Drunk pool parties save lives, duh.

So you’re at Wendy’s, shoving chicken nuggets or whatever the fuck in your kids’ mouths and you meet a new friend. She turns out to resemble Wild Style from the Lego Movie, so we’ll just call her that. Suuuure, at first she resembles a sweet little woodland creature who you want to take home and make your pet… she has two small kids the same ages as mine, and she seems to parent with the same como se dice “spirit”, but she turns out to be a real badass bitch. And in the course of maybe two weeks, this bitch your friend.

A year goes by and lo and behold, she gets you to join the motherfuckin’ PTA.   The Parent Teacher Association. This bitch…. the PTA. I can’t even.

But I’m on it. I’m on the motherfuckin’ PTA now. Cuz of this bitch.

So here I am, a few weeks ago, at a PTA meeting. She’s talking about the budget, and I’m sexting my strength trainer. Suuuuuure, the budget for the childrens is very important but there are numbers and there was wine, so I’m sexting. It’s all good. It’s natural. It’s SCIENCE. And this is a STEM Magnet school my kid attends, so science is importante, no?

Now what I haven’t told you thus far is that this girl has a pool. And if you have kids and you know the level of murder that almost happens every night in the summer, you may understand just precisely what a pool means. People are HAPPY in the pool. The children are happy. They grown folks is happy. People are HAPPY.  Then you add some wines. You know mama likes the wines.  So you drink the wines and you play in the pool and everyone is HAPPY.

Moral of this story? Drink the muhfuckin wines in the muhfuckin pool with your muchfuckin kiiiiiiids and Jesus help us let’s bring the crime rate down.

Also, I luh dat bitch.

If everything could ever feel this real forever.

Sleep deprivation does this to me.

Have you ever been like, working out, maybe doing some pushups or some variation of a plank, and just started crying? Because you were just that fucking exhausted because maybe your baby or something similar to that in your life won’t fucking sleep at night? But not just for one night, but for days and days on end?

Well if that happens, take a shower, because that apparently will help you make it through the rest of the day.

Oh and, a Foo Fighters documentary on VH1. Foo Fighters were one of my favorite rock bands in high school, and they take me to a very centered, familiar, happy place that few things sufficiently do.

Dave Grohl. I love you. Thank you. Goodnight.

The lost art of keeping your 4-year-old off the pole.

If you haven’t figured it out already, your role as a parent includes keeping your daughter off the pole, which requires setting standards of how she should expect to be treated by others, as well as explaining her anatomy to her.  As much of a free spirit as I am about sexuality and femininity, I found the latter to be one of the more difficult lessons for me to relay to my 4-year-old.  It all started when she was 3, and stopped wearing diapers. I was so proud of myself.  Potty-training– DONE. The next thing I know, we’re watching cartoons and I see her chubby little toddler fingers exploring her nether regions. I mean, you can’t blame her– she’d never had access to that part of her body back in diaper-land.  Undies offer a freedom that I had to teach her to respect.

“What are you doing, pumpkin?” “I’m touching my privacy,” she says matter-of-factly in her high-pitched little voice. (That’s what she called her private parts at the time.)  I had no idea what to do. How was I supposed to teach her that it’s not socially acceptable to finger herself in the presence of others without making her feel ashamed? Knowing your body and the eventual art of masturbation are healthy parts of life, but not in front of your Mom. NOT IN FRONT OF YOUR MOM. Luckily, my fellow mom-boss Holly was there, and she’d already traversed this scary frontier with her two boys. “Bathroom or bedroom, bathroom or bedroom,” she whispered to me hurriedly, so that the madness would end.  It was at that point that I realized I needed to have some answers ready… coming up with them in the moment was not an option.

And she’s going to have a lot of questions, your daughter… and you better have the answers ready that you want settled into the little “sex corner” of her mind.  Otherwise, our fucked up world has answers ready and waiting, and they’re not the answers that will give your daughter a long and happy life with a satisfying and self-respecting relationship with her body, or with other people’s bodies.  Like these “pole-dancing parties”. And I’m not talking about for adults, I’m talking about the ones that 12-year-olds are currently doing for their birthdays.  Or the “rainbow parties” that involve junior highers, a line of girls with different colors of lipstick on, and a line of little dudes who, in my opinion, have years of work to do to earn that kind of love from a woman.

Mark my words: My. Daughters. Aren’t. Gonna. Do. That. Shit.

