Squirt

As a woman, you know something about you has changed irrevocably when someone with a penis—while sucking furiously on your nipple—releases the loudest, wettest, most trumpeting fart imaginable and shits his pants…

…and you look down at him, and he smiles a toothless grin, and you fully accept that you’re in love with a tiny, incontinent bald man.

Then you clean the feces from his balls, and you still think he’s charming.

That’s romance. 

I shall call him Squirt.

Scenes from a Marriage

I always want to chronicle conversations I have with That Guy I Married. I never do, despite the fact that we think we are the funniest, dirtiest, most interesting people ever. The problem is, our best conversations happen as we’re trying to fall asleep, and I’m way too lazy to write that shit down.

Still…I might be narcissistic enough to make this a regular thing, blog…we shall see.

TGIM, discussing my still-breastfeeding-titties: “I don’t know…I don’t know if your tits could take it. Not right now. Not your…juggalos.”

Me: “My tits are NOT fans of the Insane Clown Posse. Do NOT call them juggalos.”

TGIM: “How do you know? Have you asked them?”

Me, looking down at my honkers: “No. I don’t have to. They’re not into ICP. They know how magnets work.”

TGIM: “Do you know how magnets work?”

Me: “Touche.” 

Okay, so if you were familiar with ICP before this post, this might be funny to you. If you weren’t, I will gladly accept a fruit basket (read: bottle of scotch) for turning you on to the horror.

You’re welcome.

Songstress

The Daughter’s new song:

“I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves,

Everybody’s nerves,

Everybody’s nerves.

I know a song that gets on everybody’s nerves,

And this is how it goes:

            “IT’S RAININ’ MEN!

            HALLELUAH, IT’S RAININ’ MEN.

            IT’S MEN!”

On repeat.

Loudly.

Send help.

Dessert

Last night, after (for realsie) proclaiming that I make the, “bestest food ever”, The Daughter requested dessert. She had happily eaten all her spaghetti and meatballs, so it was clearly sugar time.

Sidebar: My name is Bitches, and I am a foodie. Mama can cook. I feel it is completely false advertising when a fat woman sucks at cooking. That would be like picking up a chick wearing leather pants and a leopard print halter top at the bar one night, only to come home and find that her vagina is as sexless as Barbie doll poon. It’s just wrong. If your ass is big—it’s cool—so long as you can wail in the kitchen.

Sidebar on the Sidebar: TGIM’s friend—I shall call him Brandon…because that’s his real name…duh—goes on the best drunken rants in the history of alcoholism.  He is one of my favorite people to drink with and/or watch drink. When he found out that I like to cook, and that I learned to cook from watching Food Network, he went on a twenty minute monologue about how he FUCKING HATES The Barefoot Contessa. I mean, hates. But he knew everything about her. He had her Wikipedia page committed to memory, and he clearly watched the show. When I asked him why he watched, he looked at me like a total dumbfuck. “Have you seen the food she makes?” he asked. Well, yeah. I mean, that’s why I watch it. That bitch is a kitchen ninja. “Sure,” I answered. “She taught me how to make pot roast.” His response?

“Oh, my God. Her fucking potroast…she is a fat, pretentious bitch…and she thinks she fucking knows everything…’blah, blah, I used to write nuclear policy for President Ford’… God, I fucking hate her…but I would suck her cunt if she would make me that pot roast. I would suck that cunt whenever she wanted me to. Whenever. Just for that pot roast.”

(Ina Garten was a two-term White House nuclear policy analyst before making love to food on television. And—apparently—she has a delightfully suckable cunt.)

Of all the awful things I’ve ever written in my life, somehow “delightfully suckable cunt” was one of the only phrases that made me cringe.

Anyway…back to the story:

“Are you full?” That Guy I Married asked The Daughter when she was through with her meal. “Yes…no,” she replied. “I have enough room for dessert.”

(She saw he was laying a trap.)

As always, we were eating at the kitchen table, and he told her to wait until everyone was finished. “Then I’ll make you something.”

This piqued her interest. “What are you going to make me?”

