I just got the biggest bait and switch from J-man’s school. If they think “No child left behind” is their biggest problem, just wait til they have to deal with my “crazy bitch in your behind!”
So a while back, I get this innocent little “Hi, how ya doin!” note from the teacher just wanting to let all the parents know that the students will be spending a “thrilling” week learning all about Human Growth. Oh yes, her letter was just oozing with excitement for this “new program that has been proven around the country to teach children all they need to know about the human body. But of course, since there’s always some academic bureaucracy us teachers have to go through, would you please sign this letter saying you’ve read it and are just as excited as I am to have your child participate in this amazing new learning experience.”
Now, in retrospect, yes, I probably should’ve looked for the “But wait! There’s more!” or seen if it came with a fucking “Snuggie” (and seriously, what the hell is up with that?! They’re like damn zubaz for old people! “Sorry, oldies, we know you can’t put your pants on anymore, so just wrap it up like a burrito and shimmy it down to the Dollar Store in this. Really, people won’t know.” Spoiler Alert: Yes, we will. We really will.).
But truth be told, all I was thinking is “Hells yeah! If this saves me the googagillion dollars I’d have to spend taking him to Body Worlds, not to mention viewing a bunch of de-skinned, veiny nutsacks and milkbags, well thank you public school system!”
So I sign it, a couple weeks go by, until finally one Monday J-man says:
J-Man: So, we uh, had Human Growth today.
Crazy Pants: Oh yeah?! How was it?
J-man: Well, uh…it was ok, I guess. We watched a movie.
Crazy Pants: Yeah? What was it about?
J-man: Hmm, well…there was a man and a woman and they were in a bathtub with a rubber duck. And then they both stood up and were covered with bubbles. The woman wiped away the bubbles on the man’s chest and they started talking about how men could get breast cancer. Then he wiped away the bubbles off the woman’s chest. Then the next scene is them in bed, under the covers, going BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!
Teacher Bitch is going to die. What kind of Larry Flynt, Hugh Hefner fucking academia bullshit is this?! And this isn’t human growth this is straight up “preparing your kids for a life of porn surfing.” WTF!
Now I’m a reasonable woman, and I know Lady Crazy Pants has had her fair share of late night porn surfing, but that was for research! Plus, slap my dumb ass and call me shorty, but I’m traditional. Sorry, I want him to learn about porn like every other little boy in this day and age, hiding under the blankets with a flashlight, laptop and internet connection only to get caught by his mother in order to live a life of eternal shame so he never gets married! THIS IS MY BIRTHRIGHT!
But that wasn’t the worst part. Oh no…the worst part was what came next. The questions. Oh the questions. Girl, I would have rather been following the back end of a donkey in a donkey parade with my mouth open then to be subject to the questions.
J-man: So, mom, do you and (Future Mr. Crazy Pants) have sex?
Crazy Pants: (Gulp. Choke. Vomit. Vomit. Choke.) Uh, what honey?
J-man: Do you guys have sex?
Crazy Pants: Well, uh, sure. But you know it’s not something you do with just anyone. I don’t want to scare you (Yes, I do. I really, really do), but it’s something special between two people who really love each other (God, I need a drink). So, you know, you only do it with someone you would die for (Wine Bottle with a straw, please) because there are diseases. Big scary diseases!
J-man: Alright! That’s enough. You scared me. Going to bed now. I’m done.
Victory! And one to be celebrated in style (of the Sangiovese varietal)! So I reveled in the sweet, warm glow of my “future therapy inducing” child nurturing skills, until a few days later Human Growth reared it’s fucking ugly head again.
J-Man: So, we watched another movie in Human Growth.
At first thought, the appropriate response seemed to be ‘Oh really? What the hell did Bitch Tits provide for your Human Growth viewing pleasure today? Sally sells her baby? See Dick today, Jane tomorrow? Just what flavor was it this time, lovey?’
Luckily the sirens went off and my head editors quickly stepped in before the memo made it to my mouth.
Head Editors: Sweet Jesus, Crazy! You’re talking to a 10 year old!
Crazy Pants: Shit, ok. Thanks.
So I got it together to reluctantly continue the conversation.
Crazy Pants: Yeah, so what was it about?
J-Man: (Giggling. GIGGLING!!) Oh well, it was about babies. And I have a question.
Crazy Pants: Oh, of course you do my sweet little man of curiosity. So what is the question?
J-Man: No. I can’t, never mind.
Crazy Pants: No really, seriously. What is it?
J-Man: Well, when I was a baby and you breastfed me…did it…tickle?
