Which of these scenarios is the worst?
You’re locked in a small room filled with disease riddled monkeys that screech at the top of their disease riddled lungs, and with incredible precision, hurl their disease riddled feces at your face…and they’re smug.
You’re taken into the desert on an oppressively hot day, stripped naked, tied to ant hill populated with crazy stinging Amazonian bastard ants, and honey is slathered over your naughty bits.
You’re given a vat filled with puss and random toad bits, and you have to eat every last drop…and you can’t have any salt.
(You could substitute your aunt’s potato salad here–it’s same difference.)
You have to swim a mile through raw sewage and dead rats, and you have to use the breaststroke.
You have to spend the day with your aunts, uncles, and cousins at the family reunion.
I know what you’re thinking: they’re all pretty horrible, but which one is the worst?
You went to the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic at your Uncle Finster’s house.
Normally you would avoid your Uncle Finster’s house the way a small rabbit would avoid a pit of vipers. A big fat pit of bulbous, sweaty, bitchy, chunky-thighed, drooling, self-congratulatory, vain, big-mouthed, half-wit, vipers.
And those are just your aunts.
But this year your grandmother has declared this summer will likely be her last and any of her grandchildren who don’t attend every family function, to be vindictively and purposely speeding her descent into the grave—she’s a lovely woman.
As you arrive, you’re immediately met by Uncle Finster’s wife, your Aunt Sally. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and an expression of accusatory smugness on her face.
Note: Sally’s maiden name was Snaggle-faced Bar Sinister Hag, but for some reason people just call her Sally.
“Did you bring it?” Aunt Sally demands.
“If you’re referring to either fear, trepidation, or an overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, I never come here without it,” you reply.
“Do you always have to be a smartass?”
“Evidently,” you admit.
“I meant the Jell-O dessert–did you bring the Jell-O dessert,” Aunt Sally wants to know.
“I brought the Jell-O dessert,” you confirm as you hand her a large container.
“You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in it did you?” Aunt Sally asks. “You’re Uncle Finster hates those tiny little colored Marshmallows in his Jell-O.”
“I can’t stand that hippie Jell-O,” your Uncle Finster confirms.
“No, Uncle Finster, I didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O; I know how much you hate those tiny little colored marshmallows. In fact I’m well aware of the list of things you hate: things that colorful, things that are joyous, laughing children, puppies, opossums that aren’t dead, potpourri, shredded wheat, pinecones, anything that’s purple, people who live on islands, words containing the letter Q, human emotion, lime flavored foods, and seedless watermelons.”
“Lime is disgusting and seedless watermelons aren’t natural,” he screams at you.
“They aren’t the only things unnatural,” you say as you wipe the spit from your face.
“Remember that time you put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O: your Aunt Sally had a heart attack,” Uncle Finster accuses you.
“First: grabbing your chest and screaming, “you’ve given me a heart attack” isn’t the same as actually having a heart attack. Second: I’m sure her sedentary lifestyle and lard based diet would be the primary factors in regards to any heart issues Aunt Sally may experience.”
“What’s going on?” Your Aunt Jackal forces her way into the conversation. “You didn’t put those tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again did you?”
Note: your Aunt Jackal was meant to be named Jaclyn, but there was a clerical error with the birth certificate. Oddly, the name Jackal is far more suited to her.
“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you assure her.
“You’re still a bitter disappointment,” she tells you before she walks away to get another cocktail.
“Did I hear something about there being tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O?” Your Uncle Brad asks. “Are you trying to ruin the annual kickoff-to-Summer picnic?”
“There are no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O,” you tell him.
“Everyone is talking about how you put tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O again,” your Cousin Bucky tells you as he joins the conversation, “I like the way you stir things up.”
“I have an announcement to make,” you shout as you stand on a piece of lawn furniture.
“I hope it’s not that you’re a bitter disappointment,” your Aunt Jackal says, “because we already know.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Cousin Bucky whispers to you, “Aunt Jackal’s drunk…and a bitch.”
Undaunted you continue, “I can assure everyone here, there are absolutely no tiny little colored marshmallows in the Jell-O.”
You stand waiting for a response as your family silently gapes at you.
The silence is finally broken by a scream from Aunt Sally, “This is lime Jell-O filled with chunks of seedless watermelon.”
“I did do that,” you tell the family, “but what else can you expect from a bitter disappointment?”
Aunt Sally clutches her chest.
Aunt Jackal drunkenly scowls at you.
Cousin Bucky gives you a thumbs-up.
Summer has been officially kicked off.
