Monthly Archives: July 2011

How to be a good parent with good kids:

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  • Use your resources.  The TV, for instance, is better and cheaper than a nanny.  You turn it on, it keeps the kids quiet and occupied and, in most cases, it is even teaching them something.  Then, at the end of the day, you don’t have to hear the television tell you about where you are falling short as a parent. 
  • There is nothing wrong with a little healthy competition.  Make a ranking chart and put on the refrigerator.  You can call it the “Mommy’s Favorite Board” or something to that effect.  At the beginning of every day, gather the children around and rank them from top to bottom on the chart.  Explain that the top spot is mommy’s favorite and go on to explain why/how they made that position (they did this favor, they didn’t talk back, etc).  Let all the children know that this order can change at any moment, without notice.  Make sure to take any reason to go switch the order and appoint a new favorite.  This is even more effective if the favorite gets some sort of privilege.  It really gets the kids in line.  Sure, the experts will rag on and on about damaging their self esteem, long term damage and blah, blah, blah but fuck that noise.  If they maintain the “mommy’s favorite” position, their self esteem will be fine.  It is a long term goal to teach them to strive for along with the short term reward.
  • Drink.  If you haven’t already, after having children is a good time to take up drinking.  Don’t listen to these fuckwit sanctimommies that go on and on about it being irresponsible or that the minute your piss makes the line on the magic plastic stick, you are no longer allowed to be remotely selfish.  I like my “me time” and I like it a lot better when there is a bottle of wine to keep me company.  You thought alcohol was important the day after you turned 21?  It is a requirement of a good parent.  They should hand out bottles of wine and liquor to parents in the hospital. 
  • Force your children to subscribe to gender stereotypes from birth.  Do not let little boys like pink or even touch your purse or a doll, regardless of whether he is 6 months or 6 years old.  If he does any of the above, he will most likely grow up and want to fondle and marry other boys.  If he shows interest in a toy kitchen, for instance, slap his hand, tell him that cooking is woman’s work and make him look at a Playboy magazine, while holding a truck in one hand and a hunting rifle in the other.  If your daughter wants to play with her brother’s toy tool set and you let her, you might as well go buy her a wallet chain and a Melissa Etheridge album.
  • Do not talk to children about sex.  That is sick and inappropriate and it should never be discussed.  If your children express any curiosity or ask questions regarding sex, tell them that sex is bad and thinking about sex, talking about sex or having sex before marriage is a one way ticket to hell.  Discussion over.  
  • If your children yell at you or talk back or are disrespectful in general, buy them something and apologize for angering them. If you tell your child to clean his/her room and he/she screams back “NO!  Fuck you, mom!  You clean my fucking room!  I hate you!”.  Obviously, you have done something to upset or offend your precious angel and it must be resolved.  In order to make amends, you should clean his/her room and/or go buy a present for your disgruntled child/teen and beg for forgiveness.  This can also apply to incidents when teacher call to discuss your child’s behavior.  You know that bitch probably has a vendetta against your precious little baby and/or is jealous of you and is taking it out on him/her.  When she tells you that little Junior told her to shove her book up her ass, you make sure and ask her what she has against your child and what she did to provoke his/her response.

This is parenting, people, not rocket science.  Now, go have a drink.

How to recognize people with a death wish:

