idiotprufs

Illegal in 38 states–frowned upon in the rest.

Archive for the tag “birthday party”

A Little Birthday Party Advice

deweySo you want to throw your sweet and precious child the perfect birthday party.

Note: I write sweet and precious because I’ve discovered if you refer to a person’s child as a dull-witted potato-faced brat, they tend to find offense–people are so sensitive.

Because this blog is nothing if not helpful, (I laughed a little bit there too) I’ve decided to publish a brief list of things not to do for a child’s birthday party.

Don’t hire a clown.

Clowns are evil and they prey on small children–most people don’t realize the movie It is a documentary.

Don’t hire a mime.  

Mimes will never break character regardless of how badly you need to speak to them. Whether it’s about something regarding your child’s birthday party, whom to write the check to, or if they would please stop miming inappropriate things about your wife–they won’t break character. And when they start to do that fake crying thing after you’ve become frustrated, you are forced (by law if my ballot initiative passes) to punch them in the gut.

Amazingly, they become all Chatty Cathy once the police arrive.

Don’t hire a guy in a SpongeBob SquarePants costume.

While SpongeBob is a beloved cartoon character, a guy in a SpongeBob costume is a six foot yellow crazy-faced monster that makes small children scream and pee their pants. And when it turns out the guy in the costume has warrants out for his arrest and steals, that’s just an added bonus.

Don’t invite that brat cousin.

We all have that one brat cousin with the overbearing mother (some of us have several) who just ruin everything. She yells, she throws tantrums, and she thinks everything is about her–and that’s the mother. The child is a torrent of shrill screaming misery: wrenching gifts away from her cousin as she screams mine with a voice that shatters glass, eardrums, and occasionally a human soul. She demands more cake even though her first two pieces of cake are spread over the drapes, the dog, the cat, and the inside of your couch cushions. She’s the reason your grandfather is always “losing” his hearing aide.

Also, she has a potato-face.

Don’t do the trick candles.

Don’t tell your child she can open her gifts after she’s blown out the candles on her birthday cake and then use those delightful trick candles that you can’t blow out–unless you want birthday cake smashed all over the wall. (Perhaps it’s time to concede the overbearing mother with the brat child is you.)

Just Listen.

When your charming and intelligent nephew (often referred to as brilliant by friends, acquaintances, and people who have seen him at a distance) suggests you hire a monkey in a cowboy hat, listen to him. Who doesn’t love a monkey in a cowboy hat? If you’re lucky it’ll throw a fistful of feces at that overbearing mother and her brat child. (Again, that might be you.)

Your child’s birthday party is still gong to be a disaster, there’s only so much I can do…your child is a brat.

You are welcome.

monkey

“I’ve got a fistful of feces with your name on it.”

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Enough Already, Boorish Photo Purveyor

angry baby

That is precious.

Evidently certain people weren’t paying attention.

Certain people who are either dull-witted or recalcitrant.

People who are dull-witted, recalcitrant, or compulsively boorish.

In the case of certain family members, people who possess all three traits.

People who insist–regardless of how vehemently I protest–on showing me pictures of their children.

The ugly truth: I don’t like your children. In fact, I don’t like your children almost as much as I don’t you.

Note: it is my solemn pledge to the readers of this blog, at no point will it ever be heartwarming.

Don’t show me a picture of your grandchild and say, “she has her fathers eyes, isn’t it amazing?”

No, it’s not amazing at all; it’s pretty much how genetics work.

Your grandchild is bald, pudgy, toothless, prone to drooling, and screams at the top of her lungs when she wants something. If she had a tramp stamp, she be the spitting image of her mother–that’s amazing.

I don’t want to see the following progression of photos:

  • Here’s my baby at one day.
  • Here’s my baby at one week.
  • Here’s my baby at two weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at three weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at four weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at one month.
  • Here’s my baby at five weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at six weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at seven weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at eight weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at two months.
  • Here’s my baby at nine weeks.
  • Here’s my baby at ten weeks.

It was annoying just having to read that wasn’t it?

It pissed me off having to write it.

Just imagine having to sit through six months worth of those photos. Forget waterboarding, that would crack the most hardened terrorist.

Note: seriously, I’m not making up that progression.

Here’s the only progressions of photos I need to see:

  • Birth.
  • Graduation from high school.
  • Graduating from college.  I know the parents; it’s not happening.
  • Wedding.
  • Obituary clipping.

That’s it. That’s all I need to see.

Do you know what’s just as bad? Endless photos of your child’s birthday party.

And now, thanks to modern technology, the boorish photo purveyor, doesn’t need to haul around a bunch of photographs, she can cram literally thousands of photos onto her phone. Thousands of mind-numbing soul-sucking photos.

Note: the first two dozen photos are of the cake. It’s a freaking cake, not a Rodin sculpture.

Rodin sculpture

Rodin would have been an awesome cake designer.

Imagine this conversation:

Boorish photo purveyor: would you like to see pictures of my child’s birthday party?

You: I’d rather be stabbed in the face with a bayonet.

Boorish photo purveyor: let me get my phone.

You: I hope your phone has an app that turns it into a bayonet.

Boorish photo purveyor: do you want to see a picture of the cake?

You: only if it has a bayonet in it.

Boorish photo purveyor: I have hundreds of pictures.

You: Arrgh (you feign a fatal heart attack, and lie motionless until the boorish photo purveyor, sensing the awkwardness of the moment, walks away).

But the worst place to be cornered by a boorish photo purveyor is on an airplane. You’re trapped, you have only four options:

  1. Smother the boorish photo purveyor with your inflight pillow.
  2. Fake a bomb threat, be gladly dragged away by the Air Marshal.
  3. Jump from the plane, and plummet to certain death.
  4. Sit and silently view the photos.

Did you notice how each option was worse than it’s predecessor?

Note: in the old days you could dissuade fellow passengers from engaging you by fondling a blood stained machete, and repeatedly mumbling about your manifesto. Now you can’t even bring your machete on the plane, bloodstained or otherwise. Now you can’t do anything on a plane. Thanks for nothing terrorists. When you’re done being waterboarded, I’ve got some baby pictures for you.

Retaliation is the only solution. The next time someone asks me if I want to see pictures of their child, I’ll respond: “yes, but first you must see the 500 photos I have of my pet Sea-Monkeys; they’re so precious.”

That ought to work.

sea monkeys

I’ve named these two, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

 

 

 

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