You’re at the big family picnic when you hear a high pitched screeching coming from behind. It’s like some kind of wildly malfunctioning siren, or a giant deranged braying donkey. The noise is so shrill, so piercing, you can feel it in your chest. You wheel around expecting to find some kind of harpy or mythological beast of misery—you’re close.
“Look at my daughter.” Your Aunt Zelda screams at you as she points to a filthy and disheveled child.
“I’ve seen her before,” you tell Aunt Zelda, “but keep up the grooming regimen, it’s really paying off.”
“What I mean is: do you know how your Little Cousin Erina has come to be in this state?”
“I’m guessing the combination of bad genetics and decidedly questionable parenting.” You feel confident in your answer.
“Specifically, the condition of her face,” Aunt Zelda snaps.
“Her face? That’s all on you and her father and possibly a radon leak in your home.”
Aunt Zelda is now visibly agitated—you can tell because there is some color in her normally pasty complexion.
“The gunk around her mouth; I want you to tell me what that is,” she demands.
“The final reason the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania needs to begin proceedings toward the termination of parental rights?”
“You’re full of little jokes today aren’t you?”
“I’d like to think I carry my wit with me everyday,” you tell her.
“It’s dragonflies!” Aunt Zelda screams at you.
“You shouldn’t allow your child eat dragonflies,” you advise Aunt Zelda, “you’re giving the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania ammunition they don’t even need.”
“She ate the dragonflies because you told her to,” Aunt Zelda snaps at you, her face achieving a level of color previously thought not possible.
“I never told anyone to eat dragonflies,” you defend yourself.
“You told the children if they eat enough dragonflies they would turn into a dragons.”
“That was more of a cautionary tale than actual instructions.”
“Well she believed you and now she’s eaten five dragonflies.”
“She’s eaten five dragonflies?” you exclaim, genuinely impressed, “dragonflies are hard to catch.”
“In the future I would appreciate it if you would refrain from telling my daughter lies.”
“You don’t know it’s not true,” you defend yourself.
Your Cousin Bucky notices Little Cousin Erikka’s face as he’s passing by. “There’s chocolate all over your kid’s face, Aunt Zelda.”
“That’s not chocolate,” Aunt Zelda screams at Cousin Bucky, ” it’s dragonflies.”
Cousin Bucky stops in his tracks as he absorbs the information. “Are you sure it’s wise to let your child eat dragonflies, especially with the whole family court thing coming up?”
“I didn’t let her eat dragonflies, you moron.”
“Still, you should probably monitor her insect consumption,” Cousin Bucky says, “because the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania already has more than enough ammunition.”
“Really? Do they have enough ammunition? Do they really?” Aunt Zelda snaps at Cousin Bucky.
“Do you not know…because they have a lot of ammunition,” Cousin Bucky assures Aunt Zelda
“Daughter Erina ate the dragonflies because this moron told her she’d turn into a dragon if she ate enough dragonflies,” Aunt Zelda pokes a crooked finger at you.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Cousin Bucky tells Aunt Zelda.
“I have nothing to worry about?” Aunt Zelda questions.
“I doubt it’s the case eating dragonflies will actually turn her into a dragon,” Cousin Bucky says matter-of-factly.
“You don’t know it’s not true,” you admonish Cousin Bucky. “You’re not an expert on dragons or dragonflies?”
“I suppose I’m not,” Cousin Bucky agrees.
“Obviously eating dragonflies doesn’t turn you into a dragon,” Aunt Zelda says, “she ate five of them and she’s not a dragon.”
“She ate five?” Cousin Bucky says with surprise. “They’re really hard to catch.”
“They are hard to catch,” you agree. “But clearly, five dragonflies is not enough to trigger the Dragon transformation.”
“Should I eat more?” Little Cousin Erina asks.
“I guess that depends on how badly you want to be a dragon,” you advise.
“Yay, more dragonflies,” Little Cousin Erina cheers.
“You’re not eating anymore dragonflies,” Aunt Zelda scolds.
“I think you’re missing the key point in this entire situation,” you tell Aunt Zelda.
“And what would that be?”
“The fact that your daughter desperately wants to be a dragon.”
“I wouldn’t bring that up to the people from social services,” Cousin Bucky advises Aunt Zelda.
“Why do you want to be a dragon?” You ask Little Cousin Erina.
“Because dragons can breathe fire and burn alive any person they don’t like,” Little Cousin Erina tells you with glee.
“That was a bit chilling,” you say.
“I definitely would not bring that up to the people from social services,” Cousin Bucky tells Aunt Zelda.
“Really, Nephew Bucky,” Aunt Zelda snaps. “Are those your words of wisdom for me?”