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  • You ring my doorbell-because only people who want to die a horrible, violent death ring the doorbell of a pregnant woman with a toddler.  You see, you doorbell ringing jackasses, sometimes babies SLEEP!  When you come and ring my muthafucking doorbell, not only does that “DING DONG” reverberate throughout my home but it also causes my fucking dogs to go batshit crazy and whether it was the “DING, DONG” or the yapping dogs that wake up my toddler, your decision to push that doorbell is the root cause of why the closest thing I get to quiet time has been interrupted and why I am staring down the barrel of a really pissy, cranky two-year old that I now have to deal with for HOURS, as he gets pissier and crankier until bed time.  Someone must pay.
  • You call me before 8AM and everyone is alive and well-because the only reason to EVER call me prior to 8AM is if someone is bleeding or dead.  Yes, most mornings I am up prior to 8AM but, on occasion, the baby sleeps past 8AM and I enjoy those days.  May God have mercy on your soul if you happen to call me on one of the days that my little, chubby alarm clock has decided to let me sleep late. 
  • You tell my kids you are going to do something and you don’t-because I realize flaking out on a little kid may not seem like a big deal to you but, for me, it is the seventh level of hell.  I am the one that has to listen to them obsess and prepare for the details of the plans you made with him/her/them.  I am the one that has to make up some bullshit excuse to cover your ass when they realize that you have sold out so that they don’t think you are a complete lying asshole, even though you are.  You will be punished.
  • You critique/correct my parenting -I really don’t give a fuck if you disapprove of me laughing so hard that tears are streaming down my face because I am telling my toddler to say “you fish” and he is complying.  You can kiss my ass.  Truth be told, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of my parenting and, frankly, if I want to instruct my kid to say “shut the fuck up, bitch.”, that is my prerogative.  As it stands, however, my youngest child’s speech development just makes some every day, normal words, like “fish” sound like he is saying “bitch” and that is just good, clean fun.  Get the stick out of your ass and wipe that face off your head before I do it for you.
  • You talk during a movie-Seriously.  Shut the fuck up.  I don’t care what your predictions are on any surprise twist, who the murderer is or who is going to die next.  If you shut your fucking mouth and let me watch the movie, I will bet you a hundred dollars we will find out.
  • You come to my door selling shit-If you rang my doorbell, you already have one foot in the grave.  If you are selling shit, you better have made a will before you darken my door step.  You are a perfect stranger.  I don’t want to talk about how you are selling magazines to be the first person in your family to go to college.  I don’t want you to demonstrate your vacuum cleaner.  It is none of your business whether or not I have accepted Jesus Christ as my lord and savior.  You see and hear these kids running around like wild animals, screaming and yelling?  They weren’t taking precedence over the phone call I am currently on or the status update I was in the middle of posting, why do you think I am going to hang up or close my laptop for you?  Keep on walking.

This will probably end up being another series, much like the grammar entries.  It will give you bitches something to look forward to in the future.

Time out or a wooden stake?

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He is so adorable and so chubby and sweet looking, I never saw this coming.  He runs over, staring at you with his big brown eyes, and at the last minute he opens his mouth and sinks in those teeth.  Yes.  It is true.  I can barely say it out loud but here goes:   My youngest child has OBVIOUSLY turned into a vampire.  At the slightest provocation, he is willing to sink his teeth into any exposed patch of flesh to satisfy his thirst for blood.

I have been doing some research, since coming to terms with my son’s transformation into one of hell’s minions but the information is conflicting.  One researcher says that vampires cannot go out in daylight or they will spontaneously combust or something similar, while another says that vampires can, in fact, go into the sunlight and their skin will sparkle as if they had their entire body vagazzled.  So, I am confused.  My son can go out into the sunlight without bursting into flames but he does not look like a fairy that was rolled around in a truckload of glitter, either.  Do you think he might have some form of vampire eczema that could explain this or do I accept the other research that says that the glitter skin is bullshit?

Most of the research tends to agree that vampires possess some degree of powers and some research indicates that they can hypnotize or “glamour” their victims.  He DOES possess this ability.  He can look at you and you will believe that he is going to approach you and hug you or kiss you and then, suddenly, he is going in for the kill!  I need to create some sort of warning system so that unsuspecting innocents can be made aware that he is a demon cleverly disguised as a little, chubby angel.  Don’t be fooled.
I have tried to time out and he continues to try to make meals of the family.  I am conducting further research on how to remedy or tame him.  I would prefer to consider staking as an absolute last resort.

Bonus day!

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It is like nails on a fucking chalkboard.  Seriously.  It is so frustrating that it has compelled me to write another post for today.  You are welcome.

Lesson 1:

Loose: not tight; ill-fitting; not firm

Lose: to misplace; to cease or fail to retain

Get that shit straight!

Lesson 2:

To: a destination or ending point (He went to the store./He grew to seven feet.)

Too:  also; furthermore; as well OR to an excessive degree; more than specified. (He needed milk too./The pants were too tight.).

Two: a number (2).

This really isn’t difficult!

Lesson 3:

It’s is a contraction of “it is”. (It’s beautiful outside.)