And herein lies the probably. The Daughter—like her mother—is way too curious. Her dad? After years of actually working at it, he has perfected the art of vagueness. He never offers anything up. Never actually answers questions. I’m fairly certain I’m the only person he willingly tells anything to, and if he wanted to hide something from me he would have no problem whatsoever.

(We have this weird, fucked up relationship based on (1) mutual trust, (2) making fun of each other and (3) coitus. Most people don’t understand it.)

So she kept asking him what he was going to make her for dessert. He kept dodging the question. Finally, he was annoyed.

“I’m going to make you fried beaver tails.”

“Fried beaver tails? Really?” she asked. Please note this was said with sarcasm, and not with wonder.

“Yep,” he answered convincingly. “I’m going to bread them, and fry them, and serve them with some sauce.”

“We don’t have any fried beaver tails,” she reasoned. “Sure we do,” he responded. “They’re in the freezer.”

Being the realistically cynical six-year old she is, she got up to check. “I don’t see any beaver tails.”

“They’re on the right side, on the bottom, in a pink container,” I told her, describing a pack of two pork loin chops. She quickly found them. They were frosted over, so it was difficult to read the label.

“These are beaver tails? For real?” she asked.

“Sure, those are Bieber tails,” I answered. Her response was a look of incredulity.

“What, you didn’t know Justin Bieber has a tail?” TGIM added. Then he provided a detailed description of how Justin Bieber has two flat tails on the back of his ass that he uses like a nocturnal, semi-aquatic rodent with a tendency for building dams on rivers and streams.

And this is families should always eat dinner together, around the table, sans television: it’s a great opportunity to fuck with your children.

Cunty McKid

Dear Cunty McKid,

First, you little bitch, you should know that I am capable of showing restraint.

Shut up. It happens.  You should know this better than anyone. I haven’t cut you yet, have I?

You see, with most of The Daughter’s other friends, I don’t have to pull my dusty, underused self-restraint down from the metaphorical shelf. Most of her friends are pretty cool. Likable, even. Hell, one of them frequently says things like, “Oh, snap!” and can fall flat on her face at a playground and still save her slushie without spilling a drop. I fucking love that kid.

You, however, are a cock gobbling thundercunt and I hope you die.

I DON’T KNOW WHY THE DAUGHTER HAS TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU.

You’re mean. And I know mean. Yet you’re not the charmingly-sarcastic-funny-kind-of-mean that The Daughter is. Instead, you’re the malicious—spiteful—jealous—twatlike-kind-of-mean.

Yes, I know you’re six. This means little to me. Damien was also six. All sociopaths are six at some point in their sadistic lives. Fuck you.

My super tough kid—the one who bitch slaps boys twice her sizewhen they try and fuck with her—is regularly being reduced to tears by you. Her friend.

You tell her she’s stupid. You tell her she’s ugly. You tell her she’s a loser and no one likes her and she doesn’t have any friends.

None of this is even close to true.  And yet you tell her all the time.

And the worst part? The part that makes me want to euthanize you? It’s how she fucking saved your orphan ass when you guys were younger. Over and over and over again.

I mean, remember when you had the social skills of an Asperger’s patient who’d been raped in the face? When simply walking into dance class, or gymnastics, or the library fucking terrified you? When you couldn’t handle other children in even the smallest of settings?

And remember how The Daughter was okay with this, and held your hand and helped you through it?

She would wait outside dance class with you until you could calm down enough to walk in. She would stand up for you when other kids gave you shit for being weird. And she would ignore the other children and play with you because she knew you needed the extra help.

Then, when you started elementary school together in pre-kindergarten, you were extra scared. You couldn’t handle the crowds. At lunch, she would sit at a table alone with you, because you could only handle being with one other person. When your grandmother would show up to eat lunch with you, you even made that old lady eat at another table; The Daughter was the only one you could feel comfortable with. She babysat your stupid fucking neuroses, when she shouldn’t have had to. She never even complained.

And she did all this despite the fact that she loves a group, loves other kids, loves being the center of attention…and she’s awesome at it. She stayed with you because she loves you like family, and wanted to help you.

