Turning big boys into men, erasing the Mommy mistakes

Men are guilty of this crime, even though if asked, they'd tell you the complete opposite is true. They expect you to read their minds and anticipate their needs. Here's where you've gone wrong, guys, we aren't your mommy, it's not our job. When you left home, you should have become a man  Men do things for themselves and don't wait for an available female to do it. This is more frustrating than most men realize. When you accuse us of not caring because we didn't get you an aspirin...ask yourself if you even mentioned the friggin headache. Don't tell me I should have known because you were quiet, or your eyes were at half-mast, or your ass moved to instead of fro when you walked in the door. No woman can be expected to care quite that much. Wait a minute, don't get your tightie whities in a bunch. Before you assume I mean we don't care about you at all, because you only hear/read what you want to hear/read, you need to know something  We DO care, more than you realize. We are trying to make you become communicative, functioning adults.
Actually, I suppose we are picking up where your mommy left off, and are trying to do a better job with you.  All boys love their mommies, and rightfully so. Mothers of sons tend to baby the shit out of them. Coddled and spoiled all their lives, little boys grow up to be big boys, not men.  Many have not even learned to do their own laundry by the time they've moved out. The concept of replacing the toilet paper roll is foreign.  Throwing out the empty milk carton rather than putting it back into the fridge seems silly. Buying groceries, why bother?  The fridge is well-stocked all by itself, right? Cooking? If you mean unwrapping frozen pizza and throwing it in the microwave, then he cooks. Who makes a bed? Mommy does so baby boy can have a comfy womfy sleep, yes he do. So, if you think about it, how the fuck can he get his own aspirin? The bottles are child-proof! Don't even imagine he can figure out the dosage even if he could actually get the cap off the bottle. Mommy has always done that FOR him.
Boys love their mommies almost to the point of hero-worship. Don't get between a guy and his mommy, you will lose. Their mommies are saintly, virginal women who exist only to please their children and husbands.  Catering to their every whim, anticipating their needs, these women are put up on a pedestal so high they are almost impossible to see with the naked eye. You will never be quite as good. Your sauce isn't like hers, and you don't fold his underwear the way she did. She used to cut his sandwiches on the diagonal, you cut them straight across. Shame on you for not knowing the proper way. Where are the bananas?!  How can he eat his Frosted Flakes without them?  And who will cut the bananas the way he likes them? Not you. Don't bother trying. Fuck that!

The thing is, you want to be nice. You want him to be happy.  As a newlywed, you race around pampering him like you imagine a good little wifey would, exhausting yourself as he collects his reward at night from you. At the time, you think nothing of it because you are so blissfully happy and totally unaware of how things are really supposed to be. It seems right, you being a pretty little domestic goddess for your big, strong man. Right?!?! This continues on for whatever period of time it takes for something to knock some goddamn sense into you. All of a sudden you realize that you are a fucking slave that can do no right because, face it, you aren't mommy. The references to how "she used to do it" are like little shanks in your eardrums. She becomes the enemy even though prior to marriage, you may have loved this woman and gotten along famously. Now, she is the competition and you are losing miserably.
How in the name of the sweet baby Jesus is this going to last?  Let me let you in on a little secret, she who holds the keys to the vagina always wins in the end. Use sex as a weapon? Not necessarily. There are bigger fish to fry before you need to pull your trump card  First and foremost, you must surgically remove the remainder of the umbilical cord that still runs between him and mommy dearest. But how is this done?  Believe it or not, continue to do things YOUR way, and do them exceedingly well. He may not say anything at first, but he notices. While creating your household in your image, as it should be, call his mommy and ask for some of his favorite recipes. She will eat this shit up and you look like a saint. Learn to make them exactly as she would, because he will flip his lid and yet, you have no intention of keeping up that charade, anyway. Eventually, you will tweak these dishes and change them into something you do even better than she does, and likely won't require an angioplasty after consuming. My grandmother used to give my uncle CREAM in his cereal while my mom got milk that she had to pour for herself. And yes, he needed several angioplasties when he got older, so heed my warning.
Next, we move on to self-promotion. I don't mean take out a billboard singing your praises. Just make sure he notices how great you are, and you are fabulous. This is not the time to go frumpy and dumpy.  Appearance is important even after the "I do" and maybe more so now. When you fold his underwear in the way you like it and how it actually fits in the fucking furniture you now own, become the household Vanna White. Open the drawer and put them away in front of him, looking as smokin' hot as you would have when you were just dating.Yeah, those tightie whities are just fine your way now. Men are visual, and Mommy has nothing on you in that department. Your cans caught his eye, the way your ass sways when you walk stops his heart, and certainly your lips hold a whole lot more appeal and pleasure for him than hers. Use those powers for good, woman!
Big boys can become men...with your help. Don't let their moms have the final say. Fix what's broken, and Lord knows, Mommy broke a LOT! Kick her off that pedestal with a smile on your face. Take your rightful place in his heart and his house, as the boss. It's time, ladies. We can't allow this to continue. Most of us have children, and nobody wants a 45 year old son in addition to two middle schoolers. The 45 year old creates way more drama and is harder listen to when he cries. If you've got it, flaunt it. You are intelligent and capable and goddamn it, he needs to bow down to your awesomeness. Do you have to grin and bear it to spare his mommy's feelings? You're the wife, baby. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Fucktard is the new retard

Being PC is completely stupid.  I've said it, I mean it, don't jump ugly with me over it. Maybe you want to change the way you speak in the name of political correctness, but I refuse. When did we start caring about everyone's feelings quite so much? We've become overly-sensitive to every group possible and are so busy watching what we say and creating new language with each new indignant outcry. Here's my say on the topic, fuck that shit.  We can't call it as we see it anymore, someone may be offended. Can't have that. Oh no, delicate little emotions are at stake and we certainly can't stomp all over them. Really?! Why not? Growing up in Queens, I think I've heard more racial slurs than most, but it doesn't make me a racist  I could care less what color you are, nationality you are, or what religion you believe. You are a person first. That's all I see, and all I give a shit about.
However, it seems that certain folks are looking to create new terminology to protect all of humanity, because we have NO other pressing issues in this country. Let's leave the homeless on the streets, stretch those unemployment lines for miles, exclude the lower classes from receiving medical care because they can't afford insurance, let poorer students lose out on college opportunities, and ignore the needs of people in our own backyard. Why? Because we need committees and meetings and funding to support a whole new fucking dictionary filled with brand new ways to call a spade a spade. I finished school many years ago. I am not interested in learning a new language right now. English works for me, and hopefully will continue to serve me as I live in the United States where it IS the national language. My way of speaking is descriptive, leaves no room for question, and has worked up until now. Why should I be any different?
Since when did short people become vertically challenged? What is so challenging about being short? Use a step-stool, stand on a chair to reach the high shelves...what else could you possibly have such an enormous struggle with that I should refer to you as challenged?  On that note, when did fat people become weight challenged? We've always sugar coated weight issues, calling the department store sections by cute names like, "husky" and "full-figured" and my favorite, the "women's" section. So, ladies, juniors, and petites are normal sized and WOMEN are fat?  Makes sense to me...dickwads. Men are just separated into men and the big and tall variety. Because calling a guy "big" is ok? See if you can continue to follow the logic, because fuck knows I can't.
Blind people are now visually challenged. No they aren't. They are blind, they can't see a blessed thing. I, however, am visually challenged because I need glasses to sit here and type this.The handicapped are differently abled. What the fuck is differently abled? Does being in a wheelchair help you to do calculus? Or am I missing something? They have a disability, the inability to do something that the rest of us can. Don't gift-wrap it.The deaf are auditorily impaired. Are you high? Or medically impaired? They can't hear, it's not half-assed and it's not temporary. Nerds are now called socially challenged. This term can also mean shy, awkward, having a social phobia...why just apply it to the geeks of the world? Because we have a new vocabulary and some fuckholes feel we are required to learn it.
Housewives are domestic engineers. While garbage men are sanitary engineers. When did these people get Bachelor's degrees in engineering? I can hardly imagine either of them being intelligent enough to pass Thermodynamics, why give them such a lofty title? Secretaries are administrative assistants, isn't that special?  Cashiers are sales associates, fancy! Stewardesses are now flight attendants, attending to what?! Waitresses are servers, and this I can accept since their job is to serve me. Prisoners are guests of the correctional system. Do they get turn-down service?  They live in correctional facilities, not prisons. How humane.  Because people who rape children should be housed in something comfy and cozy like a facility not a maximum security lockdown where they get ass pounded daily.
When you want a sex change, be sure to ask for gender reassignment surgery. Is being born the first assignment? I thought it was DNA and chromosomes that determined what sex you are born, not being assigned a gender. You assign homework. But you don't plagiarize or cheat anymore, you commit academic dishonesty. Much more gentle and less offensive to the sensitive youth we've raised like veal. Of course, if you are a woman, I mean person of gender, you may want to be treated with sensitivity. But you also want equal rights...so stop asking to be called something different. Speaking of being referred to in a kinder, gentler manner, let's talk about the new ethnic references we are supposed to memorize so we aren't considered racist pigs.
Blacks are not black, and they've also decided that they no longer enjoy Afro-American even though they coined the phrase. What's wrong with Afro-American? Until relaxers are applied or weaves are woven or dreads are knotted in, they all have some form of Afro first. So maybe we shouldn't refer to someone based on their hairdo, I'll accept that.  I'm considered white. Why can't they be black?  Fill out a form, see how it's broken down. There's no box to check next to New York born Italian-American. There's a box for Asian. Every Chink, Gook, and Nip wants to be called Asian. Here's what I'd like to impart, Asia is the largest continent on planet Earth.  Included on this continent for those of you too fucking stupid to know basic geography, are 48 countries. India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Armenia, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Nepal, Russia, and the list goes on.  Tell me this, how many of these people fit into what you shitbricks are calling Asians these days??? I'll tell you. NONE.  Let's stop the fucking insanity, and refer to people based on the country, not the continent.  This goes for the people of color, as well. What color, I have no idea. I'm lightly honey-colored with tons of freckles. Is that MY color? So, no, you aren't African American. Africa is a continent.  Egypt, Libya, and Morocco are in Africa. Are you Egyptian-American? Do you speak Arabic?  Didn't think so. Want to be Congo-American or Eritrean-American, have at it. It's accurate and descriptive. You call me Italian-American or an American of Italian descent. Very specific and descriptive. I'm not European American, because no one in my family hails from Greece or Spain. I can't embrace an entire continent and neither should you.
Here's what I propose. Stop being so fucking touchy and let's go back to the 70s terminologies we used and enjoyed. There's no shame in calling a Mexican a Chicano, a homeless person a hobo, an ethnically homogeneous area a ghetto, and a spade a spade. I'm a white transplanted New Yorker of Italian and French Canadian descent, living in California. I'm not a Caucasian European displaced American. Fuck this nonsense already. But because I am also an enlightened, intelligent individual, I will create my own, brand new, you'd better learn it because it's going mainstream, word. Fucktard is the new retard. Will I use it often and happily? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Some of my quirks...I know, you thought I was perfect!