Its is possessive.  (Where is its lid?)

You say I’m a bitch like it’s a bad thing.

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If you want to offend or upset me, calling me a bitch will not accomplish that mission.  The countless times I have been called a bitch have typically been the result of me refusing to permit myself to be subjugated.  Of course, it has also been a term of endearment exchanged between me and my friends, aka “my bitches”, all of whom I adore.  There have been a number of times that my bitches and I have been called “bitches”, collectively, for refusing to acquiesce to the persistent advances from “gentlemen” callers (a term I use very loosely) when enjoying a night out.  Don’t get me wrong, guys, there is nothing sexier than a 40-year-old man, with tufts of back hair protruding from the neckline of your popped up polo collar, stumbling over to a table of women that are minding their own business, enthralled in conversation with one another, and laying such epic lines as “I’m having sex with you tonight, you might as well be there to enjoy it.” or “Roses are red, violets are blue, I suck at poems, nice tits.”, as you attempt to “accidentally” rub the ass nearest to you.   I realize that when exuding such blatant charms, it can come as a shock when every woman within earshot doesn’t drop her panties and throw them directly at you, in a desperate bid to win your undivided attention.   It is completely understandable that you would be taken aback when your chivalrous overtures are met with nothing but total indignation.  The only kinds of women that would fail to recognize the prize that stands before them are BITCHES.

You would think that I would relish every moment of being underestimated and assumed to be unintelligent because I have boobs and a vagina and am not completely hideous.  You might think I even go the extra mile to ensure that no one thinks me capable of intellectual thought by dying my hair blond, wearing makeup and developing an affinity for shoes that inspire imagery of brass poles on poorly lit stages.  I don’t care if you want to assume that I have the IQ of a kitchen sponge but don’t get pissed at start name calling when you discover that I, in fact, am a bit smarter than the average kitchen sponge.  Not much, mind you, but enough to make you think twice about making snap judgments.

I know that some women find it completely flattering, if not a complete turn on,  when taking the dance floor with a girlfriend or two, shaking her ass to the blaring booty chatter bass, to find herself being groped and rubbed on in a surprise dance floor attack from behind.  There really is nothing hotter than a half drunk stranger, who took the time to marinate in an entire bottle of cologne, who expresses his interest in getting to know you better by grabbing you by the waist and firmly gyrating his crotch against your ass (or back, depending on the height difference).  Now she has gone from dancing and enjoying the night with friends, to trying to pry your hands from her waist, while maintaining her balance because you have prioritized rubbing one out on her backside over staying upright and are willing to take her down with you if your balance fails before your mission is complete.  For some odd reason, if she manages to pry herself free and declines to permit you to finish using her ass as a masturbation tool, she is a bitch.  Look in the mirror, asshole.  What does that make you?

Other instances in which I have been considered “bitchy”:

If I am forced to call the customer service department to lodge a complaint, rest assured, I am going to get whatever credit or free shit I am seeking.

If you give me unsolicited advice, it is a possibility.

If you say something shitty to or about my children.  In that case, if I am only bitchy, consider yourself lucky.

If you talk shit about my mother, my sister or any of my friends.  *I* can talk shit about all of the above.  You are only allowed to listen and nod your head, not contribute.

If you state opinions that demonstrate complete ignorance, especially those of a political nature.  If you don’t know what you are talking about, shut the fuck up.  If you are a complete bigot, go crawl under a rock.  I have no tolerance for intolerance.

If being a “bitch” means I won’t roll over, lower my standards or pretend to be a fucking idiot to appease someone else, someone make me a fucking name tag.

The nanny lives with us.

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Perfect parents are so fucking annoying.  When they are around, you can rest assured that you will hear what you are doing wrong and/or how they would handle the situation differently and/or wouldn’t permit such a thing with their children.  They have an answer for every parenting dilemma and a critique of every action and interaction that occurs or could occur with children.  There is just one problem with these perfect parents:  They don’t have any children.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If only these people knew what complete assholes they were.  I just live for the day that these people will have actual living, breathing children.  Children that, regardless of how perfectly behaved your imaginary children were, will scream, cry, won’t sleep, talk back and drive you abso-fucking-lutely insanse.

