Does this tiara make me look snarky?

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.

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5 Perfect Mother's Day Gifts For Needy Moms

Do you know a needy mom?  

If you're not sure... look around.  Do you see a mom whose hair is perpetually disheveled?  Are her gray roots in desperate need of coloring? Does she need to pluck a few stray eyebrows?  Does she have coffee stains on her t-shirt?  Does her left eye twitch every few minutes?  Does she carry mini vodka bottles in her handbag?  Is she always popping "vitamins"?  Does she sometimes cry for no fucking reason?  Yeah.  You know at least one of those moms.

This year, let's give needy moms Mother's Day gifts they would really love.

They deserve it, you ungrateful mofos.  They carried bowling balls around in their uteruses for 9 long, gruesome months.  They spewed real, live human beings from their loins.  And, that my friends, is no small feat.  It's a miracle, motherfuckers.  And, their bodies will never be the same again.  So, the least YOU can do is treat them to something super nice this year.  Fuck the dumb candy and flowers.  Dig a little deeper and consider a gift from the following list:

1. No! No! Hair Removal System

Every needy mom has unwanted hair.  Some, more than others.  Either way, it's a bitch maintaining smooth, hairless skin.  Every mom need's a No! No! for Mother's Day.  Look how happy the heifer in this picture looks:

You think she could have attracted that little hottie she's hanging on to if she had beard stubble?  I think not.

2. Poo-Pourri

Although my shit doesn't stink, I know a shit load of people who have some really foul smelling poop.  And, let's face it, people... ladies are dainty.  They don't want people smelling their shit and talking about them behind their backs.  It's bad enough that their hair is matted and they're growing random two-inch hairs on their chins... they don't need a stinky ass on top of everything else that's wrong with them.  So, do all needy moms a favor, and get them a Crap Shooter from Poo-Pourri.  It's a gift the entire family can enjoy. 

3. Jock Strap Maid Service

No woman would turn down this service.  Even gay women appreciate a hard body... and a bare booty. Every needy mom needs this guy in her house once a month to scrub her toilets.  Plus, you'll be killing two birds with one stone - helping an needy mom AND helping a poor, sexy guy make his way through college.  It's a win-win, if you ask me.  

4. A Spec's Gift Card. You can never go wrong with booze...

Unless she doesn't drink.  Then, you're screwed.  And, you're suddenly an asshole because you bought booze for a recovered alcoholic or a Jehovah's Witness... or a Baptist, for crying out loud!  But, if in fact she is a drinker, she's got an expensive habit that needs supporting.  Look at what a good son this guy is:

his mama loves him for boozin' her up!

5. Summer Day Camp for Kids

Needy moms are usually on very tight budgets.  They usually work from home.  They get most of their work done while the kids are in school or in the middle of the night when the kids are sleeping.  But, what do they do when school lets out for the Summer? Some of them literally go insane.  Help a needy mom out, y'all!  Contribute to a worthy cause and send [at least] her [most annoying] kid to day camp at the Y.  Not sure how to contribute?  In a quick search, I found someone you can help!  Go here: Send Jessica to YMCA Summer Day Camp.

Hey, Bitches! Someone Thinks I'm Inspirational!

Imagine my shock and amazement when I found a comment on my site announcing that I had won an award.  That shit wasn't spam, y'all.  It was for real.  I nearly shit my pants!  So, thanks to the lovely, talented, gorgeously beautiful and superbly intelligent and funny Ellen at Bad Word Mama, I was presented with this:

If you don't believe that she actually DID nominate me for the award, here's the page where I'm listed: Holy Shitballs.  What an appropriate title to a blog post with a reference to me.  Fuck it, I'm honored!  But, as my luck would have it, this award isn't just one of those "here ya go have a nice day" kind of awards. There were strings attached. Kinda like getting married.  And, having children.  This is the story of my life.  Anyway... I have to follow some award acceptance rules lest I shalt be guilt ridden to the point of insanity by the Blog Gods and my left boob will fall off.  That would make me lopsided.  We can't have that, now can we? So, here's what I have to do:  Thank the person who nominated me for the award (done.), write a blog post containing seven interesting things about myself (ugh), and nominate 10 other bloggers for the same award (easy breezy).  So, without further adieu, here's some shit you may or may not know about me:

1. I don't wear bras or panties unless I absolutely, positively have to.  We're talking gun to the head kinda shit.  I don't go sans drawers because I think it's sexy or my coochie needs to be aired out or I'm one of the leftovers from Woodstock.  I go without because those contraptions are just too constricting and they make me feel claustrophobic. When I get claustrophobic, I tend to get stabby.  You wouldn't like me when I'm stabby.