While I realize that I may completely blow your image of me, I feel that I have to come clean with all of you. Perfection is unattainable. If this is news to you, I apologize for all the big words I've used in the past, you're clearly a moron.  Stop reading now, I don't want to be accused of discrimination against the stupid.  I won't dumb it down for you.  So, since I am not as perfect as you believed, I guess I should start somewhere.  Maybe I should tell you that many of these quirks didn't become a part of my persona until I was an adult.  As a child, I was far more easy-going.  Aging has been quite a process for me and with it came more quirks than I knew could exist in one human being.  Perhaps it's me making up for lost time.  I really was a great kid.  Oh well, I'm pretty fucking awesome now, just incredibly flawed, as well.
As an adult, I've noticed that my attention span has diminished to the point of ridiculousness.  You can't imagine ADD in a grown-ass woman, but holy shit, come watch me do just about anything these days. Doing one task from start to finish is almost impossible for me, unless I can throw in a few minor tasks in between so I can bounce around like a rubber fucking ball from room to room, area to area. Even as I write this, I am looking around the room, jumping up to get a snack or two, refilling my coffee cup, checking my email, reading Facebook bullshit, and the list continues on.  My mind races from topic to topic and doesn't seem to stop to smell the roses, ever.  It's actually exhausting and it's really no wonder I'm tired a whole helluva lot.  Are you envisioning little projects left in piles all over my house right now?  Half read newspapers, piles of laundry not quite folded, dishes in the sink and the drain board, and various and assorted shit like that?  You'd be so wrong.  I never said I didn't finish the tasks.  I said I needed other things to do in tandem.  Then I get them ALL done quite splendidly.
The reason you'll never see half-done anything, is I have a bit of clutter-phobia.  It's called ataxophobia among the professional set, and it's awful.  Sometimes I can handle it and just pace through the house, rearranging things and putting things away, organizing and tossing shit out as I go.  But other times, I launch into a full-on freak out because I am so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of accumulated crap that I have a psychotic episode and totally lose my shit.  I will literally freeze in my spot and start screaming at everyone in the house, because face it, it IS their fault.  At this point, they are used to it and don't react very much.  Sometimes, if the planets are aligned, someone will actually ask if they can do anything to help.  Depending on how far gone I am, I may not even really hear them because my head is on the verge of a massive brain-splattering explosion.  Which I will have to clean up and it will just add to the list of things for me to do.  One day, I'll just set the house on fire and start fresh. Much less stressful.

Perhaps I have a touch of OCD, just a tad.  When I blog, I have a certain set-up that has to happen before I can even begin.  The laptop is in front of my seat at the dining room table, my notebook is on the left with my eyeglass case either resting on top of it or at the head of the book.  My water is next to the book and my coffee is on the right side of the laptop with either dates or almonds scattered near it.  My phone is to the left of the coffee cup.  Every time, without fail.  Don't move my shit or I'll have to rearrange it and then shank you. When I go to bed, I take off my rings in the same order, engagement ring, right hand rings from ring finger on moving left, then my bracelets, then my earrings and I place them all in the same spot on my nightstand. Have a problem with this technique?  I don't. Putting on makeup is always in the same order and if I veer from that order, I have to start from where I left off before I went rogue. Lashes, cheeks, brows, and then eyelids. It works for me and don't I always look lovely?  
Blankets are my thing and boy howdy, do I love them.  I even crocheted a couple last winter, one for me and one for the cat.  What I hate is unfolded blankets strewn around the friggin living room.  If I see one unfolded and out of place I have to stop everything and grab it, fold it, put it back, and make sure the rest are just right.  Since I am always cold, they are a necessity all year long.  They have their spots and belong there until I need one.  I don't mind sharing them, I'm not a blanket-hog.  What I mind is seeing them treated like a rag when you are done with it and seeing it tossed all willy nilly wherever the fuck you were last.  Do you want me to toss your shit around the house?  If the mess wouldn't institutionalize me, I'd dump drawers and scatter belongings all over the place in retaliation.  Then I'd have to clean it up, probably before you even got a chance to see it. Christ, I'm pathetic!
These are just a few of the things that make me the wonderful soul you see before you. Do I have more quirks?  Fuck yes.  But I'll bet you have more, and those annoy the shit out of me.  My quirks get me through the day in a semi-sane fashion, help me accomplish my daily tasks, and keep my life running smoothly.  Yours only serve to piss me off and make me want to punch you in the throat. Mine are just part of my charm.  Do I find your quirks charming?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Text responses might take longer than 2.387 seconds, get over it!

Does your friend do this to you?  Your phone buzzes with a text message.  Perhaps you are driving.  Maybe you are cooking dinner and your hands are covered with raw chicken slime.  Do you smear salmonella all over your phone so you can get that response out immediately?  Fuck no!  I continue on with my dinner prep because, well, I'm hungry and that's all that matters to me.  If I'm in the shower, don't expect me to ruin my phone because you decided to send me a cute photo of a puppy licking his ball sack.  There's not much that's important enough for me to turn off the water, attempt to dry off quickly, and grab my cell phone.  Shower time is MY time, you and your text don't count during MY time.  It could be I'm watching TV, and yes, that is important enough for me to ignore my phone.  I don't watch a ton of TV, but I have favorite shows during which you may not interrupt me.  One day I may have to list them for your emotional benefit.  Interruption during any one of them brings out the angry bitch in me, and you can't handle her.
The inverse is just as frustrating.  If I have a fairly important question, and I've texted you, I expect a response.  I know this is totally contradictory to the previous paragraph, and I really don't care.  As a reminder, my opinion is the one that counts here, and since it is all about me, you get to deal with it and shut your fucking cake hole. Continuing on, the text will pop up on your screen, unless like me, you've switched it to say Text Message to keep wandering eyes from reading what doesn't concern them.  When it does, and you see an important question: wash the beef blood off of your hands, take two seconds to respond, and go back to butchering the cow in your kitchen.  I have most of my friends' schedules in my head and I try not to interrupt during certain times.  I'm considerate like that.  Because I'm such a fucking thoughtful broad, I expect you to return the favor in kind. Answer the goddamn question!

Then we have the friend who calls you.  I know, who actually calls anyone???  But you'll have that one old-school friend who dials your number just to hear your voice.  Why?  I don't know.  Maybe sometimes I like to hear a human voice on the phone, too, I won't lie. But, back to the point, because as we all now know, I do have one.  When you call, and I don't answer, don't take it as a personal slam against you.  My refusal to pick up the phone could be purely innocent.  Maybe my phone is on vibrate.  Maybe it's on vibrate AND in my purse.  Maybe, it's upstairs charging, and I am downstairs.  And maybe, just maybe, I am too busy to pick it the fuck up!  Crazy concept, I know.  Being too busy for you seems almost like some kind of wild made-up story that could never ever happen, I know. Truth is, it happens.  Not because I'm such a flaming bitch that I purposely put everything else in front of you.  Nope, not even close.  Because life happens.  If you had one, you'd understand.
If you leave me a voice mail, trust me, I've listened to it.  I may not respond in the time you allot for REAL friends, but I will eventually respond.  Even if it's a quick text to let you know, I've heard and I'm here, I'll respond.  This is never good enough.  I have no idea why, but it just isn't.  There will be that one friend who gets their knickers in a knot because you didn't drop trou and call them right back.  And by right back I mean ten seconds after they've left it and you listened to it.  As if this ever happens.  Leaving a voice mail is like pressing pause.  Once you've done it, there is a waiting period.  You have to wait for the person to actually know that someone tried to call.  They have to see that you've left the voice mail.  There needs to be time to listen to it.  Then, of course, the time required to actually respond has to exist.  If all of these things are not in place, if the planets aren't aligned properly, you won't get your faster-than-lightning answer.  Pull your head out of your ass and learn now that you aren't the most important person on the planet.  Sometimes, someone else takes that title, and you get shoved down a rung or two.  That's life, and no one ever promised it would be fair.  Ask my mom, it was one of her favorite mantras.  "Life isn't fair."
I suppose much of this has to do with thinking that the world revolves around you and your drama du jour.  And I know that you really, truly believe that what happens to you is extremely important and therefore, timely.  Even if that were true, it doesn't negate the fact that others also have their very own daily drama to deal with and may be preoccupied with other things.  This hurts you.  Cuts you to the quick based on your past reactions to the perceived slights you've experienced.  For this, I am not sorry.  What I am sorry about is the fact that no one, up until now, has put you in your place.  Who died and left you the friggin President?  What makes your life so crucial that you believe that each and every fart warrants an audience?  I get it, you had a rough day.  Fuckin A.  Because you are the first and only person to experience that phenomena?  My mistake.  I'll alert the media. What a total sphincter!
Maybe someone needs to write a list of rules for texting and calling, time frames, protocol, SOPs, proper vs improper responses...a manual of sorts.  Then, I'll pick one up when it goes on clearance, skim through it, and use it to prop up a table leg that is out of balance. Once in a while, when I've run out of reading material, I'll yank it out from under that leg, and bring it to the toilet with me to help everything come out smoothly.  Beyond that, I want you to think about how fucking ridiculous that concept actually is and hang your fucktarded head in shame for nodding like a bobble head in agreement when I described it only sentences earlier.  I said this yesterday, and I'll say it again for clarity.  Get over yourself, twat!  My life comes first, and thinking that your petty bullshit in any way supersedes it, is complete and utter nonsense.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