Consider this blog to be SURVIVAL 101 for all the previously perfect parents that now have to actually parent and are failing miserably at creating perfect robots.

 

 

 

 

When you were a perfect parent, you said your children would NEVER watch TV.  Now that you actually have a kid, this should be the very first one that you let go of, for the sake of your own sanity.  TV is a wonderful, magical box that has the power to capture children’s attention and shut them up for hours at a time.  Now, if you have no desire to ever shower, go to the bathroom or enjoy a single moment of peace, then by all means, get rid of the magic box.  If, however, the aforementioned activities do sound appealing to you, turn on the live in nanny and let it do its job!  You don’t have to turn on Skinemax.  You have countless kid friendly options.  Not only do you get some down time and a chance to shower or open a new bottle of wine but in a few years when you realize that all that quality time with Barney has resulted in your toddler knowing shapes and colors, well you will know that you did the right thing and your kid learned more from TV than you had the time or patience to teach him/her.  Win, win.

Perfect parents also cook every single meal, including snacks, for their children.  It is also completely organic and free of trans fats and any artificial preservatives or dyes.  Once you have actual children, especially if you have more than one, you will find this to be a lofty goal.  Now, obviously, there are children with certain medical conditions that necessitate certain diets (gluten free, etc) and there is absolutely no reason to funnel trans fat and artificial dyes or high fructose corn syrup into your children.  Not cooking three gourmet meals and snacks a day does not mean that you have to resort to M&Ms and Mt Dew.  I, however, am not above making a quick meal or snack out of a peanut butter sandwich, cup of soup, cereal or lunchables.  When I am feeling like running for mother of the year, though, I might throw a pan of chicken nuggets in the oven.

Perfect parents would NEVER yell at their children or lose their cool, for even a moment.  They are always calm and collected and COMMUNICATE with their children.  They are always controlled and nothing short of effective.  When they actually have children, they will battle with themselves, at least, once a day to try and refrain from letting a litter or profanities fly from their mouths.

I am not a perfect parent and I never will be a perfect parent.  I will be the first to admit I have fucked up so many times and I will fuck up many more.  My children are not perfect.  They don’t always behave perfectly and they don’t always look perfect.  As a matter of fact, on most days, they are wearing nothing but underwear/diapers, as they run around the house.

If you want to be a perfect parent, you must make sure to never actually have any children.  That is the only way.  If you have any future plans of having children, I suggest you keep your perfect parenting advice and critiques to yourself.  Believe me, we may smile and nod but, inside, we are laughing at you, not with you.

The secret to my happy marriage…

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I often hear people say that the secret to a happy marriage is “trust”, “respect”, “shared interests”, “spending quality time together”, etc.  Well, that is all bullshit.  Ask a divorcee.  Most will tell you that they had (or thought they had) some, if not all, of these characteristics or efforts within their previous marriage(s).  Few will say they thought they had anything but a normal, average marriage before deciding to purchase their ticket to the “Big D”.

Trust-Seriously?  Do you really need someone to tell you that you should trust the person you marry?  If you can’t trust someone, you shouldn’t be friends with them, much less have sex with them and/or commit to spend the rest of your life and possibly raise children with said person.  If you need this explained to you, please remove yourself from the gene pool.

Respect-Sure, you should respect one another.  Respect is such a broad term, though.  My husband can piss me off like no one else can and vice versa.  If I get annoyed and tell him he is an asshole or he tells me to shut the fuck up, obviously we are not being respectful but if you are willing to throw in the towel because you or your spouse lost your cool and called you a name, you need to grow the fuck up.  I respect my marriage, regardless of whether I am pissed at my husband or living in wedded bliss.  I took vows, among those I vowed to love him in sickness and in health, I vowed to love him for richer or poorer, I vowed to be faithful, I even vowed not to step on his blue suede shoes.  I never took any vow not to call him a fucking douchebag when he would pretend to be asleep and unaware of our newest infant awakening for the third time in 5 hours.

Shared interests-You can shove this one up your ass.  I am not going to even try to give a fuck about golf or Nascar.  In return, I will not expect him to give a fuck about my shoe collection or how to improve said collection.  He is also not expected to notice when I have my hair done or when I am wearing a new outfit.  As a matter of fact, it is preferential that he not notice so that I am not expected to answer any questions about spending.  Everyone is happy.