It’s not even The Daughter’s fault she thinks of you as family. You see, exactly one month after she was born, you were born. Not long after that, your grandparents took custody of you. And your grandma? She happens to be best friends with The Daughter’s grandma. So you two have been put together constantly for most of your lives, even when That Guy I Married and I tried our best to avoid it. Early on it was clear that there just wasn’t something quite right with you, we just didn’t realize that The Daughter would end up taking the brunt of your cuntery.

We just didn’t realize how much it was going to suck to have you in The Daughter’s life.

Or just how much you were going to suck.

SUCK!

It sucks that when you two were wearing bunny ears—and The Daughter happily declared, ”Look! We can both be the Easter Bunny!”—you proceeded to immediately and irreparably tear the bunny ears off her headband with your own declaration: “No, I’m the Easter Bunny.”

And then you laughed. Like a supervillain. I heard the entire exchange. When The Daughter then asked you why you would do that (she really doesn’t understand unreasonable people), you claimed it was an accident.

A fucking accident.

FUCK YOU.

I am so over your shit.

You make her swear that she’ll be your goddamn “assistant” and wait on you at school. 

You tell other people not to play with her. Sure, this doesn’t ever work—because The Daughter is awesome—but it’s still shitty.

You gave her so much shit about inviting a certain girl to her birthday party—a very nice girl—that she stressed out about it for three weeks before finally deciding to invite her regardless of your bossy-bitch-pants.

And whenever most adults are around, you act like a perfect fucking angel, so nobody knows how awful you actually are.

Couple all this with the fact that you’re butt fucking her self-esteem every chance you get, and I can’t help but fantasize about a time-traveling Delorean that would allow me to venture back to 2004 where I would share a gross of condoms with your father. If I couldn’t find 144 condoms, I would just buy a paring knife and give him an Extreme Testicular Makeover.

I really want to write every other terrible thing you’ve done, but then this blog entry would be 137 pages. And my fingers would hurt…and then my back would hurt, because I’d just pulled landscaping duty.

(Do anyone else’s fingers hurt?)

And how do you get her to put up with your shit?

Guilt. You fucking guilt her. That’s her fucking kryptonite. You cry. You tell her she’s your best friend. You threaten to tell on her. And she doesn’t want to make you feel badly, and she doesn’t want to disappoint her teachers (weird, right?), so she just goes along with it. Holy shit, the amount of times I’ve heard, “I try to stay away from (Cunty McKid) at school, but she cries and I feel bad.”

Yes, we’ve pointed out that if she plays with Cunty, then she’ll be the one who ends up crying. Sure, it’s later, when she’s trying to fall asleep at night and she’s reflecting on the shittiness of her day, but she still cries. Her answer: “I would rather cry than make (Cunty) cry. And I love (Cunty).”

(This is when my humanity bubbles up, because hearing this shit breaks my heart.)

And I get it…the guilt thing…because I’m the same way. Guilt is a major fucking motivator in my brain. Lame, I know. If I could scrape out this personality trait like an unwanted pregnancy, my junk would constantly be leaking guilt-based stem cells.  

(Great for medical research.)

It’s gotten to the point that if I loved her school any less, I would switch schools just to keep her away from you. What isn’t helping is the fact that my mother-in-law is still fucking intent on getting you guys together. With her fucking head-in-the-ground attitude, she just spouts the “kids will be kids” bullshit argument and continues to invite you everywhere she can. Holidays, playdates, road trips. Fuck, you’ll even be on a cruise with The Daughter’s grandma this November. That should totally go well when your fetal-alcohol-syndrome face gets back to school and tells The Daughter, “I got to go on a cruise with Grandma and you didn’t.”

That’s right, you call The Daughter’s grandma, “Grandma”. And she lets you. Guess what, bitch? She’s not your fucking grandma. That sarcophagus you call “Mom”? That’s your grandma. And you know that.

(Okay, she’s not really a sarcophagus. She’s a perfectly normal lady in her sixties. Still, doesn’t the story seem better if you picture her looking like the crypt keeper?)

(Yes, yes it does.)