2. I'm anal about "even stevens".  Shit has to be balanced or I start seeing spots and my tongue starts to swell.  If there's an end table on one side of the sofa, there better damn well be another one on the other side.  And, if you're gonna hang a TV on the wall, it better be right in the middle of the wall or I'll lose my shit. This is why I can't eat an open-faced sandwich or wear my hair like Deb on Napoleon Dynamite.

3. I once stole a Cover Girl mascara from Woolworth's.  I had no intentions of stealing it.  I was planning on having my brother steal it for me in exchange for a stack of Garbage Pail Kids trading cards, but that mofo wanted to charge me $2 cash for the steal (he was an entrepreneur at an early age).  Fuck that shit. So... I swiped it myself.  Afterwards, I broke out into hives and kept watching my back thinking the FBI was going to bust me at any moment.  I suck at guilt-free thievery.  

4. My shit don't stink.  Literally.  It smells beautiful no matter what I eat.  It's like honey suckle with a hint  of citrus.  I get compliments from Hubber all the time. I'm all, "I just took a dump, do not go in the bathroom"... and he goes in anyway and is all, "Baby, it smells awesome in there.  It's all flowery and nice."  True story.

5. I shave my arm hair.  And, I don't mean just my pits.  I mean my ARM hair, too.  I can't afford to wax and I'm a hairy motherfucker. I don't want to be confused for a sasquatch, so I put a razor to that shit on a regular basis.  I blame my heritage.  Mexican women are hairy, ya'll.  Thanks a lot, Mom!  If I had $300 right now, I'd go by myself a No-no.  

6. Unlike most geniuses, I do NOT suffer from insomnia.  You'd think that with an IQ like mine and a brain as big and juicy as mine is, I'd have the burden of too much thought - so much so that I'd stay up all night thinking and thinking and thinking of shit.  You'd be wrong.  When I hit my pillow, I pass out, y'all.  I can sleep and sleep and sleep.  I love to sleep.  And, I can pretty much sleep anywhere and under almost any condition.  Except, under water.  I tried that and I almost drowned.  

7. I have been watching The Young and the Restless for 25 years.  It all started when I was 13 years old and I went to spend the summer in the valley with my cousins.  They got me hooked on that shit and I haven't missed an episode in 25 years.  I love to hate Victor Newman.  It amazes me that Katherine Chancelor is still alive...she's gotta be pushing 100.  And, I'm not loving the new Abby.  They really should consult me before making cast changes

Whew.  That was tough.  But, I'm done exposing myself to y'all.  For now, anyway.  While you're anxiously awaiting my next post, why not go and check out some of these other blogs more worthy of the "Very Inspiring Blogger Award" than I am:

the goes to ...

1. Mommy Wants Vodka - Aunt Becky will have you rolling
2. We Band of Mothers - Marianne's kids will be in therapy soon just like mine
3. Bad Advice from My Brother - his brother is the most cleverly fucked up person alive
4. Inside the Mind of a Ghetto Genius - 'nuff said
5. Motherhood WTF? - I ask myself the same question every single day
6. Let Me Start By Saying... - Check out her new table manners for kids
7. My Dirty Kitchen Floor - this heifer can really carry a tune!
8. Diary of an Accidental Dad - he drinks a lot, too
9. Oscar Barnes - the company he works for is BIG
10. Oh, NOA - funnier than your grandma

Enjoy your award, you badass bitches!

Who wants turtle soup?

I'm not sure how it happens, but every pet I've ever owned has always had some psychological disorder.  They start out as cute quirks... but then the grow and evolve into completely psychotic mental disorders that even pet whisperers can't cure.  I once had a dog who loved to flood my apartment by biting through toilet bowl water lines.  That little bastard would break through a fucking door to attack a water line.  He was a rat terrier.  I hate rat fucking terriers now.  I had a cat that was perpetually stressed out.  She'd lose her hair over the dumbest shit.  Move her food bowl 10 feet in one direction?  Bald head.

Now I have a big, mean-looking dog who is afraid of her own shadow.  She goes without peeing and pooping for DAYS if it's raining outside. She's got a strong bladder, y'all.  And she's always nervous.  She jumps with any little noise. Close a door, the dog jumps.  Flush the toilet, she runs to her bed.  Knock at the door, she hides.  When she's feeling extra nervous, she walks laps around the coffee table.  If anyone ever broke into our house, that bitch ain't protecting her family...she's gonna save the shit out of her own damn life and leave us there to get stabbed to death.  She's the worst watch-dog ever.