“Do you really not know…because that sounded horrible.”
“Look, a dragonfly,” Little Cousin Erina squeals with delight as she runs off in the direction of the dragonfly.
Aunt Zelda stares in silent rage at you and Cousin Bucky before she turns to pursue her daughter.
“Look at that,” Cousin Bucky says in amazement, “she’s caught another one.”
“And now she’s eating it,” you reply.
“It’ll be good having a dragon in the family,” Cousin Bucky says.
You just nod in agreement.
The big family picnic has hit your community like a tsunami and is now slowly receding back into the ocean.
Your local emergency room has been taken off high alert and much of their staff has been given a well deserved vacation.
Once again your family has overtaxed their staff, frayed their nerves, and extinguished their stock of gauze, sutures and eye patches.
They’ve treated various members of your family for the following injuries, ailments, and assorted issues:
The source of many of the problems was your uncle and his trunk full of games/weapons:
Once again your aunt has brought a cauldron of potato salad with way too much eye-of-newt in it. It results in stomach cramps, vomiting, and explosive diarrhea. Also, your cousin grows a tail.
Your aunt claims she had nothing to do with the locust swarm, but it seems like a bit of a coincidence that it happens every year.
Another aunt accosts you because you told her daughter that if she ate a dragonfly she would turn into a dragon.
Note: Have you ever eaten a dragonfly? You don’t know this isn’t true.
Your uncle–the volunteer firefighter–has inadvertently set fire to himself, a pavilion, and an old-growth forest. Unfortunately your uncle was only one still standing at the end of the day.
As the big family picnic passes and dissolves into repressed memories and a series of panic filled nightmares, your only hope is that all the injuries–apart from some of the more radical skin grafts–heal before the next big family picnic.
Your family seems horrible.
I’m just saying.
There may be some readers of this blog who have made an inference (due to no fault of my own) based upon things they think they may have read in this blog.
It is my desire to stem any disinformation that may persist and to eliminate even the most infinitesimal chance of confusion.
To be perfectly clear: I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that any of my aunts have a pseudo-penis.
If you are laboring under the impression that one of my aunts has a pseudo-penis, that’s on you.
That being said, I have absolutely no firsthand knowledge that none of my aunts have a pseudo-penis.
I mean, it’s statistically unlikely that any of my aunts have a pseudo-penis, but I do have a lot of aunts.
And saying that something is statistically unlikely is pretty much the same as saying it is possible.
So let’s just leave it at this: while statistically unlikely, it’s entirely possible that one or more of my aunts have a pseudo-penis…but you didn’t get that from me.
I have a cousin that’s half spider monkey. She doesn’t have pseudo-penis, but she does have a prehensile tail. She’s a pleasant enough girl, but the way she wolfs down grubs at the dinner table is quite off-putting.
Her mother on the other hand (who may or may not have a pseudo-penis) is a horror. Remember the mother alien from Aliens? That big, ugly, drooling, murderous beast. That thing was a cherub compared to my cousin’s mother.
I do have an uncle who menstruates. You may think that’s not physiologically possible, but he does it. He thinks nobody knows–everybody knows.
Grandma calls him a medical miracle, but that’s just because freak of nature sounds bad in the Christmas letter.
His wife has a pseudo-penis.
Correction: it is statistically possible that his wife has a pseudo-penis. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.
I trust this post has cleared things up.
And maybe certain family members will be less angry with me…they’re so touchy.
Final Note: aren’t you glad I didn’t include a picture of pseudo-penis in this post?
All you want is to give the perfect gift for Christmas. The gift that will brighten a child’s face. The gift that shows thoughtfulness and caring. The type of gift that will result in moments to be cherished forever.
What a load of crap that is!
You are an insensitive oaf, but social convention dictates you must give gifts at Christmastime. What you really want, is to give gifts that won’t result in icy glares from your significant other, and more crucially, gifts that won’t result in a face-stabbing.
Granted, most of your big family get-togethers result in a face-stabbing, but there is no need to exacerbate an already tense atmosphere.
Note: that knife-wielding aunt of yours is stunningly spry for a lady with such chunky thighs.
Note to the note: do not get that knife-wielding aunt of yours with the chunky thighs, a Thighmaster for Christmas–it will not be taken in the spirit with which it is intended.
Since I’m practically an expert at screwing things up badly (I mean, I am shockingly good at it) I am going to aid you in what gifts not to give.
Don’t give your goth cousin a bottle of skin bronzer. Her pale, nearly translucent skin, is her choice. It is not a result of her inability to tan naturally. Her flesh will not burst into flames if it’s exposed to real sunlight. It’s Holy water that makes her flesh burst into flames.