                                                

Look kid, I know you haven’t had the easiest childhood so far. I know your biological mom makes worse decisions than the cast of Jersey Shore. I know your dad is about as reliable as Gary Busey. But you’ve been living with your grandparents since before your first birthday, and they’re good people, and they love you.  I’m done trying to rationalize away all your assholishness, thinking, “Well, Cunty McKid has had a hard life…I should give her a break.”

No, fuck that. Fuck you.  

I’m sorry your life started out the way it did. I truly am. Every kid deserves quality parents, deserves a chance in life, and I recognize that your immediate family tree has the reasoning power and impulse control of Hasselhoff on a bender without Kit acting as designated driver.

But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you taking your issues out on my awesome kid.

But I can’t fix it. I’ve tried everything. All I can do is keep trying to support The Daughter, keep trying to keep you away from her, and keep encouraging her to spend time with her real friends.

And in the meantime, I’ll have to be satisfied with knowing that one day you’ll be rubbing your snapper on a chlamydia-fogged stripper pole for dollar bills that smell like scrote and back child support payments.

Cunt.

Things I’ve Learned About Tit Juicing

1.      Children refuse to latch onto nipples that are attached to tits the size of soccer balls…

2.      So several times a day I attach myself to this classy machine that pumps the boob juice out so I can bottle feed.

3.      I am, in fact, a dairy cow.

4.      I am, in fact, strangely okay with this.

5.      If That Guy I Married knows my tits are full and I need to pump, there’s a better than fair chance he’s going to grab a tit with both hands and shake it.

6.      I am, in fact, not o-fucking-kay with this.

7.      After spending thirty minutes hooked up to a breast pump, if I flashed you my nips you could easily confuse them with McNuggets.

8.      Squirting people with boob juice is hilarious, but only to me.

9.      If I squirt TGIM straight from my titty arsenal, he thinks he has the right to take a bottle and squirt me back.

10.  I am also not fucking okay with this.

11.  I MADE THE WEAPON. I HAVE THE MONOPOLY ON SQUIRTING.

12.  Dick.

13.  Juicing my knockers seems way more effective than cardio. Just ask the forty four pounds I’ve dropped since the glorious c-section.

14.  So what if ten of those pounds were baby? SO THE FUCK WHAT?

15.  It still counts.

16.  If God were real, he wouldn’t allow caffeine or amphetamines to be excreted into breastmilk.

17.  See also: alcohol.

18.  Seriously, if there were ever a time in your life when you needed to abuse uppers, wouldn’t it be when you have a newborn who needs to be nurtured during totally unreasonable hours?

19.  And if there were ever a time when drunkenness was necessary, wouldn’t you assume it followed nine long months of sobriety and accompanied the gravity and stress of being responsible for the total well-being of another (quite needy) person?

20.  I mean, come on.

Post-Natal

My uterine parasite is alive and well. The c-section was less delightful than last time (I couldn’t fucking breathe, yo) but it was still successful. The Daughter’s brother weighed in at a whopping nine pounds, five ounces and a lengthy twenty one and a half inches. For non-parents out there, that’s a massive gut nugget. Giant baby. His feet are so big when they foot-printed him they had to angle his feet on the certificate to get them to fit.

(Future big wiener joke should be inserted here.)

(Joke about using the words “wiener” and “inserted” in the same sentence goes here.)

So far, this kid is nothing like his sister…although he does look EXACTLY like her. But from a personality perspective, the two don’t seem related. He is mellow. Sleeps well…like, already on a sleeping schedule well (only waking twice a night! YAY!). He doesn’t really cry, except for when you change his diaper…the kid really hates a cold scrote. Can you blame him?

As a newborn, his sister was completely different. Her pediatrician called her a “high maintenance baby”. A compare/contrast might be necessary, but it’s late…and I have a newborn…and I have to go pump my teets (not a euphemism).

Instead, I’ll leave you with this random-but-awesome conversation:

That Guy I Married: “Are you trying to push a fart out? Stop; you’ll shit your pants.”

The Daughter: “It’s a vagina fart. A bubble pop.”

I shall call her Georgia O’Queef.