Me: “Will you be my bad hombre?”
Ryan: “Only if you’ll be my nasty woman.”
Me: “Will you be my bad hombre?”
Ryan: “Only if you’ll be my nasty woman.”
(While on the NORAD Santa tracker)
Liam: “Why is Santa spending so much time in Canada!?”
Caolinn: “Because he has to stop at every friggin’ house…because they’re all so damn nice.”
Sitting at coffee with my darling George recently, we started talking about our respective love lives, at which time George expressed the opinion that I was “too choosy”. I prefer to say that I have a keener sense of bullshit than the average human being. That having been said, I’ve made a cursory accounting of the reasons why I have rejected suitors. Sadly, this list only applies to the last year, but not-as-sadly, I’m happy to report that I still stand by each and every rejection with zero doubts.
-When asked their three favorite songs…two of them were on Guns and Roses’ Appetite For Destruction, and they listed Nickleback as their favorite band.
-Led with, “So….those real?” Yeah…real, real unlikely to wind up in your mouth.
-Constantly referred to his sons as “My Boyz”. First, the z-key isn’t that much more available than the s-key, and secondly, you’re not that street…give it up, white boy.
-Told me that there was “no way” I could “say no to these baby blues.” You’re 40…no one gives a shit about your eye color at this point, and unless you’re Paul Fucking Newman, you can’t pull that shit off.
-Led with, “I really like the pants your son is wearing.” Sir, did your neighbors receive a yellow postcard when you moved into the neighborhood? Are you banned from the internet?
-Used the R-word three times in a five-minute span, even though they knew that I was a special education teacher. Riiight, so when you’re hitting on a civil rights attorney, I bet you throw some other really awesome words around to impress them.
-“I’ll get you on the back of my bike, if it’s the last thing I do.” No…just trying will be the last thing you do. You won’t remember much…the end will be swift.
-When I made a remark about having a lot of Jewish friends, said, “Oh, that’s cool. You know that they killed Jesus, right?”
-When JOKINGLY asked if he’d ever committed a crime, winked and said, “Well…it only counts if I was convicted, right.” I had the distinct feeling that I was the only one joking.
-Expressed an admiration for Glenn Beck. End of story.
-When discussing equal rights, said, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t let gay people be just as miserable, divorced, sexless, and unhappy as the rest of us.” So you want my number why? Because the best case scenario sounds this attractive?
-On the first date, brought me a dozen red roses and introduced me to the waitress as his “next wife”.
-When told I was a teacher said, “Yeah, but what did you REALLY want to be?” Well, Sir, what I really want to be now is a giant hand, so I can slap the shit out of you.
-Weird random Capitalizations in the Middle of Sentences. Granted, he chose words that he Deemed Important, but it still annoyed the Living Shit out of me.
And the angry texting continues…
Drew: I swear to fucking G-d, if I get one more page in the middle of the night to ask something as stupid as “Can this patient have Colace”, I’m going to kill someone. These fucking new residents are KILLING ME.
Me: First… A pager? Really? In the year that you’re doctoring, are leaches still a thing?
Me: Also, can we discuss that I’m FAIRLY sure that the Hypocratic Oath covers you not murdering other doctors?
Drew: It would be justifiable homicide.
Me: Because they PAGE you at 3am, asking if they can help a patient poop?
Drew: Because I’m running around night and day, trying to keep them from killing my patients.
Me: I’m sure they’re not trying to kill your patients.
Drew: Megan, I’m not convinced that they weren’t sent by Al Qaeda.
Me: Take it easy, Jack Bauer. Maybe YOU should have a little Colace.
(A call from my son’s teacher.)
Ms. Bonn: “So, I wanted to relate something that happened in class.”
Me: “What did he do?”
Ms. Bonn: “It’s not that he DID anything, I just wanted to share a story.”
Me: “Um…okay. Is this story going to result in an office referral?”
Ms. Bonn: “No, no, no, seriously. Today we were discussing places we liked to go, and another student in the class raised his hand, and expressed that he and his family liked to go to Chick-Fil-A.”