Don’t give your still single aunt a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, because the only way she’ll find a man is if she constructs one herself. She will not find it as amusing as you do.
Don’t give your girlfriend, and I cannot stress this too strongly, a self-help book of any kind with the phrase “for dummies” in the title. Just don’t.
Don’t give the guy your cousin is dating this book, when what he really needs is a book about better decision making.
Don’t give your aunt a jar of anti-wrinkle cream and bottle of wart remover. She will not appreciate them…regardless of how desperately they’re needed.
Don’t give your uncle, who likes to hunt, that bottle of scent-masking spray he’s been asking for. The first thing he’ll do is try it out, and nobody wants to sip eggnog while they sit next to someone who wreaks of deer urine.
Note: Sure, your uncle generally wreaks of urine, but he splashes on that deer stuff like it’s cologne.
Don’t give that same uncle a book of vegetarian recipes; he’s just going to use its pages to start the fire he’s going to use to roast the woodchuck he hit with his pickup truck on the way to the Christmas party.
Don’t get your vegan cousin that Chia Pet. It looks entirely too much like bean sprouts growing out of tofu, eventually, he’s going to try to eat it. He’ll be rushed to the hospital, and your entire family will blame you.
Don’t get your aunt and uncle that home drug testing kit. While it may be applicable, your cousin carries a blade, and she will cut you.
Don’t get your wife a rat trap.
Note: Not a joke. One year my uncle bought my aunt a rat trap for Christmas. True story.
Don’t give anybody anything that has Justin Bieber on it. Why: because it has Justin Bieber on it. Enough said.
Don’t give any of your aunts or uncles this book:
Don’t get your boss this mug; he may not have a sense of humor about it.
And finally, don’t give your grandmother that DVD of Deliverance; home movies can be so tedious.
You are now prepared for gift giving this Christmas season.
If John Wayne Bobbitt had listened to me when I told him kitchen knives were a terrible Christmas gift for his wife Lorena, perhaps their marriage wouldn’t have become so severed. (Ha! I used the word severed.)
You’re back at the big family Thanksgiving for another year of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, a giant heaping of accusation and guilt, and copious amounts of liquor to numb the senses.
They’re all there: grandma, grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, Cousin It, fat hobbits, in-laws, out-laws, felons, those still awaiting trial, significant others, insignificant others, and the cast of that creepy movie The Others.
Your family is a bit like the Manson Family, but your leader isn’t in prison.
You’re in for a treat this year because your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) is going to cook the turkey in a deep fryer.
You question the wisdom of allowing your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) to operate a deep fryer as his presence seems to frequently precede catastrophe.
You decide to check on your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) to see how he is doing. Not out of concern, but out of the sheer the enjoyment you derive when bad things happen to him (your uncle–the volunteer firefighter).
Note: you may think I’m bringing up the point that your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) is a volunteer firefighter a little too often. But it’s not as often as he brings it up.
“How are things going with the turkey,” you ask.
“Things are going great–I’m volunteer firefighter you know,” he boasts.
“I’ve heard that once or twice,” you tell him. “It’s just that…when you leave a place, things tend to be on fire that weren’t on fire before you got there. You’re really more like a fireman from Fahrenheit 451 than a genuine firefighter.”
“If I understood that reference, would I be pissed off?” he asks you.
You explain that Fahrenheit 451 is a Ray Bradbury novel set in a dystopian future where firemen start fires rather than putting them out.
“If I knew what dystopian means, would I be pissed off?” he follows.
“I think you’d be fine with it,” you reply.
You decide you don’t actually want to be within the blast radius when events unfold as they inevitably will, so you go back inside.
You discover one of your cousins sitting on the couch moping because her boyfriend couldn’t be there. It seems coming within one-hundred feet of your family is a parole violation…for him and 12 different members of your family.
One of your uncles enters the house in full blood-stained camouflage hunting gear. You ask him if he had any luck in the woods today.
“What makes you think I’ve been hunting today,” he replies.
You walk away quickly.
One of your aunts comments on how well things seem to be going this year. “There hasn’t been one stabbing yet,” she exclaims. Then she shows everyone how well the bayonet wound in her face is healing.
One of your cousins is reminiscing about the year her father was carving the turkey and inadvertently cut his thumb off.
Note: he drinks.
Clarification: he drinks an enormous amount.
Luckily your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) was there to administer first-aid.
“The doctor said they could have reattached the thumb if it hadn’t caught on fire,” your cousin comments. “The doctor said he had never seen something packed in a bag of ice catch on fire before.”