Spending quality time together-This does not take that much effort, people.  Men:  Exchanging bodily fluids does not, in and of itself, constitute “quality time”.

The fact is, people, some of that shit I listed above is important but do you really need to be told not to fuck other people or to spend time with one another?  If you do, you are doomed.  I am going to tell you the real secret.  You want a happy husband?  Here is the key:  LOW EXPECTATIONS.

-Do you have the house spotless and dinner on the table every night when hubby gets home?  Well, stop that shit.  Depending on how long you have been acting like Donna fucking Reed, it may take you a little more time to reset his expectations.

*When you do this shit every fucking day, you and your efforts get taken for granted.  It becomes expected and, most often, your husband’s expectations increase at a more accelerated rate and he has the audacity to begin expressing disappointment, like “I was hoping you would make mashed potatoes and gravy from scratch” or “this would have been better with a little more pepper.” or “is the vacuum not working today?”.  When that happens, I want you to squash the urge to slap him with the chicken breast you have hand seasoned and marinated all day and strangling him with the vacuum cord.  You have no one to blame but yourself for his inflated expectations and resulting insulting advice.  You can fix this, though.  It is not too late.  You have to decide, here and now, that you are committed to retraining him.  Men are like lumps of clay.  They can be molded and remolded.  If you let him sit for a while molded in a particular way, you may have to pound it a little harder or knead it a little longer but, rest assured, he can be reshaped.  Let tears and sex be your sculpting tools.

This house is never spotless.  Damn!  I have three kids and now I have another one freeloading in my uterus.  I pick up the living room, seemingly, just to make more room for these little tornadoes to destroy.  Guess what, if you think that I suck at housekeeping, I don’t give a shit.  If you think my floors could be cleaner, feel free to grab a vacuum.  If you see I missed a spot or 10 on my counters, grab a fucking sponge.  If you expect this place to sparkle and for me to greet you with my hair pefectly coiffed, wearing makeup and pearls, you married the wrong woman.  If I want to look nice, I will put on a bra.  That is dressing up.

If you come home and smell something burning, dinner is ready!  If not, feel free to help yourself to leftovers, make a sandwich or have cereal.

The 2-3 times a week that I do make an actual dinner, it is like Christmas for my husband.  When the kids spend more time outside on certain days and I actually get the house to look really nice, he notices.  You see, I keep his expectations low and he appreciates and acknowledges those things that Donna fucking Reed’s husband takes for granted every day.   He is happy because he has a giant hunk of delicious roast on his plate and I am happy because he can’t stop telling me what a wonderful cook I am.

This, my friends, is the key to a successful marriage.  You can thank me later.  Now, start pounding that man clay.

You wish you could just do nothing all day, like me?

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I can't tell you how irritated I get when people attempt to camouflage their blatant effort to marginalize and insult me with feigned envy.  Give me a fucking break.  I am not an idiot.  If, however, you think that being a stay at home parent, one with three children, no less, is a cake walk, you have another thing coming.  The next time you think to yourself or say out loud to friend or relative that is a stay at home parent, "It must be nice to not have to work." or "I wish I could just sit home all day and do nothing, like you.", do me a favor and punch yourself in the face.  Let me walk you through a typical day of this stay at home mom:

1)When I wake up in the morning, I feel NOTHING like P. Diddy, unless Diddy is used to being gently waken by the shrill, unwavering sounds of a two year old yelling “MOM! MOM! MOM!”, demanding to be released from his crib at 7:30 AM.  Most of the time, when I walk in to release my pudgy alarm clock from his bed cage, I am slapped in the face with the overwhelming aroma of the good morning gift he has provided for me in his pants.  On a couple of occasions, he has gone that extra mile to wish me a happy day by removing his diaper and painting me a beautiful shit mural.

2)By the time I have him up and changed, the other two are up and are already fighting over breakfast or television or chairs or who is going to get what bowl.  I can ignore them for a little while but, eventually, their bickering penetrates my ignore field and I have to intervene and referee just before or by the time it comes to blows.

3) I think about doing laundry.