So here is what I’ve learned. It’s okay to shake your booty with your daughter while you listen to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It”. It’s NOT okay to let them watch the video, and not just because it is not attractive when a guy can only lift ten pounds, or when groups of guys have penis-wiggling contests in bars. Also, it is not okay to let her say “shake my hot booty” (because she should not at the age of 4 know what “hot” means in that context). And when the word “sexy” pops up in the verse, tell her she can’t sing that word because, while sexy is not a bad word, it is a grown-up word.

When you explain her lady parts, don’t use words that have negative connotations that might invoke a sense of shame for having a vagina.   Like “naughty” or “no-no”. Because the world is telling her that it’s a dirty, wicked thing. And it is NOT. The world is also telling her that, if she has a vagina, that she is dumber than her penis-bearing counterparts, and that she shouldn’t hold positions of power, authority, decision-making, strategizing, or influence.   I find it’s simplest to use the technical term, but then apply a nice little word for her everyday use. Like “bottom”, or “private parts.”  A nice little analogy to help your daughter understand what private means can be found in Where the Wild Things Grow, where the kid has a private boat. The boat is JUST HIS. And people have to ask nicely before they can ride in the boat, and he’s allowed to say no to anyone who wants to ride in the boat if he doesn’t want them to. And if people insist on riding in the boat after he says no, then it is more than acceptable to kick that person’s ass so they think twice the next time they feel like riding in whatever boat they fucking want to.

Also, try to avoid using the following terms to refer to her vagina:

Penis glove, cock sock, cock pocket, cum dumpster, sperm bottle, goop chute, love rug, poontang, poonanie, cooch, vertical bacon sandwich, bearded clam, meat curtains, hatchet wound, fur burger, front bottom, kebab, minge, snapper, catfish, love canal, the cum dump, chocha, black hole, sperm sucker, fish sandwich, cock warmer, whisker biscuit, deep socket, cum craver, cock squeezer, slice of heaven, flesh cavern, glory hole, man in the boat, DNA dumpster, tuna town, split dick, bikini bizkit, cock holster, cockpit, snooch, poody tat, cold cut combo, furry furnace, slop hole, nether lips, serpent socket, hairy doughnut, fun hatch, spasm chasm, bacon hole, belly entrance, sugar basin, sweet briar, breakfast of champions, wookie, fish mitten, fuck pocket, hump hole, Republic of Labia, fetus flaps, sausage wallet, Yo Yo Smuggler, Ninja Boot, Chia Hole, Furrogi (Poland), Fortune Nookie, Calamari Cockring, Displabia, Bluntfrunt, moneymaker, The Helmut Hide-A-Way, toolshed, snake charmer, Furby, Enchilada of love, queef quarters, cream canal, punash, salami garage, slurpee machine, pink cookie, penalty box, meat crease, pole hole, one-eyed python trail, bubble gum by the bum, horn of plenty, the indoor picnic, hamper of goodies, the welcome opponent,  devil’s hole, pooswaa, south mouth, Lawrence of A Labia, ponchita,The Notorious V.A.G., baby oven, penis parking, cooter muffin, the promised land, cha cha, the virginator, scrumpter, cucumber canal, dick dungeon, cock curator, nice slice, weiner wrap, pachinko, fuck donut, the unmentionable, jaws of life, love cave, Indiana bones and the temple of poon, or pushin cushion.

If she, upon maturing, and from a place of self-awareness and long-established self-respect, decides to adopt any of those terms (really more because some of them are funny) then so be it.

UPDATE:

A good one: Holie of Holies. Brought to you by the man who explained to me that, if a man wasn’t crazy about me, then he wasn’t fucking worth it. And that’s truth, people.

That dick Bambi just won this mother’s gratitude.

It’s springtime, and birds are getting their freak on!  Meanwhile, I got caught up watching Bambi with my daughter this morning.

I’ve never liked the movie Bambi, and after watching it again this morning, I know why. It’s just boring. It lacks any imagination whatsoever.  I couldn’t even find any of the good ol’ racist character depictions that Disney cartoons are so known for. See if any of this shit sounds familiar:

Bambi is a baby deer who, directly upon his mom dying from a gunshot wound, learns what sex is, and swears a life of bachelorhood to his fellow adolescent friends.  Several years later he sees a sexy bitch, fights a ho to win her over, wins the girl, bangs that girl, and pops out a couple little baby deer of his own. The movie ends with Bambi (who should really consider changing his name now that he’s an adult) winning the approval of his father.

I’m sorry, I almost fell asleep typing that.  The only thing I found slightly intriguing in the story was the fact that Bambi learned about sex from the crazy old owl in the neighborhood. Does anyone else find that creepy?  I guess life was different in the 1940’s.  All the “older brother” types were off fighting World War II.  But lucky for me, I no longer need to have the sex talk with my 4-year-old. Done. I’ve got no problem with my kid learning about sex from a crazy old man.  Along with the invaluable lesson that sex is the answer to your depressing moments in life. Like when your mom dies.