Check please. I’m all done here. Yep, I'm sure.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
You can run. You can hide. Just not on the internet.
Yep, it’s happened again, I got another beef with FB. You know, the site that connects you with 300 people you maybe borrowed a pencil from in your lifetime and your 3 best friends from grade school who are now crackheads.
So 5 years, 2 months and 8 days of bliss and now my fucking family found me. I mean, I wasn’t in an only child protection program where I changed my name, threw acid on my face and cut my fingerprints off. I just stopped answering my cell phone. And email. And door.
It’s one thing when it’s Momma Grand Dame Crazy Pants. I can handle her, for short periods of time in various stages of drunkenness. But it’s completely another when it’s your cousin, oh wait, correction…your cousin’s HUSBAND, who finds you on FB aka: apparently the hot spot where any Tom, Dick and cousin Steve can track your ass down.
Now don’t get me wrong, cuzzy Steve practically raised me because I had a couple of nutbuckets for parents. Also, to his credit, I wasn’t what one would call a “normal” child. I was what the experts would call highly gifted in the area of making the “crazy.” Do I have examples, you ask? Well let’s take a quick stroll down the ‘ol Crazy Pants Memory Lane, circa 8 to 10 years of age.
I had this “pyro phase” where I would try to figure out different ways to create a fire maze, like Rube Goldberg style, from the stove to a candle or some other ignitable object (like paper plates). A GAS stove, girl.
I blackmailed my babysitter saying that I would tell on her for taking me to see the movie “Pink Floyd’s The Wall” with her acid-tripping friends (which by the way, really fucked my shit up for weeks) if she didn’t take me to see Yentil (you know, the movie about “a Jewish girl who disguises herself as a boy to enter religious training”.) She agreed. However, I ended up hating the movie (trust me, it’s no Pink Floyd), so I told on her ass anyway.
So Steve stepped in to put an end to this. And while somewhat successful, he definitely had interesting tactics. At the time, he had his at home business raising tropical fish and, um, tarantulas. Yup, as in the hairy spiders of death. Now what he didn’t tell me was that the tarantulas didn’t have venom. So when I would act a fool, say something like showing his neighbors his laser disc porn collection, he would make me sit with a tarantula on my hands and tell me that I had better not move.
Question, is it becoming semi-apparent why I might not want to have contact with family now?
So riddle me this, what do I do? Accept the “friendvite” and limit his ability to see my status updates such as “Crazypants thought her neighbor’s mailbox was the toilet again. Whoops-a-dasical!” Or do I flat out reject and hope to God the next family reunion is a webcast? Decisions, decisions.
So 5 years, 2 months and 8 days of bliss and now my fucking family found me. I mean, I wasn’t in an only child protection program where I changed my name, threw acid on my face and cut my fingerprints off. I just stopped answering my cell phone. And email. And door.
It’s one thing when it’s Momma Grand Dame Crazy Pants. I can handle her, for short periods of time in various stages of drunkenness. But it’s completely another when it’s your cousin, oh wait, correction…your cousin’s HUSBAND, who finds you on FB aka: apparently the hot spot where any Tom, Dick and cousin Steve can track your ass down.
Now don’t get me wrong, cuzzy Steve practically raised me because I had a couple of nutbuckets for parents. Also, to his credit, I wasn’t what one would call a “normal” child. I was what the experts would call highly gifted in the area of making the “crazy.” Do I have examples, you ask? Well let’s take a quick stroll down the ‘ol Crazy Pants Memory Lane, circa 8 to 10 years of age.
I had this “pyro phase” where I would try to figure out different ways to create a fire maze, like Rube Goldberg style, from the stove to a candle or some other ignitable object (like paper plates). A GAS stove, girl.
I blackmailed my babysitter saying that I would tell on her for taking me to see the movie “Pink Floyd’s The Wall” with her acid-tripping friends (which by the way, really fucked my shit up for weeks) if she didn’t take me to see Yentil (you know, the movie about “a Jewish girl who disguises herself as a boy to enter religious training”.) She agreed. However, I ended up hating the movie (trust me, it’s no Pink Floyd), so I told on her ass anyway.
So Steve stepped in to put an end to this. And while somewhat successful, he definitely had interesting tactics. At the time, he had his at home business raising tropical fish and, um, tarantulas. Yup, as in the hairy spiders of death. Now what he didn’t tell me was that the tarantulas didn’t have venom. So when I would act a fool, say something like showing his neighbors his laser disc porn collection, he would make me sit with a tarantula on my hands and tell me that I had better not move.