4)I have to stop the older two children, at least 22 times, from killing each other over whether or not purple is better than green

5)I become convinced that the youngest must have some sort of intestinal disorder because I do not remember either of the other ones shitting as often as he does on a daily basis.  Seriously.  He should not weigh this much, given his output rate.

6)I decide to do laundry and as I am heading into the laundry room, I hear a blood curdling scream and must promptly redirect my attention to peeling the youngest off of his older brother’s head, who is apparently paying the price for riding his younger brother’s alphabet choo-choo.

7)At least 10 times a day, I have to figure out why the youngest has suddenly fallen to his knees, screaming, as tears stream down his face in the middle of the living room.  It usually ends up having to do with one of the older ones having the audacity to expect him to share his crackers, popcorn, cereal or whatever other snack he is in possession of at that moment.

8) I think about doing laundry but decide I will do it later because the kids are being quiet and I want to enjoy the peace.

9) I discover they are being quiet because they have found a pack of red kool-aid and are eating it like fruit-dip with their fingers, huddled in the pantry and that kind of discretion requires a lot of quiet concentration.  My children and my floor are blood red.  It comes off the floor with  bleach spray and an entire roll of paper towels.  The children are a different story.

10) I get the kitchen clean and in the time it takes me to put the the floor towel in the laundry room and walk back to the kitchen, it is already a disaster.  The same goes for every other fucking room in the house.

11) I give up.  Fuck laundry too.  I decide I’m going to throw all the fucking clothes away and just start over with everyone’s wardrobes.

12) The little one has shit his pants, AGAIN!

13) The dogs have scavenged the last shitty diaper out of the trash and have made it their afternoon snack in my formal dining room.

14) Well, shit!  It is almost time for my husband to be home.  I think about making dinner.

15) I see the little one hunched down in the living room with his face squinched into that very familiar “I am taking a shit” expression.

16) Fuck dinner.  They can eat cereal.

17) I hear a chorus of yelling, screaming and crying and find all three children embattled into a full on brawl over the last fruit roll up.  To solve the problem, I take it and cram it in my mouth.  Now, rather than being angry and hateful with one another, they are united in their hatred of me.  That’s just called good fucking parenting/problem solving skills.

My day is filled with fights, tears and I am up to my elbows in toddler shit.  I may, one day, come and write another day in the life but, next time, I will outline a day when vomit and diarrhea with the older kids has been thrown into the mix.  Those are more fun.  I bet you will wish you had my life then, for sure!

You get to interact with other adults.  Unless you consider answering Nina’s questions as she introduces new cartoons on the Sprout channel as adult interaction, I don’t get a whole lot of that during the day.  You get to take breaks.  I can get 20 minutes of quiet but it requires me to watch Caillou or Peppa Pig, so I wouldn’t really call it a break.  My kids just will not take an interest in whether or not Maury’s guest, Jessica, finds her baby’s daddy among the 7 men she brought to the show to be tested.  It doesn’t matter how hard I try to get them invested in her story.  You can call in sick if necessary.  It doesn’t matter if I have a cold, if I am vomiting or if I have kidney stones.  My kids are tyrant bosses and refuse to grant me any time off.  You get to clock out.  I don’t.  I don’t even get a change of scenery.

Although my children are slave driving bosses.  I wouldn’t change it for anything.  Is it easy?  Hell no.  It is the most thankless job I have ever had (and, believe me, I have had a LOT of jobs).  I won’t get any bonuses.  There is no Christmas party with awesome door prizes.  No one asks if I had a good day or bad day “at the office”.  There are no health benefits or vacation time or sick days.  There is no promotion opportunities and no one is giving me a paycheck.  I am not going to be a fucking martyr by claiming it is the hardest job in the world.  It isn’t.  It can be frustrating, it can be stressful, it can be overwhelming, it can be sooo mundane but I find it nothing short of rewarding, however, don’t you dare look me in the eye and dismiss my contribution to society as invalid or effortless by insinuating or blatantly stating that I sit on my ass all day and cram peanut butter cups in my face, while watching soap operas.  Most people that think that wouldn’t make it a day in my shoes.

Your pissing me off with you’re stupidity.

