I'll fall over and DIIIIIE!
Me: I'm willing to take that risk.
Spawn: Why do you HATE me so much?! I'm the only kid in my entire class that doesn't have a phone! It's not fair!
Me: Shut it, drama queen. No 1st grader has a cell phone. I promise.
Spawn: I can't even talk to you right now!
And, that's when she grabbed a sheet of paper out of the printer and stormed off. Uh-oh. Any time that little heifer snatches up a piece of paper, SOMEONE is gonna get a nasty note. Here's what I got:
Yeah. No cell phone = no love. Just so you know. Nevermind the fact that I degraded myself with giant elves and horny reindeer all day for her sake.
Momma's the one that doesn't git no love around here!