Me: “Oh crap…” (knowing exactly where this was headed…)
Ms. Bonn: *laughing* “Yeah…so Xavier raised his hand, and said, ‘I would never go to Chick-Fil-A. They season their chicken with the tears of the oppressed’, and went on to quote exactly how much money they gave to ‘homophobic anti-freedom organizations’.”
Me: “Oh, God. I’m so sorry he disrupted, but we have some strong opinions regarding civil rights and social justice in our house.”
Ms. Bonn: “Seriously, it’s cool. I just thought you’d want to know, he actually listens to you.”
Me: “Grrrrreat. Well, then do us both a favor and don’t mention our governor by name, or you’re totally going to have to write him an office referral.”
Jenny: I swear to you that this baby is totally falling out of me.
Me: It always feels like that the last couple of weeks. It’s normal.
Jenny: (sideways glance) How much money would I have to pay you to look and make sure there isn’t a hand or something hanging out?
Me: Oh, dude, I’d totally do that for free…but I want a favor.
Jenny: You just want permission to put this on your blog, don’t you?
Jenny: (Lifting dress) I liked you so much more before you started fucking writing again.
Today, I am proud to be an American. I am proud that a victory was won for liberty, equality, and all of the other values we hold dear. Today, I am reminded of something that happened with my twins, when they were just eight years old, that gives me not only hope for this next generation, but also for my sons as men and husbands, because, I think they’ll be pretty kickass.
I was doing the daily run around town, picking everybody up, and my sons were in the backseat. My best friend, Matt, called me, because he and his partner had been in an argument, and so my sons, as it turns out, were listening to my end of the conversation.
Xavier: “Mom, why did Chris buy Uncle Matt flowers? That’s so stupid.”
Me: (cautiously…not sure if it was because they’re men, and wanting to get clarification) “Why do you think that Chris buying Uncle Matt flowers is stupid?”
Xavier: “Because they’re fighting, and Uncle Matt is going to know that’s the only reason he’s buying them. He’s just trying to change the subject, and it’s only going to make Uncle Matt madder.”
Me: (Dying of absolute pride.)
I’ll end this with someone who has found the absolute sweet spot between hilarity, genius, and meaning, Ash Beckham,
Before I say anything that can, in any way, be construed as a criticism, I want to go on the record as saying that last night’s Mumford and Sons concert was completely amazeballs. Seriously, if you haven’t seen them live…do whatever you have to do to get the tickets. They might not be worth turning tricks for, but they’re REALLY CLOSE… No, I’m lying, it’s totally worth at least three handies, but like…high class ones…not street handies.
While I was there, trying to buy water for roughly the cost of a black market kidney, I noticed this on the vendor’s cart.
Now, I have no idea what the band’s beef is with peanuts (Smart bet would be a REALLY severe allergy, but you know I’m going to wind up Googling this, because if the internet is going to give me the ability to look weird shit up, I’m going to take it and run with it.), but I don’t know that ever, once, in my many, many (*cough*) years of life, that I’ve ever been ACTUALLY inconvenienced by a lack of ability to buy peanuts.
“What!? No peanuts! Fuck that, guys, we’re LEAVING! Refund!”
In addition to the peanuts, they also wouldn’t let me have the top of my $57 water bottle, and when I asked if that was venue policy, she rolled her eyes, and said, “It’s the band’s direction.” Now, I’m SURE there is a good reason (which shall ALSO be googled, damn it), but it sort of amuses me that other bands are snorting cocaine off hooker’s asses (don’t judge…the hookers were only trying to score Mumford tickets), and my band of choice won’t even tolerate bottle caps and legumes…
Okay, in closing…also check out Michael Kiwanuka, who opened for them, and who is so ridiculously talented, that I can’t even stand it. Seriously bluesy fantasticness…
**Update** Yes, one of the band members has almost been offed because of a peanut allergy. How about we just don’t eat peanuts at concerts at all? Let’s serve something that stoned people can break into easier than a shelled nut. Almost nobody gets killed by Funyuns, just sayin’.