I love myself, allow me to expand...ad nauseum

Don't you just get all warm and fuzzy knowing someone like this?  I know that I, for one, experience pure joy while listening to a friend regale me with all that is fantastic about them and why I should agree. Oh, the smile plastered across my face should speak volumes.  If I've been smiling for too long, you should probably check my eyes.  Why? Because after a certain amount of time, the phony smile spreads to my eyes causing them to become glazed over like I've just floated up out of a giant bong. Having a decent level of self-esteem is great, we all should like ourselves.  Knowing what you do well is fabulous when you are deciding on a career or hobby.  Feeling attractive is healthy and should be encouraged in our children before high school so they don't fall into the media trap of wanting to be built like a chopstick.  So don't think for a moment I'm asking you to be a self-effacing, self-deprecating, depressive Debbie Downer.

Here's what I absolutely cannot stomach in another human being, full-on conceit.  Not just conceit, but the delusional belief in their own perfection.  Of course, if you want to go through life thinking you are Christ walking among us, have at it, fucktard.  Don't try to bring me into your psychotic camp.  I will not drink the Kool-Aid.  You are wasting your time on me.  If I can see you with my own two eyes, allow ME to be the judge.  Launching into a verbose diatribe about how great your hair came out today is only going to force me to search for the obvious roots you forgot to touch up or how you neglected to remember your head has a back and didn't style it with quite as much gusto as the front.  Not only will I search for your 'do imperfections, but I'll bring them to attention of others so we can mock you after you leave.
When you attempt to tell me about the new outfit you purchased, let ME comment on it if I choose.  Blatantly guiding me to view how great you think your ass looks in your new jeans is causing me to also notice the fat rolls on your back caused by your ill-fitting bra and accentuated by the three-sizes too small shirt you've paired with those foxy new jeans.  I am a very observant person, always have been.  I don't need to have things shoved in my face for me to notice them.  If something is beautiful, eye-catching, fits well on you, I'll notice and let you know way before you have the chance to let me know how I should feel about it.  If I haven't gone out of my way to throw a compliment your way, I'm not terribly impressed OR I've seen you wear it before and still wasn't completely wowed. This is not to say that I find what you're wearing to be particularly repulsive.  Were that the case, my facial expression would have told you before my mouth shared the words.
If you are an amazing athlete, marksman, artist, dancer, singer, juggler, whatEVER, you need never speak it out loud.  In case you aren't clear as to why this is, I'll help you out, genius.  If you dance like Savion Glover, I'd be able to see it for myself.  If you are a sure-shot, let's go to the range where you can show me.  Telling me about it with nothing to back it up seems a little like gross exaggeration until I actually view it. I'm not cynical, I'm realistic.  You can't be good at everything, no one is.  I'm sure you'd like me to think you are, and possibly be impressed.  Not going to happen, not now, not ever. So, when you tell me all about how fantastic your drawings are, be sure to have your sketch pad with you or don't expect much more than an "oh really" from me.  Until I've heard the smooth, melodic tones flowing out of your cake hole, don't expect me to believe you rival Mariah Carey's five octave vocal range.  Chances are, if you have to tell me, you probably sound more like my cat hurling out a hairball at 2am.
And see, that is exactly the point.  If I can't see it or hear it on my own, it's just fluff and nonsense created by you to sound more fabulous than you actually are.  Talent and beauty are two things that advertise themselves.  Here's another, being a nice person.  If you are a genuinely kind-hearted soul, it shows wordlessly.  Announcing every time you are going to that shelter to volunteer is obnoxious.  It tells me one of two things, either you are doing it only to get some kind of credit for it, or you really aren't but you believe I'd be impressed if you actually were. Either way, you're a fucking ass wipe.  Telling me about how you worry about other people and how your concern keeps you up at night, makes me throw up a little in my mouth.  Seriously?  Do you expect me to believe that you spend sleepless nights worrying about the poor children in war-torn countries?  Holy shit, you are more fucktarded (this is an attempt at a more PC term than retarded) than I originally thought.  And please, don't force tears out when you are talking about how sensitive you are...it looks like you are passing a stone.

Trying to impress me with your intelligence?  Don't even bother.  You can ramble on and on about your supposed scholastic achievements all you want, but in reality, unless I see your transcripts, it means nothing to me.  I can access mine and show you what achievement looks like.  But you truly believe you are an intellectual, so knock me out with your brain power.  By the way, that doesn't mean use really long words improperly and in the wrong context and hope to hell I don't notice.  I do.  And then I tell others on my intelligence level, and we laugh at you.  At great length, and with immense enthusiasm for the topic.  We even edit your emails, laughing so hard that tears stream down our legs. Speak normally and think before you open your yap.  That's smarter than most and will impress even more.  Fucking mouth breather.
I'm not sure you quite grasped the point I was making, and as usual, I do have one.  Love yourself as much as you want.  Do it in private and with whatever toys you choose.  But when you are in my presence and the presence of others, just act like a fucking human being.  You aren't a superstar, no matter how hard you try to sell it.  I'm not buying and nobody else is, either. Greatness precedes you and will be noticeable by all.  If you suck balls, we notice, too.  Either way, if I like you, I don't really care if you can juggle chain saws or just know how to make me laugh on occasion. Don't be a total dill hole by trying to showcase every talent you think you have. You are human like the rest of us.  No better, no worse.  Get over yourself. I already have.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Keeping up with the Joneses, you can't afford it and neither can they

Sweet mother of mercy!  Some people are really fucking intellectually challenged. I say this because I cannot think of another reason to be so envious of someone else that I'd go out and buy shit to be like them. Do you hate yourself that much?  How is what someone else has so important and so much better than whatever you have?  Totally stupid. Things are just that...things.  They don't matter.  But clearly, they do to so many.  The world is filled with greedy douche bags who place themselves in competition with all others for the acquisition of the most shit.  They have their eye trained on you, your neighbor, your cousin, and anyone they've come into any kind of contact with, making mental notes of all the THINGS possessed that they have yet to own.  The next step for them, is amassing all of it.  And I mean all of it.

Sadly, I've watched so many people go down this path.  At one time, I thought they were normal.  Boy, was I wrong!  What started out as a normal stay-at-home mom, turned into a frenzied shopper, attempting to have what she believed she actually needed to be happy.  Why? Because YOU had it, you had all those things she thinks are necessary for happiness. When the neighbors got a new kitchen, she had to have one, too.  Another mom showed up at school with a new car, and goddamn it, she had to have an even better one.  Her best friend got ruby earrings for her birthday, now her poor schlep of a husband has to get her bigger ones! And the list goes on and on.
Here's the main problem with this search for happiness. You can't afford it.  Living like the rich and famous takes the paycheck of the rich and famous...or at least a successful drug lord. Reality check, you don't earn that paycheck, and neither does your husband. What's a girl to do?  It's called credit, second mortgages, and the ever-popular and oh-so-fucking-annoying Avon/Cookie Lee/Tupperware/Ass Fetish/Candle parties and sales. If you cannot afford the brand-new turbo load, super fly washer and dryer in fashion colors, don't buy them.  But if you choose to, do not, I repeat do NOT invite me to a party and expect me to buy ridiculous shit that I most definitely don't need to help you pay for your crap.  I didn't buy it in the first place. I can do basic math. Nothing from nothing leaves nothing...
Buying and shopping with such determination to be just like you.  What they don't realize, is you bought that new dryer because your old one was eligible for AARP and scorching all of your clothes crispy.  They don't know that your mother-in-law gave you a gift card to Sur la Table and that was the only reason you even shopped there and you certainly could never have afforded the Le Creuset pan otherwise. The Prada shoes, consignment store-bought.  Oh, and those earrings were the first piece of jewelry your husband has given you since your wedding. Jealously is ugly.  It's also very ignorant.  Your perception of someone and their lifestyle is just one side of the coin.  Reality is a whole other ball game, and you don't even know the rules, bitch.
What happens to these women, and I'm saying women because it has been my observation that they are usually the most guilty of jealous behavior and actually acting on it, is that they screw themselves.  Nine times out of ten, they are quite nicely kept by their spouse already, able to stay home, and still have nice things.  Their immature, asinine, envious side causes them to view their lives differently, and so they set out to ensure they feel equal to the folks around them.  What they don't get, is that eventually, the well runs dry.  Usually long before they notice it, and so they keep going and spending and acquiring more and more shit.  This is where I get to laugh my big fucking white ass off. They get so far in debt, they have to get off of their fat asses and get a job!!!  What a fucking shock!  Things cost money, who knew?

