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Posts Tagged ‘parenting’

Maybe I’m Growing Up

I don’t tell people this, but before we were branded here as ‘The Philosophunculist,’ the alternate name was to be ‘The 420 Boner Fart Blog.’ How did such a fork erupt?

Some internal force is telling me to mature. It’s telling me to settle down, have a child. I’ve been told it’s the greatest feeling in the world, and I can imagine it—sitting down with my son, buying him his first cigarette. Teaching him that yes, everyone is equal, we are all human. Except those in the service industry—you must never make eye contact with them. And people who have to sell plasma to make ends meet. Also, anyone with more or less than one total job. If you don’t have one, you are society’s burden, if you have more than one, why are you taking up all the jobs? The general guideline, I guess, is this: don’t look at anyone with less money than you. These are the people who are technically ‘equal,’ but not really.

But then I asked myself, why should I have to buy my son his first cigarette? Go get a job as a busboy and buy your own, kid. Of course, then all eye contact would be banished between us. Life isn’t fair.

Once I stop looking at my own son, I’m assuming it would develop one of those pill problems that you get from all the head doctors out there. The pharmaceuticals, coupled with the strife of my shunning, would then serve as the fuel that drives him to write a bestselling novel or Grammy-winning album. So now the son is making more money than me and hogging all the cigarettes. But the joke’s on him—I don’t need cigarettes! And I can look at him again, but he can’t look at me. I now have a rich, estranged son who smokes. Dangerous combo there. He’s headed for an early, watery grave (He always loved canoeing. And popping pills. At the same time.).

Guess who’s number one on the inheritance list? Me.

But I thought the kid hated you. He did. Yet because he made so much money from his book or album or reality show he literally had no one to look at, and mine was the only name he could remember. Chaaaaaaaaa-ching!

Reading back over this, the wise course of action would be to get a vasectomy. And change the title bar to the 420 Boner Fart Blog.

Delusional Mother Genuinely Believes Her Toddler Is A Good-Looking Genius

A beautiful August afternoon was recently ruined by a local woman, known as Jane Everymother, who sat on a park bench talking about her toddler, Titus, to anyone within earshot. “Look at him,” she said as the tiny human picked up a discarded candy wrapper and licked it. “So curious. He could be a scientist someday, don’t you think?” she asked, nudging the elderly man next to her, not realizing that he was blind, and also defecating into his adult diaper.

“He looks just like his father,” she said, referencing her husband, the owner of both an ever-expanding waistline and equally contracting hairline, who also suffers from mild albinism, which lends a horrific red tint to his eyes. “He’s going to be a lady killer someday. I just hope there’s a girl out there good enough for him.”

The toddler’s nine-year-old sister, Gertrude, was asked to weigh in on her mother’s comments. “People thought I looked like my dad at that age too, now look at me,” the balding, red-eyed second-time first grader pointed out. “Lady killer? I’m calling it right now, I will be that turd factory’s prom date.”

Jane then brought out a book designed to teach colors to children, and let Titus page through it. “What color is that?” she asked, pointing to a red fire engine.

The child made a farting noise with its mouth.

“Red! He said red! Red is correct! He’s so smart!” Everymother exclaimed. “How about this one honey? What color is the big yellow sun?”

The boy looked at the image, then yelled “POOP!”

“HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! The sun does look like poop, doesn’t it honey! It really does!” she said, forcing herself to believe that the bright yellow sphere actually did look like fecal matter.

Gertrude again lent her opinion. “That kid ain’t goin’ anywhere. We share the same genes, for Pete’s sake. I failed 1st grade math. 1st grade math. Think about that. We never did a problem that added up to more than ten.”

At that moment, Titus took off running, tripped over his own feet, and landed in the sandbox.

“Ooooh, did you see how far he jumped?! Does anyone know where the Olympics are in 2033? I can taste the gold already!” Jane squealed, garnering the heartfelt sadness of surrounding parents, who realized that she wasn’t joking.

“I don’t understand why they praise him so much,” Gertrude said. “He craps on the kitchen floor, and they act like it’s a goddam Bernini sculpture. I crap on the kitchen floor, and they literally rub my face in it and put me to bed without a bath.”

Moments later, Jane Everymother vacated the bench when a man sat next to her and pointed to his five-year-old nephew, who was doing pull-ups on the monkey bars. “Ugh, nobody cares,” she said, walking away disgusted. “Let’s go, Titus. We’ll watch Inception before your nap. Because you can understand it.” She paused for a moment, wiped a tear from her eye, then repeated, in a low whisper, “Because you can understand it, dammit.”

This Is How I Found Out Where Babies Come From

A baby, just lying there, contributing absolutely nothing to society

A baby, just lying there, contributing absolutely nothing to society

It’s my little sister’s birthday today. Around the time she was born, or sometime in the months or years after, I found myself wondering, “Who is this other kid, and where did it come from?” I asked Google of the late ’80’s, my Mom, why there was another, smaller member of the family. In response to whatever form of the “Where do babies come from” question I dropped on her, I got this: “You pray for it, then you get pregnant, and then you have a baby.”

Even at the age of three, or four, or five—however young I was at the time, I remember thinking to myself, “Something about that doesn’t sound right.”

I took this info to my older sisters, and was told “You don’t have to pray for a baby, the man just sticks his penis in the woman’s vagina.”

This was confirmed much later in school when we watched animated sex-ed videos with wacky talking sperm and kids wondering why they have hair growing in places where it seems like hair isn’t necessary.

One Solution To The Child Obesity Problem

February 20, 2013 4 comments

I’ve been stuck behind a number of school busses in a number of neighborhoods. Despite differing localities, one common thread runs through the routing scheme: kids are getting really fat, so have a bus stop as often as possible.

This very morning, the school bus in front of me made a pick up. The kids got in, the flashing lights turned off. It moved forward about one hundred feet, stopped again. Another successful pick-up made, it accelerated off to its next stop, a hundred feet from the previous stop, two hundred feet from the original.

My radical solution: combine all three stops into one. If someone complains, inform them that kids can walk, and tell them to drive their stupid, fat, lazy kid to school themselves.

And we need more kids at each stop, because I recently saw a man with thick glasses and a comb-over standing near a stop looking very abductive-y and pervy. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a parent. Safety in numbers.

Of Course The Baby Looks Like Its Parents

“OMG, he looks just like you!”

“She’s got your eyes!”

Just a couple typical Facebook baby picture/video comments there.

From a biology standpoint, it’s pretty common for offspring to look like their parents.

We all really need to start leaving comments if the baby doesn’t look like the mother or father. It could be a great help to some couples, because I don’t want to see the wrong person duped into paying for a kid that they think they made.

“You know, he kind of has the same nose as that personal trainer that was at your Memorial Day party last year. Do you still go to that gym?”

“It’s good that Stephan has learned to walk. I noticed he’s got the same awkward waddle as your milk man, isn’t that weird?”

A lot of strife could be avoided this way.

 

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