Showing posts with label kids are assholes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids are assholes. Show all posts

Brain-Dead Mothers. It's a Thing.

My life can be defined by BEFORE KIDS (BK) and AFTER KIDS (AK). In my BK days, many parts of my body were smaller. I can't blame my weight on my kids, although sometimes it's fun to make them feel guilty about it. What I can blame them for are my enlarged feet. After the first kid, my feet grew half a size; and after the second kid, they bumped up another half size. I'm really not sure how the science works with feet, but that shit is fucked up. Do you know how hard it is to find cute 9.5-10 sized shoes? It's almost as hard as finding plus-sized clothing that doesn't include moo-moos, frocks, and tunics (which, let's be real, are just fucking frocks with a cuter name). 

Also, BK, my hair was thick and lush and brown. AK it became thin and grey and lifeless. And, when I'm stressed, it falls out in clumps. It ain't pretty when a woman loses her hair. Not pretty at all. And, I don't wanna hear all the men out there crying about how their receding hairlines have ruined their lives. Men don't know shit about the mental damage that women endure when losing hair. Not one tiny turd. 

I think it's funny how men are always so dramatic about their pains and woes. 

Hubber: I've got this excruciating pain in my stomach. This must be what child birth feels like!
Me: .... 
<giving the are-you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now face>
Hubber: What? You think you're the authority on all things painful?
Me: Yes. I do. I'mma need you to try squeezing a watermelon out of your pee hole before you compare any fucking thing to child birth. 


The other thing that happened AK is that I lost brain cells. Most idiots can blame cool shit like LSD, crack, moonshine, and marijuana for their dumbassery. Not me! I blame parenthood. Again, I'm not a scientist, but I'm pretty sure that when you get pregnant, brain cells dislodge and travel down into your womb. I think it's safe to estimate that the average mother loses 10 brain cells a day during that time. And, I carried my kids TO TERM. That's 40 long weeks of brain cell loss. If I were good at math, I'd tell you exactly how many cells that is and how many I have left. But, I'm not good at math; and you know why.

Kids are natural born thieves, y'all. And, they make you dumb. There should be severe consequences for their actions! I demand justice! Time for reparations!


It should come as no surprise that the brain cells you use to perform mathematical computations are the first to go. I'm living proof of that. I'm currently taking a Business Analysis class that is kicking my ass. Why? Because I can't process the logic behind testing statistic hypotheses. P-values? Z-test? Null Hypothesis? Critical Value? Square roots, n to the power of 6, degrees of freedom! WTF is this shit? And, why can't I get it to stay in my head? Why! I'll tell you why. Because my kids stole the necessary brain cells needed to compute. 

And since depleting me of my brain cells isn't quite enough, my kids have also stolen vital nutrients necessary to function on this planet. Did I have seasonal allergies before I was a mom? No. I did not. Did I have high blood pressure? No. Was I able to quickly metabolize crappy food? Yes. Can I do that now? No. 

Basically, children have literally sucked the life out of me and have left in their wake, an over-sized, middle-aged, wild-haired, blob whose ultimate goal in life is to end up laid out on a beach somewhere with a perpetual piƱa colada in hand.

Kids Are Pigs - Let's Make Bacon

because bacon makes everything better

Just because I work at home doesn't mean I'm everyone's personal maid. Contrary to popular beliefs, I actually try to WORK all day. I don't have time to go around picking up shit my kids leave strewn about. On the surface, my girls are cute... they're funny... they're smart (this is a matter of opinion) and they appear to be clean and well groomed. What people don't know is that they are actually filthy pigs shat from the bowels of hell. 