My point here is that now I have a crazy ass turtle.  She's an aquatic turtle...requiring both water for swimming and dry land with hot lamps for vacationing.  It was expensive putting her habitat thingy together. Does that bitch give a shit?  No, she does not.  She uses the pool every other day for about an hour to eat and shit in... and the rest of the time, she digs her way down under the rocks and sand and stays buried.  What kind of AQUATIC animals hates water?  One belonging to me... that's what kind.

Do YOU see a fucking turtle in here? No.

That's because she was under a fucking rock!

You're fat and I know it. Click the damn link.

In case you heifers haven't noticed, there's something different about my blog.  Over there in that right sidebar are new advertisements.  Momma's trying to make some money, y'all.  Hubber's about to kick my ass to the curb if some of my writing projects don't start making money.  Go click on some of that shit.  I know some of you heifers must need to lose some weight... or build a website... or buy a domain... or stock up on sex toys... or some similar shit like that.

C'mon... I know you're fat.  You need a how-to-lose-weight plan, right?  Go click on that shit and buy a guide or some supplements or whatever.  Thank you. And, you're welcome.

How NOT Drinking Alcohol Can Kill a Mofo

Much to Patsy's dismay, I recently fell off the wagon.  Well, it wasn't really to her dismay in that I never actually TOLD her I started boozing it up again.  But, if she DID know, that heifer would be dismayed for sure.  Know what I say to that?  Fuck it.  Fuck Patsy and her skinny ass self.  I did my research, bitch!  A single shot of straight vodka only contains 100 calories... and ZERO sugars.  That's right.  NO SUGAR.  And, according to Lance Armstrong's peeps, wine has even fewer calories.  At first I was like, "should I trust Lance's peeps?  Lance is a crack whore... maybe I should do some fact checking"... so I dug a little deeper and found some amazing news from the Calorie King. Only 96 calories in 80 proof vodka!  If the fucking king of calories says it, it must be so!

Also, 96 upside down is 69.  My lucky number! And... I made it six weeks without consuming alcohol. That's gotta be some kind of world record or something.  Where's my fucking prize?

During this time, I learned a very important fact: Being sober for long periods of time will give you homicidal tendencies.  No joke, people.  Why do you think sober people are so fucking loony?  It's because they are fighting hard, every second of their lives, not to kill a mother fucker.  When you consume adult beverages (in moderation, of course), you enjoy that "I don't really give a fuck" attitude.  Which is nice when you're like me, genetically prone to craziness.

My excessive sobriety almost made me kill:

1. my neighbors for being inconsiderate assholes every fucking day
2. a waiter for accidentally looking like that creepy red-headed guy on CSI Miami
3. my daughter's friend for suggesting that I was too fat for my jacket because it wasn't zipped up
4. my sister for suggesting that I am fat by asking me to go to the gym with her
5. my dog for taking a gazillion hours to find the perfect spot to take a shit
6. my nail lady for suggesting that my entire face needed waxing
7. the ice cream truck man for charging $2.25 for a fucking popsicle
8. the snow plow driver who splashed me with slush when I was scraping ice off my windshield in a fucking blizzard

...and that's just to name a few.  So the fact that I'm officially off the bandwagon pretty much means that I bought a one-way ticket to heaven.  I'm like Mother Teresa - except way hotter.

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.

What's the proper protocol for telling your neighbors they're a buncha assholes?

Until now, I had never lived in an apartment complex.  I take that back.  When Hubber and I first got hitched, we leased a swanky condo in the Medical Center.  But that place doesn't count because it was badass and the neighbors weren't assholes. Our neighbors were doctors and scientists and geniuses who went to bed at reasonable hours and minded their own fucking business on a regular basis.

Those were the days.

Back then, we were cool in our multi-family residential community.  Now, we're just a tired married couple with kids that drive us batshit crazy living in a shoebox apartment in the suburbs under the assholiest neighbors in the universe.  Not all our neighbors are assholes.  Most of these peeps are nice and quiet.  But the mofos directly above us need to be hung by their balls from the rafters.

Seeing how I'm not all that experienced at sharing my ceiling and walls with others, I'm not privy to the proper protocol for telling the three guys living above me that I'd like them to all die horrible, bloody deaths.  Do I just knock on the door and when they open up, simply punch them in the face with the pointy end of Hubber's ninja sword?  Last night I dreamed that a tornado struck all Wizard of Oz style and took out their apartment.  I looked out of my window and saw all of those assholes swirling around in the tornado on their way to back to Kansas (the land of Kansasholes, a place they are obviously from).

Wanna know why I hate them so much?  Let me lay it out for you:

1. Their fucking dog is an asshole. He whines/cries/barks non-stop when they aren't home (if Bobo the Sasquatch hunter lived here, he'd swear the dog was a squatch in disguise). These episodes usual occur during the day at my most optimal writing times. Which, NATURALLY, makes me want to kill a mother fucker.