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For the love of zinfandel, we are talking about homonyms, not rocket science.  Why is it that people can’t get this shit straight?  I would be more sympathetic if the consistent offenders only had a 3rd grade education because their Ma had been killed by a rabid bear and their Pa had been kidnapped by savages and they had no choice but to drop out of elementary school and get a job at the local sweat shop, making $.04/hr to support their 12 brothers and sisters.  That, however, is rarely the case.  More often than not, it is adults with college educations that confound homonyms.

“You’re” is a contraction of “you are”.  “Your” is possessive, as in “belonging to ‘you’”.  There indicates a location, as in “over there”.  Their is plural possessive, such as “that is their dog”.  They’re is a contraction of “they are”.

Since we are on the topic, here are some other mistakes that make me want to punch myself in the face:

WhAt TeH FuK iZ ^ wIt ShIt LiK dIz?  Seriously.  It took me forever to type that shit.  Why would anyone put  such effort into looking like a completely incompetent fuckwad?  Text speak, in and of itself, makes me want to punch kittens because it escapes me how: “Txt me wen u r hom” is such a time saver.  Seriously.  How much time did those seven omitted letters really save you?  I have seen and received messages that required the use of a special decoder ring to read.  That 2.5 seconds you saved typing that out, took me an extra 5 minutes to decipher.  Thanks, asshole.  Not only do I think you are annoying but I now think you are a fucking idiot, as well.

This Annoys And Confuses Me.  Why?  Why do you capitalize the first letter of EVERY word?  Who the fuck taught you that this was necessary?  You got the first word right but, unless they amended the rules of what constitutes a proper noun, none of those other words need to be capitalized.

What you mean to say, dipshit, is “I could NOT care less.”.  If you “could care less”, you are saying that you do, in fact, give a shit.

Literally: actually; without exaggeration or inaccuracy.  If you use “literally” figuratively, like: “I LITERALLY blew up.”, I will kick you in the taco.

I leave you with this:  Using the word IRREGARDLESS makes you sound like a complete fucking idiot.  It is not only ignorant but it is completely redundant.  Regardless means “without regard”, the prefix “ir” means “without”.  Irregardless is the equivalent of saying “without without regard”.

Take my advice and avoid looking like a complete and total idiot.  You can thank me later.  You will probably see similar rants to this in the future because shit like this tends to really piss me off.  Take notes.

I’m a very tolerant person. No, not really.

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8

It is hard to come to grips with the fact that there are so many stupid people walking among us. I mean seriously stupid fucking people. My normal bullshit tolerance is fairly low but when I am pregnant, it is almost non-existent. I don’t know if pregnant people make the stupid people reveal themselves more freely or if I am just a total bitch when I am baking tiny humans. If you take a poll, I am sure most people would vote the latter but I disagree. I am fairly certain that I am a ray of fucking sunshine during the months when I am crying over things like dog food commercials, peeing every 5.5 mins, fighting the occasional urge to vomit and developing a figure similar to many large sea dwelling mammals,

1.) I would really like to know what it is about a pregnant belly that compels perfect strangers to approach and start rubbing on it, without so much as tossing a Snicker’s bar at me first. I can’t imagine these same people would appreciate me randomly approaching them and just running my hands all over their protruding guts.  Being pregnant does not negate my need for PERSONAL SPACE!

2.) Why the fuck do you think that it is a good idea to tell me about your friend’s -cousin’s- brother’s -best friend’s-wife’s-sister in law that carried to (enter my gestational stage) and gave birth to a child that was a rare genetic anomaly with two heads and a hump that died 6 minutes later. If you could keep that to yourself, that would be great.

4.) I don’t give a flying fuck if you heard or read somewhere that I shouldn’t drink the Dr. Pepper I just opened. Kiss my ass. If you see me cut a line of coke, intervene. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.

5.) Yes. I am getting huge. Thanks for, not only, noticing but for announcing it to the entire fucking world.

6.) Yes. I also know what causes this. Although, I must say, you are the FIRST person to have made that joke upon hearing I was pregnant with our fourth child. If you only want to have 0-2 kids, good for you. If I want to pack a small army into my uterus, that is my fucking prerogative. Mmmkay?

If this message stops just one person from being a complete asshat when encountering a pregnant woman, I will feel like a success.