Before I delve right in here, I’d like to start by clarifying that I love animals…like LOVE them. I will totally kiss a strange dog on the mouth, and I won’t even share a glass of water with my own children. I love them so much, that if I hear the first two chords of any Sarah McLachlan song, I immediately call the ASPCA and give them cash, and all it took was me watching this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nnYRhanK3XA on Facebook, and the next day I got this guy…
That all having been said…I think it’s time that we discuss the RIDICULOUS lengths that humans have been going to, to keep these lazy bastards alive:
I know, I know! They’re Goddamned adorable and everything! Look at those eyes, they’re like walking stuffed animals! If I wanted an actual bear hug, from an ACTUAL bear…this is the bear I would TOTALLY choose!
However, it’s time we really just accept the fact that pandas have all signed some sort of Bear Suicide Pact, and desperately wish to go gently into that good night. In fact, they seem to be trying so hard to end it all, that were they prisoners, we wouldn’t leave them alone with their own shoelaces.
Look, I am ALL FOR saving the environment, limiting urban sprawl, reforesting efforts, creating animal sanctuaries, criminalizing abuse, testing, and animal research; and for all of the other things that we do to try and limit the damage done by man… But pandas are really just asking for it.
If you’ve kept up on the annals of panda husbandry for the last couple of decades, and frankly who hasn’t, you know that getting these black and white lumps to actually produce offspring is no joke. First there are biological factors. Female pandas only ovulate once a year, which is easily half as many times as your average 13-year-old Olympic gymnast (and a twentieth as often as any member of the Duggar family…males included). Beyond that, if a swimmer even makes it in there on the two days a year an egg is in play, the poor offspring in question will be born the size of a stick of butter to a 220lb mother, with a penchant for rolling over in her sleep. In fact, pandas are so casual about the survival of their own children, that while a normal panda pregnancy frequently results in twins…if left to the mother, the smaller one will die of neglect while the larger one is given just enough attention to MAYBE keep it alive. I can personally name at least ten crackheads that I’d trust with a baby, before I’d trust a panda.
Now, here’s where it gets really damning… That whole thing I just wrote…about the ovulation and the offspring and the pandas smoking crack…yeah, that’s all contingent on the pandas ACTUALLY having sex. You see…they don’t even want to do that. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen…pandas are too lazy to even fuck, and we’re not talking about them getting it “on the regular” here…we’re talking about ONCE A YEAR. Once a year, they are too fucking lazy to drag themselves out from under the bamboo bush they’ve been shame-eating in, so that they can get laid, and their species can live on. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.
This is where it gets completely ridiculous… Wonderful, caring, lovely people, who have doctorates in some science-y thing, have decided that they aren’t going to allow the pandas to commit this slow suicide. Instead, they’re going to bring them into captivity and spend MILLIONS of dollars to track their cycles (I’ll pay them $5 to drop me an email to tell me when to expect mine…because I certainly can’t figure it out.), find them mates, and then try and CONVINCE THEM to please, please, please find it in their little bear hearts to hump each other.
In fact, it has gotten so desperate, that the zoologists have resorted to producing panda pornography, which they then show to frigid would-be breeding pairs, in an effort to try and get them in the mood. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/asia/china/9932362/Panda-porn-shown-in-attempt-to-get-two-to-mate.html )
Folks…someone…presumably with at least one PhD, is filming pandas fucking…and showing it to other pandas. (And you thought philosophy majors were stupid…) Now, where they found two willing pandas to film remains a mystery, as there was no panda porn prior to that originally filmed copulation…it is a panda porn paradox for the ages, I tell you.
Assuming that they can actually cajole two apathetic bears into watching a television, you know that the bears just have to be as confused as hell.
Bear A: “Who the hell are these perverts, and why are they showing us porn?”
Bear B: “I know! Wasn’t there a very special episode of Diff’rent Strokes that started out this way, with a pedophile who owned a bike shop?”
Bear A: “I don’t know, but if he offers us some wine and tries to get us in a shower…I’m so out of here.”
In the end, millions spent, countless man hours logged, advanced degrees questionably used, other species (who are FAR more willing to screw, by the way) ignored, and film sullied…you do get one of these:
And, yes, it’s cute…but in 6 years…you’ll be showing it the same (now) vintage panda porn, you showed his parents (or worse, new panda porn OF his parents), in an effort to get him minimally interested in seducing his third cousin, and the cycle can begin yet again.