Question, is it becoming semi-apparent why I might not want to have contact with family now?
So riddle me this, what do I do? Accept the “friendvite” and limit his ability to see my status updates such as “Crazypants thought her neighbor’s mailbox was the toilet again. Whoops-a-dasical!” Or do I flat out reject and hope to God the next family reunion is a webcast? Decisions, decisions.
Friday, March 6, 2009
You GoGirl. Go Away.
So the other night, I was doing my usual 2am internet surf, when I saw it. “It” being the silliest goddamn shit I’ve ever seen in my life. The GoGirl.
Female Urination Device for Women” aka: a pee funnel. You know who makes this kind of shit, girl? The babies who were “accidently” dropped on their heads by a jealous, infertile aunt and grew up believing “making stupid shit” was the same as “being an entrepreneur.” And you know who buys it? The fucking same guilty aunts 30 years later.
Now seriously, this is a bladder infection away from a laws suit. Can you imagine the back splash?! It’s all cute and dandy that they made it pink, but trust me, when my hoo-hoo turns black from gangrene using this moron magnet product, you can be sure you’ll be hearing from my lawyer down at the Cochran law firm.
And what’s next, huh? Where do you go from here? How could you possibly expand your product-line? Wet Girl towelettes? B Girl Portable Butt Cleaner aka: turkey baster ?! These people need to be stopped!
GoGirl. Nope, not for this bisnatch. I'd rather have a hot mustard, jalepeno enema, thanks.
Promise me something. Now apparently I’m too mean to die. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told repeatedly by ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, small(ish) children and complete strangers. But promise me that if something does happen, like I get a bad nip and tuck and kick the bucket, you’ll write the following in my obituary:
“Lady Crazy Pants. The wild-eye bitch had a mouth of a sailor and the class of a catholic school girl on spring break. But she never, and I mean never used a Go Girl.”
Female Urination Device for Women” aka: a pee funnel. You know who makes this kind of shit, girl? The babies who were “accidently” dropped on their heads by a jealous, infertile aunt and grew up believing “making stupid shit” was the same as “being an entrepreneur.” And you know who buys it? The fucking same guilty aunts 30 years later.
Now seriously, this is a bladder infection away from a laws suit. Can you imagine the back splash?! It’s all cute and dandy that they made it pink, but trust me, when my hoo-hoo turns black from gangrene using this moron magnet product, you can be sure you’ll be hearing from my lawyer down at the Cochran law firm.
And what’s next, huh? Where do you go from here? How could you possibly expand your product-line? Wet Girl towelettes? B Girl Portable Butt Cleaner aka: turkey baster ?! These people need to be stopped!
GoGirl. Nope, not for this bisnatch. I'd rather have a hot mustard, jalepeno enema, thanks.
Promise me something. Now apparently I’m too mean to die. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told repeatedly by ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, small(ish) children and complete strangers. But promise me that if something does happen, like I get a bad nip and tuck and kick the bucket, you’ll write the following in my obituary:
“Lady Crazy Pants. The wild-eye bitch had a mouth of a sailor and the class of a catholic school girl on spring break. But she never, and I mean never used a Go Girl.”
Monday, March 2, 2009
Never Let A Vegan Hippie Cook Your Bacon
Oh my sweet lord...I'm fucking sick. Not just any old sick. I'm talking about a "spine-tingling, hot/cold sweats, poopade coming out one end, projectile vomitous mixture coming out the other, dillusionally crying for my mommy, how many shots of a nyquil/pepito cocktail can I consume to end it all, telling J-man where momma put her precious jewels that you weren't supposed to know about until you found the right woman which in my book will be never so you mine as well be a priest" kinda sick. And you know why? Because you should never, ever eat bacon cooked by a vegan hippie. Here's what happened.
So I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. Find a new calling. And since I have an apparent allergy to working out and eating healthy (remember, I laugh hysterically when someone mentions I should do so? Medical allergic reaction, look it up.), I thought a great alternative would be to start writing. And not just sitting at home eating minty bon-bons, sipping the sweet nectar from the Napa Valley of Youth (of the white sparkling wine varietal) kind of writing, but the sit in a community-focused, tree-hugging, change the world hippie coffee shop kind of writing. I was out to write some shit. Do some shit. Make people get off their asses and scream 'I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!' kinda shit.