Parenting the shit out of your kid. (brought to you by “The Slope”)

I’ve been too busy “parenting” to write much this weekend. Here’s a window into that magic:

Season 2, Episode 3: “Primary Care Giver” from The Slope on Vimeo.

Hail Snooki, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

I come today with an encouraging word for my catholic brothers and sisters.

Firstly, God bless you.

Secondly, in the midst of political and religious tension relating to the provision of contraception to my catholic sluts everywhere, and in a bold statement of faith and religious fervor, Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi is pregnant with the Messiah’s second coming (blessed be the fruit of her womb).  Snooki, being a pure catholic woman, is preparing for this virgin birth with her fiance, Jionni LaValle (let’s just call him “Joseph” for short). Joseph, who plans to marry Snooki rather than have her stoned according to tradition, will help raise this virgin-birth Messiah, and says “We are not going to screw this up.”  Well I sure as fuck hope not, Joseph. There are an assload of catholics in America who are fighting hard to restrict women’s access to contraception, in order to protect the Holy Spirit’s ability to make babies where it wants to. If any of us find out you impregnated Snooki with this holy child, thereby usurping the Holy Spirit’s power and authority, ER’body in the club gettin’ tips! And then your ass is getting excommunicated, beeitch.

And if I know the catholic church and Mel Gibson at all, staying classy is at the top of the priority list for its followers.  Snooki has decided to take her new role as a virgin mother seriously. “I’m not living in that [Jersey Shore] house being pregnant. I don’t want to be one of those moms who’s pregnant in a club. It’s disgusting.” Praise Jesus and the saints.

Daily Mail reports ‘Asked what her first thought was after finding out she was pregnant, Snook replied: “S**t, I’ve been drinking!  I was worried. It was New Year’s Eve and we were in Vegas, so I did go crazy.”‘ By “crazy” she means they snuggled closely to one another at Sapphire Strip  Club while Joseph got a lap dance, as they read the sexy and pro-contraception book of Song of Solomon from the Holy Scriptures. The Huffington Post reports that “the book positively depicts a couple pursuing a love that is not approved by society. It begins with the woman wishing that the man would ‘kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’ and soon she is inviting him to her bed of spices. The lovers do not live together, but instead must meet outdoors (e.g. 1:17) or in a parent’s bedroom (3:4; 8:2).”  Or in this case, the Sapphire Strip Club. Interestingly, I’ve never heard of chlamydia referred to as a “spice”, but whatever. I try to be an open-minded person when it comes to the sexual appetites of others.

Say goodbye to all those disabled assholes in your life!

Or not disabled. Whatever. Who the fuck’s counting?

Lucky for me (let’s be honest– ALL of us), some cuddly academics out of Oxford University published an article in the Journal of Medical Ethics, which says ‘newborn babies are not “actual persons” and do not have a “moral right to life”.’  You can read more about it here.  It basically says that killing newborn babies is different than killing an “actual person”, because in this case you’re not keeping the babies from achieving their life goals.

“The reason is that, unlike the case of death of an existing person, failing to bring a new person into existence does not prevent anyone from accomplishing any of her future aims.” (After-birth abortion: why should the baby live? Pg. 2 Alberto Giubilini, Francesca Minerva)

Well, who says I give a shit about someone else’s life goals? Fuck it. If we’re aborting people, let’s do this shit!

Go ahead and get one last look. Cuz I'm aborting this fucker.

Let’s start by aborting everyone in Iceland. They’re inbred, and they’re White (we’ve got enough crackers on this earth, right?).  We’ll take their island and get crunk, ya’ll!  Except Bjork. We’ll keep her. I enjoy her album Vespertine. I find it morally relevant.  Oh, and if we abort all the Icelanders for those reasons, we’ll need to go ahead and abort all the Amish people too. Done.

Adam Levine of Maroon 5. Not morally relevant.

Disabled feminists. Dragging us down. They’re only weak links in the cause.  Time’s a-changing, ladies. We need to keep up.

The Fresh Beat Band on Nick Jr. They make me want to kill myself, so preemptively aborting them will improve quality of life everywhere.

Albert Einstein. (He’s a Jew).

My little brother. Been wanting to abort him for years.  Just finishing what my mom couldn’t start. Later, asshole!

Oh, and Sugardaddy wants to abort Ryan Seacrest, as well as the stockboy at the grocery store that gave him the evil eye when he picked up that bag of Funyuns. Happy Anniversary, baby!