Now there is another kind of jealous broad that I haven't mentioned yet.  This one is a little more single white female and definitely more creepy. She's the one who is the first to compliment you when you lose 5 pounds, and then she immediately joins Weight Watchers to be skinnier than you.  You had your hair colored recently and are feeling pretty good about it, until she goes out and gets almost, but not quite, the same color. She is not keeping up with you, she is trying to be BETTER than you.  You are her ideal and she is determined to beat you at your own game. What fucking game?  Nobody told you about it.  But here you are, trapped in her little mind-fuck like a character in one of the Saw movies.  In order to escape, you have to chew off your own leg, or the appearance equivalent. She won't stop until you do.  Does this mean you don't get a haircut ever again?  Hell no!  But she needs serious shaking up, and it's nothing some black nail polish and a Marilyn Manson t-shirt, and maybe a fake piercing won't cure.  She's too big of a wimp to even think about going there!
Here's a great idea, instead of focusing on buying stuff and trying to be like everyone else, work on making yourself more palatable to the rest of us.  Stop being such a materialistic ass hag, and start acting like a human being.  Nobody cares if you have True Religion jeans, a Mercedes, or if all your fingers sparkle with diamonds bigger than your ass.  We do care if you treat us like shit or a stepping stone on your way to bigger and better things. One day, you'll wake up surrounded by all you've amassed and you'll be very alone.  No one likes a jealous bitch, and that's all you are.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you

If the shoe fits.  How often have we heard that phrase in our lives?  Likely more often than we'd care to admit.  The truth hurts.  Nobody likes to see themselves exposed as a total fucktard.  I can't help you there.  We are all responsible for our own actions.  Given free will, some leap without ever looking, while others over think every tiny move they make. I'm not saying one is worse than the other. There's negative in each way of handling yourself.  Having a "kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out" attitude is probably not wise.  People like you have a tendency to get your ass kicked at least once. I imagine you've broken several bones and burned an eyebrow off. Not how I like to spend a day, but if you are dumb enough to live like that, go for it. I'll watch from the sidelines, pointing and laughing at you.  Those of you who are so busy thinking and re-thinking every breath you take aren't going very far...ever.  There has to be a happy medium between both extremes.
Here's my point, regardless of which path you choose, you are going to make mistakes.That's where I come in.  I will gladly point them out to you, no extra charge. Really, I don't mind at all. Come on, now's a great time to use the old saw about glass houses.  Go for it, bitches.  I have broad shoulders.  Not much you can say will actually affect my day, so give it a shot.  I like me enough for the both of us, and I think you're an ass clown. Works out quite nicely.  What does bug me, is your incessant whining about being called out.  How do you know for sure I am referencing you specifically?  Do you suffer from Catholic guilt?  Jewish guilt?  Plain old non-denominational guilt? Sorry, not my problem.  Clearly you know exactly how others see you.  You just didn't give a shit until now.  Why not?  I suddenly made it important? I have that much power? Fuck, I'd better harness it and use it for good. Or, maybe, just maybe, you finally saw yourself the way we see you and didn't like what you saw. Poor fucking baby.

Now, I've pissed off a ton of people again and still couldn't care less. Perhaps if you truly cared about the feelings of others, I'd have nothing about which to call you out.  But, see, you don't care about that.  You got YOUR little feelings hurt. Again, I'll pose the question, what makes you think I am actually talking about you?!?! Where in the course of my blog have I called you by name?  Hmmm, hard to figure out because, oh yeah, I never mention names.  I'm actually too considerate to do that.  I could easily name names and include embarrassing photos, but I don't.  Which is why, I'm not certain how you've figured out my intended targets. Genius that you are, you've probably also figured out that these blogs are compilations of people, not one specific person.  You didn't, did you?  It's retarded thinking like that that give me all the blog fodder I can possibly hold.  Oh wait, I was told that we no longer use retarded so I will call you the PC term, brain-dead.
I can't tell you how many times I've been taken to task, called to the carpet, ripped a brand new asshole about a blog topic.  I'm a bitchy, jealous, fat, ugly, judgmental racist who will never find love...according to those who have taken offense at things I've written.
Does your unbelievable conceit really cause you to think that everything that is written is about you?  I've seen people go into ferocious fits on Facebook about a status update. How can you possibly think that everyone is constantly thinking only about you? You are most definitely not that important, trust me. Yet, on a daily basis, Facebook is filled with angry comment threads and stati of retaliation.  Is this fucking 6th grade or something? Nobody looked at you cross-eyed.  Take a deep breath, and shut the fuck up. Your whining is only giving me more material, and this time it WILL be about you. Maybe I'll call you by name to be certain you get the point.

Do you know that some people actually post stati about being called out?  Are you for real? It's like owning your bitchassness. The fact that you've now gone public with how fucked up you are, and attempted to defend it to strangers is absolutely hysterical! We are not siding with you, we are rolling on the floor peeing ourselves. The ones who defend you are either afraid to speak the truth because somehow you've intimidated them, or are giant phonies just like you. Either way, wake the fuck up!  When you moan and groan about what you think someone else's opinion of you is, you are giving a lot of credence to their opinion.  You've given them hours of airtime and tons of eyes on you suddenly considering the truth in advertising.  Or in this case, the truth in blog-vertising.
What I'd like to see is people owning their shit. Whatever that shit may be...take full ownership.  If you are lazy, be the laziest sack of shit in town.  If you are full of yourself, wrap your arms around yourself and give yourself the hug I certainly won't.  If you are a drama queen, wear that crown proudly, bitch.  Speak your ghetto, jive, or beat the shit out of English like only you can. Wear those leggings like a fucking boss, Tubbs McFat Fuck. Do whatever the hell makes you happy.  But don't come crying to me when I call you ass out.  Are you friggin kidding me right now?

Why you shouldn't air your dirty laundry

When I was growing up, I was told repeatedly to keep our business quiet.  That's just how it was back then. People gossiped for sure, but the really personal stuff, stayed personal. When your kid got into trouble, you didn't run through the streets announcing it to all and sundry.  It wasn't done. Mom may have called Grandma to ask her for advice, and likely got something along the lines of, "If you had listened to me in the first place, he wouldn't have gotten into any trouble at all."  More common was waiting for your father to get home to dole out the second punishment. Mom had already smacked you across the face and told you what a disappointment you had become, and that you wearing tearing her heart out. Didn't hear that in your house? Dangling bull balls you didn't!  Guilt was an amazing form of discipline and it almost always worked. So did a well-placed whack in the ass, but we aren't really discussing discipline, per se.

Now, you can log on to Facebook and see which of your friends are being honest about their children.  The ones who are complaining usually are the truth-tellers. How many of you have read stati (plural of status in FB-land) about moms wishing summer was over because they were done with having their kids in the house?  And it was only the end of June?!?! Some actually did daily bitching about this very topic.  Let me ask you this, did you want kids?  Did you realize that at some point they'd get older; learn how to talk; learn how to talk back; learn new and exciting ways to torture their sibling; and master the whine, "I'm bored, there's nothing to doooooooooo!"  You didn't start off as an adult, dig back into the recesses of your mind.  Kids can be a pain in the ass, no doubt about it. But they're YOURS.  Figure out what to do with them.  Don't fill my news feed with how you'd love to send them to boarding school in the Philippines. If you are seriously so out of touch with your own children that you can't handle them for two short months a year, there's an invention called summer camp...send them and shut the fuck up about it.
When married couples fought, whether it got violent or was just bickering, no one else knew about it. This was considered very personal and no one outside of the house knew about it.  This was a form of dirty laundry airing that just didn't occur.  The marital vows likely included "keep our arguments hush-hush" or something like that. Now, hear me out, I don't completely agree with this logic.  Abused women everywhere are still fighting this battle. Certain things should never be kept quiet, this I know all too well.  But, in general, when you and your hubby disagree on the direction of the toilet paper, don't tell me about it.  Don't announce it to the world and actually open in up to discussion. This is spouse-bashing and I swear, I do not know how half of these marriages actually last.
Along those lines, there is a ton of bickering on Facebook that should remain within the confines of the home.  You may think it's cute, but the rest of us are uncomfortably reading your comment thread. Insults flying through cyberspace, bearing hints of anger and disgust, dripping with sarcasm...don't belong there.  It's none of my business that you think your spouse is a fat slob who eats the last spoon of ice cream and farts along with the radio.  Nobody else needs to know that your husband is a minuteman in the sack.  I'm fairly certain he didn't want it publicized. On the flip side, I can say with great confidence that your wife doesn't want the rest of us to know she has a decreased sexual appetite or that you call her the Big Chill.  Perhaps that's why your dinner was ice-cold and sitting on the counter while she was sitting in the living room drinking wine out of the bottle with a straw?  I'll bet she read your status!  Dumb shit. At least this time she didn't come back with a dig about your teeny trouser snake.  Lucky you.
Sometimes you are angry at your friend.  Maybe she forgot to call you and you really needed to talk.  Perhaps she sent your birthday card a day late?  I know, she was just too busy and you feel neglected.  Well, hop on over to Facebook and post about it.  But make sure you post one of those vague, yet scathingly bitchy stati about friendship and it's meaning and how many don't know how to be a friend...blah, blah, fucking blah.  Grow the fuck up, will you?  It's not all about you!  Too many of you get your panties in a wad over the most ridiculous shit.  People have lives.  Sometimes they have other things to do.  For all you know they are having the worst week ever, are trying to deal with it and continue on with the rest of their life by working, raising their kids, cooking, cleaning, and the rest of the day-to-day crap and have no time for your pity party of the day. Isn't that what it always is with you?  Whiny fucking ass rag.