So there I was...in the patchouli den of inspiration (or perhaps perspiration is more accurate) staring up at the chalkboard of hippie delights. Tofu quiche. Egg White Delight. Hemp Lemon Grass Morning Elixir. Mother Moon Pies. And suddenly I thought, Lady Crazy Pants, perhaps you should go to the Denny's down the street, get yourself a Grand Slam and come back for the literary lovefest that you are about to bestow upon the world. But then...I saw it. Every meat lover's delight...bacon. And I was like HOT DAMN, me and the hippies can get along! So I ordered that and the hyrdo-colonic grown potatoes and sat down to begin my writing greatness.
About 10 minutes and two words later (writing is hard) my food arrived. Or I should say my plate of half-cooked leper skin and four potato bits arrived. I looked at it and the Hippie Delivery Man and said
Crazy: Oh honey, this ain't done.
Hippie Delivery: It's not?
Crazy: No. See that, that right there...that's pig still talking to me.
Hippie: Oh, I see...
We both look at it.
Crazy: So you mean..."you see" that it's still moving? Or "you see" that you're going to put it back on the grill and crisp it up a bit?
Hippie: (Wringing his hands) Well, that's how we do our bacon here.
Crazy: You do your bacon like you're feeding people mad cow disease? Cause I don't know if you know, but there's this thing called Tricanosis. Or Trycansosis. Or some shit like that, but it can kill people. Uncooked pork, my friend.
Hippie: Well, I can certainly take it back, but it will be about 10 minutes to put it back on the grill. We don't usually do a lot of meat products on it.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Then why? Why why why...WHY would you put BACON on your menu? Are you purposely trying to kill meat people??? Do you think that you Hippie coffee shop people are just SO clever that if we meat lovers don't subscribe to your PETA like mentality that you're willing to put the shit on your menu and then say 'Oh we're SO sorry that, you...meat lover...know SO much about the proper handling of meat, but since you've already paid for it you're going to eat it the way we prepared it because you're a dirty meat eater!' Bait and switch is what that is. Bait and switch, bitch!
But I was hungry. So I ate it. And look where it got my dumb ass. Stupid hippies.
So I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. Find a new calling. And since I have an apparent allergy to working out and eating healthy (remember, I laugh hysterically when someone mentions I should do so? Medical allergic reaction, look it up.), I thought a great alternative would be to start writing. And not just sitting at home eating minty bon-bons, sipping the sweet nectar from the Napa Valley of Youth (of the white sparkling wine varietal) kind of writing, but the sit in a community-focused, tree-hugging, change the world hippie coffee shop kind of writing. I was out to write some shit. Do some shit. Make people get off their asses and scream 'I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!' kinda shit.
So there I was...in the patchouli den of inspiration (or perhaps perspiration is more accurate) staring up at the chalkboard of hippie delights. Tofu quiche. Egg White Delight. Hemp Lemon Grass Morning Elixir. Mother Moon Pies. And suddenly I thought, Lady Crazy Pants, perhaps you should go to the Denny's down the street, get yourself a Grand Slam and come back for the literary lovefest that you are about to bestow upon the world. But then...I saw it. Every meat lover's delight...bacon. And I was like HOT DAMN, me and the hippies can get along! So I ordered that and the hyrdo-colonic grown potatoes and sat down to begin my writing greatness.
About 10 minutes and two words later (writing is hard) my food arrived. Or I should say my plate of half-cooked leper skin and four potato bits arrived. I looked at it and the Hippie Delivery Man and said
Crazy: Oh honey, this ain't done.
Hippie Delivery: It's not?
Crazy: No. See that, that right there...that's pig still talking to me.
Hippie: Oh, I see...
We both look at it.
Crazy: So you mean..."you see" that it's still moving? Or "you see" that you're going to put it back on the grill and crisp it up a bit?
Hippie: (Wringing his hands) Well, that's how we do our bacon here.
Crazy: You do your bacon like you're feeding people mad cow disease? Cause I don't know if you know, but there's this thing called Tricanosis. Or Trycansosis. Or some shit like that, but it can kill people. Uncooked pork, my friend.
Hippie: Well, I can certainly take it back, but it will be about 10 minutes to put it back on the grill. We don't usually do a lot of meat products on it.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Then why? Why why why...WHY would you put BACON on your menu? Are you purposely trying to kill meat people??? Do you think that you Hippie coffee shop people are just SO clever that if we meat lovers don't subscribe to your PETA like mentality that you're willing to put the shit on your menu and then say 'Oh we're SO sorry that, you...meat lover...know SO much about the proper handling of meat, but since you've already paid for it you're going to eat it the way we prepared it because you're a dirty meat eater!' Bait and switch is what that is. Bait and switch, bitch!
But I was hungry. So I ate it. And look where it got my dumb ass. Stupid hippies.
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