The oldest spawn will be 17 years old this year. Over the years, she has struggled with lifting a fucking finger to help make my life a little easier. She isn't interested in making my life easier. All she is interested in is living like a slob. When she was 13, she used to hoard dirty dishes in her room. I kept buying tumblers and bowls thinking some serial dish robber was sneaking in through my kitchen window to snatch my shit up. I even made a booby trap out of broken wine bottles on the windowsill to try to catch that motherfucker once and for all. But, when I found a bowl of moldy, stinky, milk swollen cheerios stashed away in her bathroom cabinet while searching desperately for a tampon, I knew who the real thief was. My fucking kid.

So, what did I do? I put Hubber on the case. He turned that room upside down and found crusty forks under mattresses, cups stacked behind books, petrified pizza crusts in file cabinet drawers, and bowls growing science experiments under the bed and in the closet. The craziest thing (because evidently, that shit isn't crazy enough), was that when we questioned her about it, she acted completely dumbfounded like she had no clue where all that shit came from.

Me: What the fuck were you thinking? How long has this been going on?

1st Spawn: I didn't do it. I swear! I don't know where any of that stuff came from.

Hubber: I'll tell you where it came from! It came from you dragging shit up to your room and hiding it because you were too damn lazy to bring it back down to the kitchen... or throw it in the trash.

1st Spawn: Daddy, I swear! I didn't do it!

Hubber: Well then WHO did?

1st Spawn: I don't know. Maybe it was a ghost. I told you there are ghosts in this house! (find more on the pesky ghost here)

Yeah, that's how the conversation went. And, Hubber kept arguing with her because that's what he does. And, do you think the dish stashing stopped after that argument? It didn't. It went on for the next few months (or years... as it turns out because we found fresh stashes of shit when we moved out of the house last year). Even the contraction of staph infections didn't change her lazy ways.

After we moved and the route between her bedroom and the kitchen became almost non-existent, the hording of dirty dishes seemed to get better but other slobbish habits took over.

  1. She can't seem to close a drawer.  The clothes in the drawers aren't even overflowing.  It would take literally 2 seconds to shove them closed with a hip while walking by. 
    WTF? Just close the damn drawers!
  2. She can't seem to toss empty toilet paper rolls in the trash can that sits right under the toilet paper roll holder.
  3. She collects hair on her shower wall.  Hair. Long, gnarly strands of hair.  Her logic to collecting hair there is that it's better than clogging the drain.  Never mind the fact there is a trash can right next to the fucking tub.
  4. She co-mingles clean clothes with dirty clothes and can't keep track of what is clean and what is dirty, so when she's getting dressed in the morning, she tosses a shirt and a pair of jeans into the dryer with a dryer sheet to "dewrinkle" it, she says.  More like "freshen it up" so she doesn't smell like sweaty cooch and gym socks.
But it's not just her pig pen lifestyle that drives me nuts, she's also a lazy heifer who will fall over dead if she has to help do anything remotely related to housework.  It takes her 2 hours to wash 4 plates, 4 forks and 4 cups because she suddenly has to take a shit, then she cuts herself on the tip of a fork and starts bleeding profusely, then she bumps her head on the razor sharp edge of an open cabinet door and blood starts pooling in her eye, then she slips on dog drool and strains a hamstring which prohibits the ability to bend and load the dishwasher.

Her sister has officially started following in her footsteps.  I've tried to instill in the littlest spawn the importance of proper hygiene and picking up after her damn self. Has she learned one fucking thing? No.  She wears Depends-for-Kids because she has bladder issues at night and I got tired of washing pee-soaked sheets every fucking day.  But, can she remove the pull-up and place it in the garbage?  No.  She removes it, then leaves it in the middle of the bedroom floor where it transfers pee stink into the carpet and into the air.  She will make games of jumping over the damn thing.  She will build barriers around it so that the dog doesn't snatch it up.  But, she will not pick it up without a fight.