But the absolute worst status updates of all are the ultimate in spouse-bashing.  When your spouse does something so heinous, like knocking up another hoe, don't put it on Facebook.  EVER.  I've seen far too many of these stati and frankly, I cannot believe you think it's acceptable.  You've now told the world that your significant other is a giant douchebag, complete with grotesque detail of all the wrongs bestowed upon you, and your viciously negative opinion of them. Which, in and of itself, may be almost ok, but for one tiny little factor.  Time changes your situation. They've apologized, you've given a second chance, life is swell.  Not for the rest of Facebook.  You've allowed a bunch of folks, many of whom are strangers, to chime in with all kinds of opinions about your relationship issue.  Perhaps, you've even created heated arguments that stretched down mile-long comment threads.  Families have gotten involved, insults shot out at unsuspecting news feed dwellers.  Fights are breaking out like it's a women's prison. Now strangers hate each other, you aren't speaking to half of your family and 3/4 of his. All because you decided to air the stink out on the internet.
Those of you who like to air out the marital sheets, do you realize how stupid you look? One day, he's the scum of the earth and you wish his smelly schlong would shrivel up and fall off.  Three days later, he's your soul mate who was put on this planet by God just for you and you couldn't be happier.  A month later, he banged your cousin and is moving in with her, leaving you pregnant and pissed off.  But, through the grace of God, the week following, he has moved back in and is the father of the year.  You may enjoy your emotional roller coaster, and I invite you to have at it.  Clearly, you aren't the brightest crayon in the box, and that's ok. You are happy, and I really don't care what you do. But when you make it my business, and you post this ridiculous whirlwind of relationship dysfunction on a regular basis, I am going to have an opinion about you.  My opinion of you was already fairly ground-level...I don't suffer stupid kindly.  However, now, you've really  taken being a window licker to a whole other level.
Here's the deal. Post about your day, without too much detail.  Post a pic of your kid playing baseball, I have a soft spot for that.  Post a funny observation about life, or an interesting news article you've read.  Get political!  I love a good fight about the Presidential candidates.  Song lyrics are enjoyable, start an online sing-along.  Give someone a well-deserved shout out.  Tell me you're tired because you didn't sleep, I'll understand. But for fuck's sake, don't use Facebook as your personal journal.  Keep that shit to yourself.  If you wind up old and alone, and can't figure out why, don't come crying to me. Are you friggin kidding me right now?

Replace the flippin toilet paper! And other office assholishness.

There's at least one in your workplace.  You know the one, when there's a scant amount of TP left and they use the toilet, you can be certain to find the roll empty when you race in to pee like a racehorse.  But don't worry, there also won't be a spare roll within your reach, so you'll get to hobble around the bathroom with your lacies around your ankles in search of the elusive roll or at least a friggin tissue.  Thanks for nothing, bitch, I like the ass-out-waddle-trying-not-to-drip-piss-in-my-shoes dance.  And it's not a once in a blue thing, it's an every fucking time occurrence. Maybe it's my bad and I need to walk around with a roll under my arm, just in case. That won't look weird at all. Maybe someone should install a square-accountability system whereby everyone has to sign off on how much toilet paper they are pampering their asses with per trip.  Not sure if it would work, but I'm certain most folks would like it better than dealing with me using their jacket to clean off my ass every time they pull the wipe and run shit.
If that doesn't seem to bug you, maybe the "interject themselves in every conversation asshole" does.  This walking brain fart may quite possibly have the ability to time travel or appear in a tiny puff of smoke, unnoticed until they open their flaptrap and stupid flies out of it. Somehow, they've missed the memo about sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.  Doesn't matter if they were invited into the conversation, pulled in to answer a question, or just got the nod of ok.  This assclown has the information you seek. Why? Because they know everything.  This is likely to be the same person I referenced in another blog, the one who is an expert on everything and has no problem letting you know. Yeah, love that.  Perhaps they are just lonely?  And maybe I don't give a ripe fuck. You're lonely because you are obnoxiously ill-mannered and a pain square in my asshole. If I didn't beat it out of you, I didn't want your opinion. Private conversations are just that...private, invitation only, keep out, steer clear.  Floating up to us and laughing along with the joke you didn't even hear, is totally fucking asinine and so are you.

Of course, one of my all-time favorites is the reason all food items should be clearly labeled and counted, weighed, and maybe photographed before placing in the unsafe area known as the break room. Without fail, there is always someone who thinks that all the food is laid out for their personal use and that nobody minds at all if they eat half and take the rest home. Don't bake and bring in cookies if you want one.  Put one aside in a secret place, like your bra and run like hell after you drop the plate on the table. Now I know you're thinking, most people take one at most and are considerate of others.  Are you fucking high?  Free food brings out the ugly in all of us, but it brings out the hideous as homemade sin in this broad. Where I work, we've actually counted the number of candies in a bowl and the number of donut holes on the plate...and recounted periodically throughout the day, deducting the small amount actually consumed by us, the self-ordained food police. Someone had to do it.  Short of naming the guilty parties on a poster board above the table, complete with a photo of the pig, what can be done? Who knows? One day we'll install cameras...until then, we count and run like bitches, laughing.
I'm fairly certain your workplace has one of these anuses.  After using the office copy machine to make 2,379 copies of fuck-knows-what, there's no paper left. Do they tell anyone?  Nope, their copies are done, who cares? You race in to make that all important copy that is needed right friggin now, slap the page on the screen, shut the flap, push the COPY button and FUUUUUUUCKKKK, the red light comes on alerting you to the fact that there's no goddamn paper. This has happened to me more times than I can even begin to count. Each time I get just as pissed off as the last time. This bitch has to be the same person who uses the last paper clip, last rubber band, last tissue, last breath of my air and tells no one about it.  Lets it ride and doesn't care if you need it. Oblivious to your situation, they continue to use up all the supplies until the closet looks like it's been pillaged by the Romans. Another instance requiring the installation of cameras.

One more type of person really rubs my fur in the wrong direction.  Busywork bitch makes me want to rip her head off and shit down her neck. You're racing around, arms loaded down with your work and the work of at least two others, no time to waste, and this bag of rags is pushing paper around with her brow furrowed like she's solving calculus problems in her head.  A quick glance brings to light the fact that she's doing a whole lot of nothing. Sadly, this is a daily event for Miss Lazy Ass. Cool as a cucumber on days you are sweating like pack mule walking on the equator, you often wonder if she ever does any work at all. All signs point to no and the extra workload constantly piled on your already sagging shoulders is confirming your suspicions.  Sadly, if your superior calls her out on her lack of effort, she'll come up with all sorts of valid-sounding excuses. If she's really good, she'll invoke the name of her doctor and create all kinds of medical reasons she has to sit down all day and avoid most types of movement.  Lacking an MD after your name, you don't want to question her or call her bluff.  Carry on, workhorse sisters, she ain't changing for you or anyone.  Bitch has a good thing and she sure as hell won't allow herself to lose it.
The only way to avoid this bullshit is to work from home. Tons of jobs offer telecommuting options.  Take them.  Take it for me and enjoy the silence and extra toilet paper and cookies you can call your own.  By now you've figured out that I cannot work from home. Trapped with under-zealous, brain-dead, thieving, know-it-alls, I'm suffering for you.  If I could punch them all in the throat, I would. But prison  isn't an option for me.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Some nuns are better than none...RIGHT!!!!