You spend some time talking to the guy with the eye-patch and the hook for a hand. You have no idea how you’re related to him, but he’s the only one you actually get along with.
Your aunt arrives with a bunch of homemade pies, creating a horrible dilemma: you love sweet potato pie, but your aunt is a twisted wreck of hatred and soul-devouring evil…but you love sweet potato pie.
Your uncle (the one you refer to as Two-Faced Rat-Bastard) starts to make an announcement.
“I’ve discovered something disturbing about my wife,” he says.
“We’ve all heard about her vestigial penis,” you tell him.
“It’s not the penis thing,” he says, “it’s something much worse.”
But before he can make his announcement, another cousin bursts through the door to tell everyone your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) has accidentally set his face on fire.
“How did that happen?” your aunt yells.
“I don’t know,” your cousin responds. “It just burst into flames like the Hindenburg. One minute he was just standing there telling us about how he’s a volunteer firefighter, the next minute he’s burning like he’s full of hydrogen.”
“Did anyone put the fire out?” your aunt demands.
“We tried. He just yelled, ‘don’t worry, I’ve got this, I’m a volunteer firefighter.’” Then he ran into the barn and shoved his face into a big pile of hay.
“And that put the fire out?”
“No,” your cousin answers. “Also, the barn’s on fire now.”
As luck would have it, as your uncle (the volunteer firefighter) was running from the barn after setting it on fire, he tripped and fell face first into a pile of cow manure, extinguishing the fire on his face.
“Amazing,” you comment, “normally the bullshit is coming out of his face, not going into it.”
Your family stares at you with a level of hatred that’s more intense than normal.
“Relax,” you tell them. “At least it wasn’t a stabbing.”
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:
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:
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.
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:
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.
Please stop showing me pictures of your baby.
The first fifty pictures of your little bundle of joy were all pretty much the same. If you’re going to inundate me with this barrage of maternal pride, at least mix it up a little. Dress the kid up like a gladiator or a pirate; give me a reason to at least feign interest.
I know you believe every human on the planet desires to see endless streams of photos of your child. You believe we have an innate need to gush over your child, and shower him or her with flowery praise.
We do not.
What people say: what a beautiful baby you have.
What people are actually thinking: holy crap your baby looks like a lizard. His skin is weird and his face is all smushed. Is his father a sleestack?
I know it’s popular to refer to your child as a miracle, but getting pregnant because your half-wit boyfriend doesn’t like to use a condom–not exactly the Virgin Birth.
The ugly truth: children grow up to be people, and people suck. In fact, I know your kid’s father, and he’s a jackass. That poor kid’s wading out of a gene pool that’s shallow, stagnant, and filled with parasites.
And stop acting like everything your child does is precious.
Your child dumped mustard in the fish tank: not precious.
Your child shaved the dog: not precious.
Your child peed on the cat: not precious
Your child got into the permanent markers and covered your living room wall with what appeared to be clowns and penises: honestly, this one’s funny.
And keep that notion in your head it’s advantageous to never discipline your child, because who doesn’t love a good “my child did the cutest thing in juvenile court today” story.
Maybe if Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents had made him eat his vegetables, things would have turned out differently.
Let’s all get together and stop praising our children for things that are clearly not praiseworthy.
Your child’s artwork is dreadful. It’s fine to hang it on your refrdgerator with a due amount of parental pride. Just don’t expect me to gush over it like it’s the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Seriously, from what I can tell, it’s a drawing of a clown and a penis on the back of a misshapen unicorn. (And I’m starting to sense a disturbing trend in your child’s artwork.)
Do you know what happens when you constantly praise your child for things she’s bad at? She wastes three years at college majoring in art, when she’s clearly crap at it. Then she comes home with a giant face tattoo, and informs you she’s dropped out of school to focus on her poetry…which she’s also crap at.
Then when she can’t get anyone to publish any of her poems about clowns and penises, she tries to find a real job, and the following happens:
Interviewer: Your application seems fine, and we’d like to hire you, but there’s the issue of your face tattoo.
Her: What do mean? This tattoo is an expression of me, and who I am.
Interviewer: I’m not saying it’s not a brilliant tattoo of a clown and a penis, but here at Chuck E. Cheese, I’m not sure it would fit our image.
Her: My mother says this tattoo is precious. She says everything I’ve ever done is precious. She even refers to me as “her precious.”
Interviewer: It also bothers us that your mother appears to be Gollum.
Let me be clear, I don’t think you should squelch the dreams and aspirations of children. You should squelch the delusions of overbearing parents.
And please please please stop pointing to your children and saying, “there’s our future.” There is enough scary shit in the world already.