Why?  Because "it's gross, Moooom!", and she doesn't want to get pee on her fingers.  This from the same kid who to this day will pluck boogers out of her nose and eat them for snacks throughout the day.  The same kid who will take a shit, NOT wipe properly a wear shit encrusted panties all day.  The same kid who will scratch her ass and sniff her fingers.  The same kid who chews on her own fucking toenails. 
Turns out the dog is grossed out, too.
The other day when the girls' toilet was clogged beyond Hubber's ability to remedy it, the plumber came in, stepped over two swollen pull-ups, around a pile of clothes lying on the floor next to an empty laundry basket, and past a drawer full of teenager thongs.  Behind the toilet, he spotted an empty popcorn bag and a glass half-full of green muck that was once a banana smoothie. 

And you people wonder why I drink.

Parenting: I think I'm doing it wrong. Again.

I don't know how the hell it happens...

...but every time I punish my kids "for their own good", I end up punishing my damn self, too!  When the little spawn gets in trouble, she is punished by not being allowed play dates, not being able to watch TV, and not being able to play with her toys or "do artwork".  That only leaves books.  And when the books get old, that heifer is all up in my shit....talking my ears off and driving me up the wall.  There isn't enough medication and booze in the world to get me through those days without going insane.  If I duct tape her mouth shut and tie her to a chair, it's considered child abuse.  What about parent abuse?!  Where are the laws for that shit?!

And, don't even get me started on the teenage punishment.  Along with telephone/internet curfews and no extra-curricular outings with friends, the oldest spawn has currently been punished by actually having to read.  That's right.  Books = Punishment.  The problem is: I have to read the damn books, too, because how else will I know what the fuck she's reading in order to quiz her on it?

Spawn:  Can I pick the book this time?

Me:  It has to be a chapter book and it cannot contain illustrations.

Spawn:  So, Calvin and Hobbes is out?

Me: .....

Spawn: Mooooom!  You know I haaaaaate to read!  Why do you torture me?!

Me:  How are we even related?  I'm ashamed to call you my daughter right now.  There are 693 books in this house, how many have you even attempted to read?

Spawn:  I read the first part of Twilight, remember?

Me: One chapter of the first book hardly counts.

Spawn: I saw all the movies... it's the same thing.  Besides, I read books at school all the time.  Smart books by famous, dead authors.

Me:  Name one.

Spawn: ......

Me: Exactly.

So, here's what she picked:
Who the fuck is being punished here?!

They don't make Clif's Notes for the Pretty Little Liars books, y'all (believe me, I've looked).  My eyes are bleeding just thinking about all the teen angst and drama that I'm about to endure with this round of punishment.  Kill me now.  Put the barrel of your gun right in my face and blow my head away to smithereens. Twice.  Just to be sure I'm good and dead.

I'd swear she was switched at birth if it weren't for the fact that she was the only white baby born at the county hospital the week of September 7, 1996. There was one Vietnamese baby and the rest were black.  I bet all those kids read!

To make matters worse, she has to bring her Geometry book home twice a week for studying.  GEOMETRY.  I don't know shit about Geometry except for pie-r-square.  Oh, wait... I can probably decipher all the basic shapes unless they have more than 5 sides.  And, even then, it's a crap shoot, what with all the parallellagrams and other similar bullshit that is absolutely useless in real life.

High school math makes me feel like a goddamned idiot.  Those teachers need to step it up and earn their keep so I don't have to do this shit at home!  I specifically chose NOT to be a school teacher because:

1. I hate kids
2. I hate math
3. I hate people in general
4. I refuse to wear panty hose; and
5. Cafeteria food sucks.

My point here is that parenting is a bitch.  When you do it "right", you suffer like a mofo.  When you do it "wrong", you end up in a prison for the criminally insane.  Either way, you're screwed.  Both literally and figuratively.  Neither of which would be considered a pleasant experience in my book.

Weiner Cleaner and other shit that's kept me from blogging...

Yes, I'm still alive.  The spawns have been yanking on every nerve this summer, but they haven't broken me yet. Medication helps.  A lot. Well, at least until you run out and the pharmacy screws up your prescriptions and you turn into a crazed lunatic and get kicked out of Walgreen's.