Nuns are a very special breed of woman.  I say breed because I'm not completely convinced that all of them are human.  They claim to be, but how can we know for sure? Having attended 11 years of Catholic school, I feel like somewhat of an expert on this species. Their habits, their clothing, their public vs private (behind the closed classroom door) behavior, their relationships with humans of the lay variety...I've got them all covered.  Oh, and by LAY variety, I am referring to those not ordained by the church, or non-nuns and non-priests, not necessarily those who get laid. Strange creatures who usually seem to be at least slightly angry, nuns can be found in a variety of settings.
Some hospitals employ nuns to be comforting to the patients.  I find this particularly hysterical because nuns are the most nerve-wracking beings to have in your presence. You certainly don't want one walking into your hospital room while you are helplessly lying there with tubes jutting out of multiple places of your body, basically anchoring you to the bed and eliminating any form of escape. A special brand of evil, and you totally incapacitated, not a very promising combination. I don't recommend it. Have a friend slip you one of those airplane bottles of vodka for your snot-colored, hospital-issued water cup if you need comfort.  The nightmares alone will extend your healing time by weeks, and your hospital stay as well.
Imagine if you will, the nuns who chose to be social workers, and some do.  Is this the person you want knocking on your door to do an in-home visit?  I suppose if you've done something to require one, you probably deserve a visit from Sr. Mary Hellfire. Usually, those visits are reserved for parents who share the same anger and evil as nuns. Wonder what one of those meetings looks like?!?! Probably something close to a prison yard throwdown, using only words as weapons.  Fucking scary.  But let's say you are looking to adopt a child.  You will require an in-home visit or two from Social Services to judge your ability to house and care for a child.  In walks Sr. Mary Pissed Off, and you just about wizz yourself.  She may only come up to your collarbone, but you recognize right away that she is a force to be reckoned with, and you are trembling. Rightfully so, this woman holds your future in her stubby, pasty white hands...and she already doesn't like you.  I'll bet you didn't think to place a few crucifixes strategically around the house, lay out a few bibles, maybe a religious statue or two? A shrine to the Blessed Mother would have been wise.  But how could you have known?  Sorry, heathen, you are shit out of luck.
There are the nuns that perform administrative work, almost always in a school setting. They are not nearly as intimidating as the others.  Pushing paper from one end of a desk to another may make them feel important, and if that paper is yours, then maybe they have a bit of leverage over you. If you are a parent, you can bulldoze right over Sr. Mary Paper Clip.  If you are student, beware.  She has access to all your records and would not hesitate for a moment to lord that over you and make your life a living hell if you need her help.  Remember, she is angry and sits two feet from a shredder. Be nice, to her face.  Imitate the hell out of her once you leave the office and are all the way home.  That bitch can hear and see you even when you can't see her.  They have superpowers that humans do not. We will explore those in the next section, but just know they exist. And live in abject fear.
Now we can discuss my favorite breed of nun, the teacher. Dressed head to toe in black, offset with white collars, orthopedic shoes, a wimple covering slightly greasy and outdated hair, and blunted fingernails on the cleanest hands your eyes have ever seen, nuns who teach are a sight to see. Don't let their almost penguin-like appearance fool you.  They are not cute and cuddly like the Antarctic birds.  These are a vicious breed and require special care and handling.  I am not kidding.  Heed my words.  Cross one and find out for yourself, or take me very seriously and learn from my experiences.  Some speak in hushed tones, while others bellow like they've swallowed bullhorns. Both are equally dangerous, don't be fooled.  They both can ruin an entire year of school for you and not bat an eyelash.  Not sure they have eyelashes. Anyway, tread lightly around the teacher nun.
First matter of importance, do NOT talk in class.  Or, don't get caught.  They can not only hear you, but they can identify you by voice, even a whisper is enough. Getting busted for talking will cause you great discomfort, in a variety of possible forms.  Perhaps your teacher is Sr. Mary the Humiliator.  She will stand in front of the class with her sausagey hands on her rounded hips and call you by your full name, loudly. Asking you to stand up so everyone can witness your dressing down, she will ask you what was so important that you had to interrupt the entire class. There is NO correct answer, don't bother. Regardless of what you say, and realize, at this point, she is the one interrupting the class, not you...you will be admonished for your sinful behavior.  Disrespectful little shit that you are, you've caused her great distress. This is what she will tell you. Bullshit.  She is heartier and stronger than you and I put together. When you've turned the desired shade of beet she was looking for, she will bark at you to sit back down and stop wasting her precious time.  Again, who stopped teaching to discuss your evil ways in front of everyone? Right.
Maybe you were lucky enough to get Sr. Mary Corporal Punishment.  She's a beaut. Whether she catches you talking, whispering, shifting around in your seat, answering a problem incorrectly at the board, or breathing too loudly, the punishment is always the same.  This crabby twat will haul off and smack you so hard in your ass, sitting down won't be an option for days to come.  If you are sitting down, no problem.  She'll grab you by the arm, right under the pit, and yank you up out of that chair at lightning speed just to smack you with all she's got. As you get older and larger, the pain factor dwindles, and you have the overwhelming urge to laugh in her face.  Don't!  For the love of God, don't do it.  She will grab the yardstick and whack you with that. No matter how big you get, it hurts like a bitch.  Just allow her to think she is still the vicious prizefighter she believes herself to be.

There is one other punitive nun you could encounter.  This one seems harmless at first. Strict as the others, she doesn't necessarily inspire the same fear.  That is until you fuck up.  And you will.  You are human, she clearly is not.  This makes you imperfect and it becomes her job to penalize you for it. Penalize is the toned-down term for what she is about to bestow upon you.  The written punishment.  Doesn't sound menacing yet, I know.  Maybe you've not had such a thing inflicted upon you so you don't see how this could possibly be so bad. Until you've had to write, "I will not talk in class and disturb the rest of the children causing them to forfeit their education and upset the teacher by being disrespectful of her total authority over me and the entire class ever again so long as I shall live on this Earth" 500 TIMES after school at your desk and aren't allowed to leave until it is handwritten neatly and submitted to Sr. Mary Margaret Hand-Crippler, you have no fucking idea what pain feels like.  You lose most of the feeling in your writing fingers by about the 205th sentence and by number 500, your hand resembles a grizzled claw and you are unable to straighten it out fully and without pain for several days.  This bitch knows exactly what she is doing to you, and she enjoys it. Don't let the giant cross hanging on her chest fool you. There's no love in that heart, if there even is one under her uni-boob.
Hopefully, I've sufficiently explained this breed to you.  More importantly, I hope I've instilled a healthy dose of fear into your heart and an awareness of what they are capable of behind closed doors. Protect your children, they will be scarred for life.  I'm not talking about the physical kind, although there's always the possibility.  Emotional scars aren't visible and they don't ever heal.  Once in a blue moon you will come across a fairly cool nun.  I've met one in 41 years, and that was 29 years ago.  It's a rare occurrence I don't expect you'll experience.  Beware, be alert, and be careful.  They have the church on their side and that is a force stronger and more fierce than anything you've gone up against thus far in your lifetime. After all these years, would I turn my back on a nun?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Is reality-TV necessary? I don't like anyone enough to watch them take a piss.

It all started back in the 90s when Real World made its glorious debut.  Even I watched it religiously.  It was entertaining solely because there was nothing else like it on TV.  Maybe I took a mental vacation, but at some point, the little slut that was the Real World, gave birth to more than she ever dreamed possible.  More than I ever wanted.  From the Real World, we discovered that people enjoyed watching strangers living together.  How could the network make even more money?  I know, make the strangers live together, but have no contact with the outside world whatsoever.  And so, Big Brother was born.  Like pervy Peeping Toms, there we all were, looking through the figurative peep hole at these idiots. Watching everything from boring conversations to feeble attempts at cooking to people in the bathroom.  Of course, they actually allowed them to shit off camera.  But we did get to watch blurred showers, oral hygiene, and hair removal.  Gross.
Slick fuckers those producers, because they didn't only allow us to watch the mundane day-to-day shit. Nope.  They forced them to compete in ridiculous games and vote each other out of the house.  We were watching high school cliques in action!  Who was stronger, faster, more popular, smarter, better at being a phony bitch?  Those people got to remain in the house. Unable to out bitch the queen bitch?  Sorry, you had to go! Fringe nerds, you knew this was coming. The quiet unassuming geeky types were always voted out first.  They provided no real entertainment, anyway.  The true test of staying power was when only the popular dickweeds were left, and you still hadn't been voted out of the house.  Imagine if high school allowed for head of household privileges?  If we could have voted out the assholes?  Yeah, we couldn't.  And THAT'S why, reality TV isn't always very real.

Moving on to the competition shows.  Seriously? American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance?, America's Got Talent, X Factor, Dancing with the Stars, and the list goes on and on. Even Fear Factor, which I do enjoy, belongs here.  Let's start with the fact that there are WAY too many in the same genre.  Flooding me with shit is not going to make me suddenly like shit.  America has some talent, but not enough to fill the stages of countless shows that are invading every hour of evening programming.  There's only so much artistic competitive mishegoss I can stand to watch during any given week.  American Idol is probably the only one I've actually watched since its inception. And even that has jumped the shark more than once.  Funny thing about these competition shows, they turn us all into professional judges.  Suddenly, we all feel more than qualified to pass judgment on the people who turn up on our giant flat-screens. We yell at the TV, text our friends with vast amounts of what we feel to be constructive criticism of the last performer, discuss it at work the next day, talk about it over dinner with our families.  You'd think we were getting paid handsomely by the networks for our opinions.  Wake up!
Of course, if you aren't into competition, you can always watch other people work.  Ice Road Truckers, Pawn Stars, Cajun Pawn Stars, Deadliest Catch, Dog: Bounty Hunter...the list is too long for my attention span. There is a degree of entertainment value in a show where you get to pop open a beer, put your feet up, and watch as others earn a living.  I get that. To a degree.  But do we have to represent every job that exists?  Will there soon be Sharks at Large, a show where we watch real attorneys do paperwork and answer client phone calls?  Maybe we can have a Cashier Cuties and watch women with teased hair scan items at a random Walmart? Sounds stupid?  Because it is!!!  Most of us who work all day want to come home and laugh at a sitcom, or follow a compelling drama that allows us to connect with characters and a story line, not revisit the grind of the day through someone else's eyes.
If you haven't found your favorite type of reality show, maybe you can flip the channels and find one of the "rescue some poor schlub" shows.  Shows like Starting Over, Biggest Loser, and Restaurant Impossible are just a few of the programs you can watch to see floundering ass wads have their lives turned around publicly on national TV.  We all have problems. There is nothing more true. But, I can tell you with all certainty that I would never consider working out my issues in front of a camera.  Trust me, you aren't interested and I don't like you enough to share the intimate details of my life with you. The fact that you are watching people with sub-zero self-esteem says quite a bit about your own self-confidence.  It says you hate your own life so much that the only thing that makes your feel remotely human is watch those you consider to be even more pathetic than you. Looks worse when you re-read it.  Totally fucking pitiful. Gleaning joy from the misery of others, schadenfreude, as it is known in the world of people who can read something above the level of a picture book, is probably almost as bad as inflicting the actual misery on someone.  Actually, it's worse.  It's worse because you are intentionally going out of your way to watch and gloat.  Asshole.
I miss sitcoms, dramas, news programs, game shows, the movie of the week, a good miniseries like Roots!  Where has all the good TV gone? Have Americans become so stupid that they can't keep up with a regular TV show, they need something far-fetched and ridiculous, under the guise of being REAL to hold their dwindling attention?  This is embarrassing if it is even remotely true.  So much for being a super power.  Unless nuclear arms manufacturing and a week in the life of an enlisted soldier become new reality shows, I fear nobody will give a shit. This is the world my kid is being thrust into next year.  Do you think I'm happy about that?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Junk grabbing and other nasty things you make me watch