2. They skateboard in the house above our living room and down the stairs right outside my bedroom.  Why they haven't fallen down the stairs proves that the universe is against me and I must take matters into my own hands.  An invisible wire strewn across the top flight of stairs might do the trick.

3. They sit on their patio and smoke and toss cigarettes down onto my car.  This tells me they might enjoy being blown to smithereens by an anonymous package of dynamite delivered to their door.

4. They think they're UFC fighters.  They wrestle around all night... banging into walls, slamming doors, screaming and pounding the floor. ALL. NIGHT. Or maybe they're a gay trio and they're just into kinky shit.  Either way, I'd like them to keel over and die.

5. One of those mofos is so heavy-footed our dishes rattle any time he moves.  This is the same mofo that has to get up to pee every night at 2:30 am.  You can set your clock to him. I don't want to set my fucking clock to him.  I want to sleep!

6. They don't scoop their dog's poop. You might think I'm hating on their dog, too... but I'm not.  It's not that crybaby dog's fault that his owners are inconsiderate assholes.

7. Sometimes they smoke the most potent weed in all of creation; leaving our apartment smelling like dead skunk for days.  Try explaining that shit to a 6-year-old.

So, those are my grievances, in no particular order.  All our other neighbors are fine.  I don't wish explosive diarrhea on any of them.  But the assholes upstairs have got to go!

I should get my mom to start a petition.

The One-Eyed African Tigers Can Kiss My Ass!

My mom has a lot of time on her hands... she has time for things like cleaning bird cages, pampering plants, collecting dead insects, clipping coupons and reading.  And by reading, I don't mean how-to books or novels or great American literature.  She's filling her brain up with all the injustices of the world.  She has become the know-it-all of every political/social/economic problem of every country in the world.  Let's not leave out animal rights.  She knows all about that shit, too.  The knowledge she has gained from her internet browsing is overflowing her brain's capacity and is literally oozing out of every orifice.  Ok, maybe not literally.  But, she is definitely burdened with finding ways to save the world from itself.  And, I think that shit is contagious because now the littlest spawn feels like she needs to start doing shit to make the world a better place.

Spawn:  Please go to [so-and-so] website immediately and send them $50.

Me: Huh?

Spawn: Don't you care about tigers?  Some only have one eye! They're becoming extinct in Africa!   We can't let that happen.  They only need $50. What is wrong with you?  Go online now!

Me: Where'd you hear about that?

Spawn: There was a commercial about it during Jessie.

Me:  Go read a book or something!  I ain't sending $50 nowhere!

Spawn:  Momo probably cares.  Momo cares about everything... animals... babies... and even the President.  You don't even care about the President!  I'm gonna tell Momo.

Me:  <going to website and ignoring that comment> Let me see here... Ah-Ha!  Looks like if you donate at least $50 they'll send you a stuffed animal.

Spawn: Well, that's what you get for saving a tiger. It's the tiger's way of saying "thank you, I'm alive"

So, naturally, I did what any good parent would do in this situation, I avoided an argument and instead pretended to send them money to get the kid off my damn back.  When I mentioned it to my mother later, she pointed at a tiny stuffed tiger sitting near a stack of mail.  It was the one from the damn commercial.

Me: Seriously?

Mom:  It was for a good cause.

Me:  You're getting kinda loony with this stuff, Momma.

Mom:  I'm just doing my part because I can.  There is so much injustice in the world.  Did you sign all those petitions I sent you over email?

Me: Uhm.  Yeah.

Mom:  You didn't, did you?  You need to.....

.....that was when I tuned out.  I saw her mouth moving and the passion in her expressions as she tried to convince me that I should be more of an activist.  But, I honestly didn't hear a word.  Crickets.  That's what I heard.

I ain't got time for that shit, Momma!  I'm too busy trying to keep my own damn self alive. Forget the one-eyed tigers in Africa! It's all I can do to make it through each day without dying or killing someone.  I ain't got time for petitions and letters to my congressmen and whatnot.  And those starving kids in China?  Sorry!  I got two starving kids at home to worry about!  Oil drilling in Alaska?  Huh?  I don't give a rat's ass!

The world is a fucked-up and unfair place.  I find bliss in ignorance.

Suck it up tiger! If a bear can wear a
patch over his missing eye, you can too!

On a side note: On my way out of my mom's house that day, I snagged that stuffed tiger up quick and shoved it into my purse.  The tiny spawn was thrilled to learn that she had indeed saved a tiger.  And, I saved my sanity along with $50. Win-win in my book.