I didn't really get kicked out.  But, I will wear a disguise next time I go in, just in case. I need one of those nifty mustaches that are so popular now.  And, a little orphan annie wig. I wonder if my sister will let me borrow some of her ass-jackin' hooker heels?  Hmmmm.

Anyway... my point here is that my kids are driving me bat shit crazy, but I'm still functioning on some level.  Summer seems to be taking for fucking ever to be over, though.  I've been trying to busy myself with working, writing, daydreaming, drinking adult beverages and soaking up some rays.  Although, I think I overdid it with the sunbathing because my belly button is burned to a crisp right now.  It ain't a pretty sight.  It looked pretty gnarly before - all caved in with fat rolls and decorated in bright white stretch marks.... now it's bright red and stinging.  And, to top it all off, the fucking stretch marks didn't change color.  That shit doesn't tan??  WTF?!  What's the use in tanning to look 10 pounds thinner if those mofos stand out worse than they did when the skin around them was ghostly white?! If I get skin cancer, I'ma be really pissed.

The combinatin of motherhood and poor dieting has fucked my body all up.

But, I digress.

In my "spare" time, I've been busying myself by whipping up homemade facial creams and body wash concoctions. (This Pinterest shit is the devil.)  My family members have served as guinea pigs in testing out my products; and so far, none of them have died or contracted that oily, anal discharge that seems to be a common side affect of shit sold on TV.  As a matter of fact, the face cream seems to be "selling" like hotcakes. (I put that shit in quotations because nary one of these biznatches have actually traded CASH for the stuff. Yet.)  One batch of the body wash was awesome.  But, another one turned out kinda slimy.  I have 2 gallons of the slimy stuff.  And, no one seems to want it anymore.  SOOOO.... I'm repackaging that shit (I do have a background in marketing, y'all) and selling it as....


....because every weiner needs a good cleaning.  Plus, you don't need a washcloth or spongee thing to get the job done.  Simply, squirt some slimy weiner cleaner into the palm of your hand and get to strokin' that bad boy clean! 

Wanna buy some?  Momma's selling that shit here:  GET YOUR BOTTLE OF WEINER CLEANER TODAY!

Summer is almost here. Shoot me now.

Fuck.  School is almost out for the summer and I still have no plans for the littlest spawn.  What the fuck am I gonna do, y'all?  I have no money and no imagination.  And, pretty soon, I'm going to have no sobriety. Not that THAT is a huge departure from my normal life, but I may be sprawled out on the floor, drunk off my ass, foaming at the mouth with pee running down my leg in two weeks if I don't figure something out quick.  The spawn is cute...but she was put on this earth with the sole purpose of torturing me.  I like her best when she's sleeping or raising hell at least 1 mile away from me.  I can't even talk to her. Every conversation we have turns into a plea for her own cell phone.  She's five.  She's out of her mind.  And, she never shuts her mouth.  She yammers on and on and on and on until my ears start bleeding and my eyes roll around to the back of my head.

This is what someone without
a cell phone looks like.
My stomach hurts just thinking about the 3 months of togetherness I have to look forward to.

Spawn:  Mommy!  You and I are going to have the best Summer ever!

Me: Uhm. ??

Spawn: I can't wait to hang out with you EVERY day... we can go to the park, we can have play dates, we can buy me my own phone so we can text each other!  It's going to be awesome!
Me: You are not getting a phone.

Spawn: That's not fair! Even my pretend friend has a phone! 

Me: Yeah, well, borrow HER phone!

Spawn: I just did.  Did you get my text?

Me: Nope. 

Spawn: It SAYS, "Mom, I need my own phone." I'm the only person in this entire house that doesn't have a phone!

Me: You're also the only person in this house without a job.  Get a job and you can have a phone.

Spawn: I'm too small to get a job.  Look at me!  I'm tiny.  Who's gonna give me a job?  The only thing I know how to do is play!  Who's gonna pay me to play?!