Anyone who went to my high school in the 80s can attest to the validity of the guido junk grab habit.  This was a common occurrence in the hallways and it almost always cracked me up.  So much so, I eventually brought it into Drama Club for group consideration and zealous imitation.  And boy howdy, we imitated till our crotches were sore.  The thing we all noticed about this particular habit, was that it happened in conjunction with speaking. As if the guido in question was squeezing the words out of his penis and up into his mouth.  Gross, maybe, but the only logical explanation we found. These days, I'm not really surrounded by guidos out here on the Left Coast.  The only knowledge most of these people have regarding guidos comes from watching Jersey Shore.  However, this doesn't prevent junk grabbing from coming into my line of vision. And it's still just as fucking disgusting. Back then, we also assumed that the penii (plural of penis?) in question weren't really body parts, but rather something velcroed to the groin and removed at night for showering and sleeping.  Why else would it require quite so much adjustment?  You don't rearrange your ass cheeks, your earlobes, or your knee caps...why does the junk need to be moved, adjusted, readjusted, and juggled? Think about it. Please don't try to justify it with some of the excuses I've heard over the years. Bat wings, friction, underwear pinch, ball sweat...all not my problem.  Head to the bathroom if you are suffering THAT much and fix the issue down under.  But when you do it incessantly, and clearly mindlessly, it's a friggin habit, nothing more.
But the enthusiastic manhandling of one's junk isn't the only gross-assed habit I've been forced to witness. Can someone tell me why grown-ass people pick their noses?  The invention of the tissue happened in 1924 by the good folks at Kleenex.  Nobody is forcing you to carry around a germ-laden, soggy handkerchief.  Tissues are portable as well as disposable. Nothing in the world is forcing you to ram your pointer finger all the way up to the second knuckle in an attempt to dig out what I can only assume is brain tissue.  It would appear from how far up you've gone, that you have far surpassed the nasal cavity as well as the sinus cavity. Why the hell is this necessary?  Do you just have more snot than the rest of us?  And even if you do, may I refer you back to that lovely invention from the 20s? Face it, where does the picked nose treasure go?  Hopefully, as an adult you've outgrown actually consuming the booger. Then where?  You guessed it, it gets flicked or rubbed off onto a surface I'm likely to touch!  Does anyone else feel like blowing chunks?
Moving on, I'd like to address YOU.  You know who you are. The nail biter.  Again, I'd like to hope that most adults have outgrown eating their own hand.  You have a multitude of choices if the length of your nails doesn't suit you.  The nail clipper is my personal favorite, only to be followed by my second favorite, the emery board.  These come in all shapes, sizes, colors...they can be simple little creatures made of cardboard, or seriously fancy bastards made of specialized plastic and outfitted with sparkly jewels made to live, when not used, in cushy little velveteen cases.  If you are not inclined to care for your own nails, visit your local nail salon.  Men, this includes you.  Shellac manicures or pink and white tips are not necessary, just a basic trim and file for you, buddy.  But please, stop gnawing on your nails.  The sound grates on me almost as badly as the sound of fingernails scraping down a blackboard.  The snapping thud when you've bitten through the nail is vile.  A vileness only slightly behind the disgust I feel while watching your unclean fingers in your mouth as you chew and suck and make all sorts of vomit-inducing noises.  Nervous habit, you claim?  Take up smoking!  I don't give a flying fuck. But do not stand in front of me eating your hands.  Chew gum.
But wait!  Don't crack that goddamn gum.  Popping and cracking with your mouth wide open only makes you look like a cheap hooker.  You know it, but you do it anyway.  These are the same people who can't seem to eat with their mouths closed.  It's a fucking disease, I swear.  That sound: the pop, smack, crack!  Christ on the cross, it's enough to send me running and screaming as far and as fast as I can away from you.  What is it about a small stick of chewable candy that turns some folks into dime-store streetwalkers? Especially when you are actually speaking to someone, it is incredibly bad form to toss that Bubble Yum around with your tongue, back and forth, side to side, cracking it loudly. But you do.  Fucker.
Follow my ADD for a moment.  When did it become socially acceptable to clip your nails in public?  Unless you are at the Vietnamese nail joint of your choosing, nail clipping is a private matter to be done within the confines of your home.  Never do I want to be impaled by a nail missile being shot off by some ass wipe who couldn't wait to get home to groom himself.  Foul and repulsive, that's what you are when you choose to tend to your personal hygiene in my presence.  This goes double for the tool that decides after clipping his gnarly fingernails, to move on to his yellowed, thickened, claw-like toenails.  Take your ass to the chiropodist, but keep those funky feet away from me and my airspace. Toenails almost always turn into dangerous projectiles when clipped.  Yet another reason to do it in the privacy of your own home.  Put your own fucking eye out, butt munch.

Do you know that women need to adjust their yabbos occasionally?  We do, and usually more so as we get older.  They tend to slip out of where we initially place them in our bras.  Yes, we actually reach right in there and hoist those puppies into place.  But, bitches that they are, eventually, they begin to slip down, requiring another hoist.  Yet, this doesn't mean you just dig right in and yank one back up in the middle of dinner.  I've seen all forms of fun bag rearranging in public and in broad daylight.  What the hell are you thinking, ladies? Neither the time nor the place for something so personal. While the rest of us may understand the need, we do not approve of the public handful you've just grabbed.  If we are offended by men scratching their nuts, and oh yes, we are...then we must also have that same disgust for women who do the tit flop just about anywhere they see fit. Almost as bad as publicly breastfeeding a toddler, but not quite.  Just don't.
It's not that I'm perfect, far from it.  I have habits that may drive you out of your skull.  Not that I care, but the possibility still exists. But I can say with all honesty that I try really hard not to crack my knuckles, squeeze out ingrown hairs, pluck my eyebrows, burp the alphabet, search for blackheads, or pick my teeth while you are standing there trying to have a conversation with me.  It's gross...are you friggin kidding me right now???




 

Take your meds, I didn't sign on for this shit

Yeah, I said it.  I am so going there. Some people require a little extra something to help them become fit for public assimilation. We are all so consumed with our physical health, we've forgotten about mental health. I'd like to think the stigma is gone now and that we can just treat those issues the same way we'd medicate hemorrhoids. Call the doctor, have a visit, take the prescription to your local pharmacy and get rolling on the road to stability.  Here's your problem, and since you do have one, I feel free to address it.You don't think there's anything wrong.  Most days you are asking yourself why the fuck is everyone so critical?  How come these people keep pushing my goddamn buttons? When you start to believe that the whole world is wrong and you are the only one who is right, make the phone call.  Chances are, you are treating the people in your life like animals at least half the time.  Even animals deserve better. Having to wonder which one of you will show up is stressful and sucks balls.
Maybe you are feeling down and think nobody cares.  Guess what, we stop caring when you do. Being forced to deal with moods even you can't handle isn't fair to anyone. Some days you may feel anxious, more so than a normal person does...don't take it out on me. Snapping at everything I say isn't going to help me feel anything but pissed off.  My compassion goes out the window when I feel even slightly attacked. Perhaps you feel fun-loving and gregarious one day and pissed off and ferocious the next.  Which part of that do you think works for me?  Wondering whether Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde is coming home is nobody's idea of fun.  Walking around on eggshells, stressing out about what may or may not come out of your mouth today is totally fucking unfair to the people with whom you deal on a daily basis.
At this point, I'm fairly positive at least half of you think I am a total bitch who doesn't know what she is talking about.  The other half are likely to be holding their collective breath, waiting to see what the hell comes next.  To the first half, I am not a total bitch.  I may be 43.5% bitch on any given day. Secondly, I grew up with a bipolar parent, so I think I speak from experience which you do not have, so shut the fuck up, douchecanoe. So, to get back to the point, I am merely trying to help.  Being informed about what you are witnessing, dealing with, suffering at the hands of, is pretty goddamn important and I am the one willing to inform you.  Take it or leave it, I don't give a shit.
Honestly, it doesn't have to be as serious as all that.  Some of you may just need perspective. But a little bit of Xanax couldn't hurt.  Something to take the edge off.  You have no idea what it's like to be in your presence.  The way my neck tightens up, or my breath quickens, or the fact that my head begins to throb just at the thought of having to deal with you. The dread in the pit of my stomach. Of course you don't know.  There's nothing wrong with you, is there?  Problem number one, staring you in the face.  Even if you don't notice your fucked up behavior, and you may not, do you notice the reaction of others to your arrival on the scene?  Pay attention the next time you walk in a room. Does it fall silent?  Do people seem to stop breathing? Anyone look even slightly anxious? Ding, ding, ding, those are the fucking alarm bells and you need to put on your listening ears and hear them!
Now I can stretch the definition of meds and bring up those of you who refuse to take something when you are clearly in pain. Nobody is going to judge you for taking Tylenol for a headache or Motrin when you have back pain.  Some people think they are superheroes and want to just DEAL with it.  Holy fucking hell!  Do me and everyone around you a favor, pop the pills.  You are in the foulest mood when you are in pain.  We all are.  I don't care how high you believe your pain threshold to be, your mood is telling a different story. If you have a splinter, remove it.  If you have a cut, bandage it.  And for fuck's sake, if you feel pain, address it with medication.  An aspirin, Aleve, or Vicodin, I don't care which, but swallow something! It's not a sign of weakness, it's consideration for the people around you. The complaining I can almost tolerate, it's the bitchy mood and daggers you are hurling at me that make me want to drive a shiv into your throat. But I won't, I'm cool like that.

All I am saying here is this, we all have issues, pains, aches, moods, and need help. Whether it's a Tylenol or Ativan, it's necessary to your survival here on planet Earth. Yours and mine.  And mine is the one I am concerned with, so take heed.  People who take their shit, whatever that shit may be, out on others are the rock in my shoe, the thorn in my side, and the fly in my fucking glass of wine. If you want to be alone, continue on the path paved with shit you've chosen.  If you want to grow old surrounded by people who love and care about you, start giving a shit about yourself. If you think I'll stick around to watch you self-destruct and let you take me down with you, you need more help than you know. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

I walked to school in the snow, uphill...kid you are SPOILED

Yes, I've used that line on my kid.  It is 100% true. I also lived around the corner from my school, but that part doesn't help my case, so I leave it out. The purpose behind it is to remind these brats today that they are spoiled goddamn rotten.  The fact is, whether I lived around the corner or ten blocks away, I'd have still walked to school. When high school rolled around, I took two buses to get there. Nobody offered me a car at 16 and told me to take it easy.  Kids today get chauffeured everywhere.  To school, to friends' houses, to the mall, to the park.  Now, I've had a look at quite a few kids in my day, and they all have feet.  Why is it they aren't walking to these places? We are raising the laziest bunch of shits I have ever seen.  "Mom, can you take me to Taylor's house?" Taylor lives two blocks away!!!  Buses and trains are foreign to these guys.  I think they aren't certain who takes them, maybe the homeless live there.  They aren't too sure, but they are definitely not willing to find out.
Remember checking the bus schedule on the corner so you'd know when you had to leave in order to make that movie showing?  Or be at school on time?  Squeezing on the bus with countless sweaty people, backpack over your shoulder, holding on to the rail or strap till you reached your stop and had to squeeze back through the crowd to get off and walk to school...now that was fun.  Taking the bus to the subway to catch a train into the city, smelly and crowded, bouncing around, avoiding the perverts.  Don't have to do that from the passenger seat of your mom's car, do you?  Or for you older teens, while driving your mom's car or the car they got you for being alive on this planet for 16 whole entire years? Tough existence, isn't it?
How's that giant screen TV working out in your house?  Yeah, we have three. Why? Because everyone else does. When I was a kid, I had a black and white TV when I finally got one in my room.  Even though there was a color one in the living room and my parent's room, mine was a relic.  But it gets even better. We had to stand up and twist that funny little knob on the front of the TV to change the channel. Imagine that?!?! I had to stop sitting on my fat ass and walk across the room if I was done watching a program. One day, in high school I decided I wanted the little tiny portable TV from the kitchen and my mom was nice enough to allow me to take it.  It had a 5 or 6 inch screen!  I kept it on a little cart next to my bed so I could actually see the faces of the actors. Cable?  That was something my friends had since according to my mom, clever wench, my block didn't HAVE cable. She claimed to call regularly to ask, but to no avail. Cute, huh? Music channels, movie channels, sports, cooking, history, cartoon, you name it...all at the push of a button.  I had seven channels to choose from, maybe eight or nine if you count the random UHF channels I could get by moving the antennae on top of the TV just right.  But, go right ahead and whine that there's nothing on TV, you've certainly earned it. Can't seem to stop shaking my head right now.
Oh, and speaking of friends, did you know we actually spoke to them?  Wait, wait, we even called them on the telephone.  No, not on our tiny little mobile phones, but from a landline. The kind of phone that was either sitting on top of a shelf or table or hanging on the kitchen wall with a long, spiraled cord attached to the receiver.  Receiver, the part of the phone you put to your ear when you wanted to have a conversation and sound came out.  Weird, right?  If you wanted privacy, you had to stretch that cord as far as it would take you.  Some of us stretched it into the bathroom, which is always a fun place to chat. I was lucky enough to have a window that opened up to an opening in the roof.  I could drop the cord that went into the jack down from the roof, plug it in, and then carry my white princess phone up to the roof and talk privately.  In the summer, when I was home alone anyway. Yeah, didn't do much for me, did it?  I also had to dial the phone.  Not push buttons or a touchscreen, turning a dial starting at each and every number, twisting it around the phone and waiting for it to circle back to the beginning for the next six numbers. Calling someone quickly just didn't happen and it wasn't quiet.  Couldn't be stealthy back then.  The whole house could hear the fucking dial spinning.
There was a point to that last rant. Yes, the fact that we actually spoke to our friends.  We didn't text them in bizarre shorthand.  We picked up the phone and called.  Then we talked for hours. Sometimes the friend didn't answer, their mom did and we had to ask to speak to them.  Imagine doing that?  Direct contact wasn't always possible, sometimes there was a middle man or woman.  When we talked for hours, we'd hear the call of the wild at some point.  That call would be our moms screaming for us to get off the phone. Why?  Because when we were talking, nobody else could call.  Call-waiting didn't exist. What the other caller heard, was the ear-numbing drone of the busy signal. We would have caused our parents to be unreachable.
Unreachable is what we were the moment we stepped out of the house. Why? Refer back to the part about no cell phones!  They weren't invented yet.  When we went out, took a bus or walked somewhere, you couldn't contact us.  Our parents had to trust that we were going where we said we were and that we'd be ok.  Carrying on private conversations with other people while we were out with friends just didn't happen.  We actually engaged the person or people we were with at the time.  Strange concept to most of you who have at least one eye on the screen of your cell phone at all times, texting away with at least one person no matter who you are with or where you happen to be.  We connected with people, had deep conversations, laughed out loud (not LOL'ed), we held hands with our friends and socked them in the arm...because we were with them, in person, face-to-face.  Hiding behind a screen to say things we'd never say in person wasn't an option.  We had to be real, all the time.
Computers weren't in every household, either.  They took up entire rooms and were not available to the general public.  If we were assigned a paper in school, we had to type it on a TYPEWRITER.  Yes, a clunky thing with keys set up like stadium seats that you had to bang on not glide across with great speed.  And God help you if you made a mistake, there was no back space. You used a piece of correction paper wedged between the error and the typewriter key and slammed down on the key until the wrong letter was covered in white.  Or...you could use White Out and blow on it for a minute or two instead of hitting delete and continuing on your merry way.  No procrastination for us.  Mistakes could double the amount of time it took to actually type up the damn thing.  When I finally got an electric typewriter, I made even more mistakes at first.  Pounding on the keys was no longer necessary but had become a habit for me.  Wasn't the best transition I've ever made.
Since computers weren't an option, neither was the internet.  That's right, you could not surf the web to find out information on everything and everybody.  Let's go back to that research paper you were just assigned.  It has to be 5 pages and needs to have at least 3-4 resources cited.  No problem! Let's Google that shit.  Um, no.  Not in 1983 you didn't. You grabbed your school bag and notebook and hauled your ass to the library.  And you walked there, usually by yourself.  When you arrived, there were no computers to look up books and magazines to see what was available at your library and 15 other local libraries.  Nope. You stepped over to the card catalog and flipped through it, drawer after drawer, card by card until you found a book that seemed like it would help you write that paper.  Writing down the location of the book and its name, you went back to the catalog and continued this process a few more times.  Taking that little slip of paper with all the info you carefully wrote down, you went to the shelves and began the hunt.  After finding all the books, you had to check them out and carry them back home, where you'd skim through all the pages looking for information to put in your paper.  No copy and pasting back then.  Ahh, the simple joys!
Car seats, bike helmets, actual seat belts with a shoulder strap.  Those were luxuries we just didn't have. As infants, we sat cradled in our mom's arms or on her lap in the car. When we got older, we bounced around, untethered in the back seat driving our parents crazy.  We rode our bikes at unsafe speeds down hills with NO helmet on!  Sometimes we rode on the handlebars of a friend's bike. We fell off and got back up and did the same thing all over again.  Parks didn't have padded shit underneath the play structures, which were not plastic, but wood and metal.  They gave nasty splinters and burned the shit out of you in the summer.  When we fell off, we hit the concrete...hard.  Then we knew how not to climb the next time.  We drank water from hoses and lived to tell you about it. Safety wasn't the insane paranoid issue it is today.  We exercised common sense and learned from our mistakes.  These days you'd think kids were made of glass the way we wrap them up in padding and straps to protect them from themselves.
Still think you have it rough? I'm sure you do.  Life for kids these days can be so difficult. What clothes to wear, choosing from the extensive selection bought FOR you not BY you; what smartphone to demand your parents buy for you; who else to text while you are out with your friends, if you've actually gone out; which car to ask your parents to buy for you because you just can't possibly be the only senior being driven to school by your mom...and because the bus is just so not an option; which videos to look up on YouTube for entertainment because you have no idea what to do with yourself; grabbing the remote while you recline on the couch to flip through the bazillion channels to which you have access to find something to watch.  Poor tortured fucking soul.  I feel so sorry for you.  I'm sure you'll wind up in intensive therapy as a result.  Did we survive without all that shit? Are you friggin kidding me right now???