Me: Maybe you can go to work with your Dad and play with the old folks.

Spawn: I bet the OLD FOLKS all have phones!  And, none of them have a job.  All they do is sit around and drool all day! They don't even have to wipe their own butts!

This is how our conversations go, y'all. They never end.  How the hell am I supposed to survive an entire Summer with this little heifer?  HOW?! 

As I type this blog, she's sitting under my desk singing, "I like big butts and I cannot lie... blah blahdy blah blah blah deny... when a girl walks by with a itty bitty waist with a round thing in your face you get SPRUNG!"  She just stopped to ask me how she can get sprung like the guy from the song. 

Shoot me now.

Sex Pornstar Coupon

According to my blog stats, searches on google for "sex pornstar coupon" directed people to my blog a total of 5 times last month. Not only do I not provide pornstar sex, if I did, I wouldn't be giving out coupons for that shit! I would charge a premium!  I wonder how sad these pervs were when they landed on my bullshitty blog full of parental bitching and moaning and starving artist rants?  Oh, well... fuck 'em.  If they don't like it, they can keep moving.

Also, WTF is a sex pornstar coupon? 

If I were ever to attempt to make money in the sex industry, I've already decided that I'd take a clue from Irena Palm.  Except, I'll be the pimp.  I'd drill a hole in my garage door and let pervs stick their peckers in for a lubed-up handjob performed by senior citizens looking to supplement their social security income.  I'd disguise them as Betty White for that "star" quality.

How much would YOU pay to stick your pecker in a hole for a handjob from Betty White?!

Other interesting google searches that led folks to my blog last month:
  • black sucking bitches
  • skittles not shittles
  • spring break 2012 asses
  • zombie princesses
  • kids are assholes
  • mommy juice
  • go rving

Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

I got bitched out yesterday by my brother-in-law who thinks I take too much time between blog posts.

Me: (bitching, as usual): Kids suck all the fun out of anything remotely entertaining.

BIL: Hey!  That could be the topic of your next blog.

Me: Nah, that's old news, buddy.

BIL: Well, you need to fucking write about something soon or you're going to start losing loyal readers.

Me: I have loyal readers?

BIL: Well, I'm the only one that counts, but YEAH.  WTF is taking so long?  You always seem to have so much to say. 

Me: I've been making curtains for the Minnie Winnie!

BIL: excuses, excuses.  GET TO BLOGGING!

So, here I am.  Writing a guilt-infested blog post.  But, lucky for you people, I'm not going to complain about my kids again (at least not today).  I have better shit to write about.  Plus, I'm afraid child protective services might be on to me... and I'm too cute to go to jail.

I wasn't lying when I said I'd been working on curtains.  No, I did not finally learn how to use my damn sewing machine.  Even better:  I found a snazzy how-to project on Pinterest for making curtains without sewing!  They turned out fatastical!
See?!  Damn, I'm good. 

And while we're on the topic of pinning - the most ingenious internet creation EVER, I finally put some of the shit I've learned there to good use.  As a freelance writer with not enough writing assignments, I have to find clever ways to save money without starving my family or skipping on my sanity juice.  So, when some really frugal pinners shared their recipes for homemade household products, I jumped on that shit!  And, it works!!  So, I spent most of today concocting a bunch of shit....
Yes, I made my own labels.  I'm clever that way.
I guess if I can't make money WRITING, I could make money selling my own line of household cleaning products.  Anyone interested?  Anyone?

I'm making body/hand soap now.  My house has never smelled so clean! Now if only it weren't so dusty.  I'll trade someone a batch of laundry detergent if you'll come dust and scrub my house for me.

I suck royally at consistent parenting.

This face doesn't scare anyone!
This is a sad, SAD fact.  My kids have figured me out.  They know that "No." doesn't mean "NO."  It means, "if you bug the living shit out of me for long enough, I will eventually give in because I am weak and pathetic and I don't put up much of a fight."

Before I had kids, I was famous for talking trash about other people's parenting skills.  Parents who couldn't keep their kids quiet or still in public got on my nerves like nobody's business.  Now?  I'm one of "THOSE" parents.  What the hell happened to me?  I don't even LIKE children!  You'd think that a hateful bitch like me would be a strict mom whose kids are well behaved because they're filled with the fear of God.  But, sadly, no.  That isn't the case.  It's not that I'm really all that much of a push-over, though.  Mostly, I just live in a made-up world in my head where I am blissfully unaware of what my kids are doing around me.  It's full of happy pills and adult beverages and hulky man-booties.  It keeps me sane.  I'm probably not doing my kids any favors by giving into their whims, but MY sanity is at stake here, people!  And no one likes me when I'm insane. 

My point here is that it's Valentine's Day and you're probably wondering what this lushy, sex kitten has planned for the evening, right?  Well...

I am waiting for Hubber to get home.  When he does, we will pile up in the car, pick up the teen spawn's boyfriend and drop the two lovebirds off on THEIR fucking date.  Then, we will have Valentine's dinner at Chuck-e-Cheese's (where they do NOT serve "mommy drinks") with an extra hyper, chatter-mouthed kindergartener.

Why, you ask?  Because "NO." doesn't fucking mean "HELL NO."  Shoot me now.

Kids say the shittiest things... it's a wonder I let mine live

Teen Spawn: You have really nice legs, Mom.

Me (bewildered): What? I have no money.

Teen Spawn:  No, really, they're long and lean.

Me (admiring my legs):  Hmmm.  They ARE kinda nice, huh?

Teen Spawn:  Yeah, but it's kinda weird.

Me:  What is?

Teen Spawn:  They're just kinda outta proportion or something.

Me:  Oh, HERE we go.  You should stop now.

Teen Spawn:  I mean... they're like toothpicks holding up a potato.

Me:  You have 3 seconds to start running before I kick your ass.

Tiny Spawn (looking at my legs): Hmmm... don't listen to her, Mommy.  Your thighs are chunky like a marshmallow.

Me:  If I weren't medicated and sipping on Mommy Juice, the two of you would already be dead.

HOLY SHIT, y'all... I'm Mrs. Potato Head!

Gonads, Ice Picks and Husband-Eating Zombie Wives

If Hubber begins one more sentence with, "Since you'll be at home all day doing nothing, could you..."... I'ma pluck his eyeballs out with a rusty ice pick and squish his gonads between my freakishly strong toes. Then, I'll pull his hair.  And for good measure, I'll scrub the toilet with his toothbrush.

For some strange reason, Hubber seems to think that I roll out of the bed each morning and assume this ritual:
  1. slurp down a cup of coffee
  2. stumble into my house slippers
  3. drive starving teen spawn to school
  4. get back home and crawl back under the covers
  5. take magically dressed, sugar-filled kindergartener (with shiny clean teeth) to school
  6. get back home and crawl back under the covers
  7. take a two-hour nap
  8. turn the tv on and watch soaps and talk shows while munching on Cheetos and drinking rum and coke
  9. roll back out of bed to frolick around in the backyard with the dog
  10. "play" on facebook until it's time to pick teen spawn back up from school
I wish, mofo!

Instead, shit usually goes down like this:
  1. fall out of bed
  2. try to spruce myself up a bit to look alive
  3. scream at teen spawn to hurry the hell up
  4. beg tiny spawn to get up
  5. answer a few work-related emails
  6. plead with teen spawn to eat/drink something before we leave
  7. argue that we do NOT have time to go to McDonald's on the way to school 
  8. drag tiny spawn out of bed kicking and screaming
  9. pile kids up in the car and drive to the high school
  10. halfway there, teen spawn freaks out that she forgot something at home
  11. more arguing takes place
  12. drop teen spawn off at school
  13. get back home to get tiny spawn ready for school
  14. fight with tiny spawn regarding hair/teeth brushing and NOT having a popsicle for breakfast
  15. remind her that panties and socks are essential on school days
  16. answer a few work-related emails
  17. take tiny spawn to school
  18. sit in the car line for at least 10 minutes while other jackass parents figure out how to fucking drop their kids off and move the hell out of the way
  19. get home and let the dog out
  20. scream at dog for fighting with neighbor's dog
  21. feed animals / clean litter box
  22. make FIRST cup of coffee
  23. answer work-related emails
  24. return a couple of calls
  25. work
  26. wash some dishes
  27. work
  28. throw a load of laundry into the washing machine
  29. work
  30. sit in on ridiculously long conference call while catching up on some writing
  31. pay bills
  32. run to the grocery store
  33. work
  34. look at the time and freak out that I only have 10 more minutes until I have to pick teen spawn back up from school
I'll stop there because what comes next deals with carpooling... arguing with teen spawn... running (literally) in the direction of tiny spawn's bus stop so the bus driver doesn't get mad at me for being late again..... getting write-up from teacher because my kindergartener can't behave at school... arguing with tiny spawn about her television priveledges... trying to get more work done... etc. etc.

Then, Hubber gets home all tired, wondering what the fuck I did all day and why we're having cereal again for dinner and why I didn't wash a load of whites.


I can't make this shit up, y'all....

For the second time in my entire history of motherhood, I attended a Thanksgiving Feast with my child.  The first time, was with the oldest spawn when she was in 3rd grade.  I was in the lunch line with her when some loud-mouthed jackass kid asks my her, "Hey, is THAT your mom?  She's fat!"  In my mind I reached over there and kicked him in his teeny tiny nutsack.  In reality, I shot him the bird and he turned right around and minded his own business.  After that most joyous day, I realized the older kids got, the assholier they got, too.  So, I figured that would probably be the first and last time I'd go and have lunch with my kid.

Fast-forward 6 years and my youngest spawn is in kindergarten.  At this age, kids are still kinda cute so I figured I'd probably be safe against verbal attacks.  Also, my youngest would proably kick someone's ass if they talked smack about me to her face.  So, when I was invited to have a Thanksgiving lunch with her, I said, "sure, let's try this shit again!"

Everything was fine.  Great, as a matter-of-fact.  I chit-chatted in the lunch line with some parents.  I sashayed my fat ass around like the confident heifer that I am.  It was all cool.

That is, until we sat down at our assigned spot at the lunch table.  Directly across from us was another kid and her mother - a police officer in full fucking uniform.

Here's where shit went downhill fast.

Spawn: What does that badge say on your arm?

Cop Lady:  It says, "police officer."

Spawn:  YOU'RE a policeman?!

Cop Lady: Yep.

Spawn: Do you have a gun?

Cop Lady: Yeah... it's right here, see? (tapping her hip holster)

Spawn: Cool!  My mom doesn't have a gun.

Cop Lady: Really?

Spawn: Nope.  But, my dad does.

Cop Lady: Really?

Spawn:  Yeah.  He's a boy.  He likes to shoot stuff. Especially bad guys and SQUIRRELS!

Cop Lady: He does, huh?  (glancing at me)

Spawn: Yeah.  He hates them because they drop a lot of acorns in our pool. Also, they make a mess by the back door.

Cop Lady: Hmmm. (staring a hole in my head)

Me: Hey, don't look at me... I don't even know the guy.

So, there goes our family's reputation with this group of parents.  By the time my tiny spawn gets to 3rd grade, this story will be exaggerated to astronomical proportions.  I'm sure that by then, Hubber will be a convicted felon who kills cute, tiny, doe-eyed puppies and eats their hearts raw. 

The funny thing is... he's never even actually hit a squirrel with his bb-gun. :)