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idiotprufs

the blog that made the pope laugh so hard he peed himself.

Archive for the tag “Family”

Let’s All Just Start Accepting the Truth


Wouldn’t life be easier if we all just told the truth?

Wouldn’t it be better if we didn’t sugarcoat things?

Wouldn’t it be better if we just accepted things as they are?

Imagine a world where we didn’t have to censor ourselves; a world where people didn’t get their shorts all twisted up in a bunch over every little thing you say.

Example:

Easily Offended Individual: don’t you think my baby is beautiful?

You: what do you mean–for a lizard?

Easily Offended Individual: I mean beautiful for a baby.

You: a baby lizard?

Easily Offended Individual: for a baby person!

You: your baby looks like a lizard.

Easily Offended Individual: people say the baby takes after me!

You: you have lizard eyes.

Easily Offended Individual: you’re an ass!

You: but I’m an ass with normal eyes.

Easily Offended Individual: you can go to Hell!

See. If people would just accept the fact that they have a creepy lizard baby, everything would be easier and there would be a lot less occurrences of people who were only being honest, being punched in the face by angry women who are most likely suffering from postpartum depression.

I’m just saying.

Lizard like reflexes.

 

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Squire Sebastian Senator


name tag
A woman has recently cancelled a baby shower because her family and friends are less than fully supportive of her choice of names for the child.

I personally find it reprehensible for a person’s loved ones not to be fully supportive, regardless of how ridiculous this woman’s choice of names may be.

Sure, her choice–Squire Sebastian Senator–is a bit odd, but just think of the character her son will develop by being repeatedly beaten as a child.

What kind of heartless animals are this woman’s family and friends. 

She posted the following statement to Facebook:

“Dear Members of the Squire Sebastian Senator baby shower. I have a really important announcement to make. It brings me pain to have to tell you this, but I am cancelling the event.”

Exactly what I would do. Screw all those people who want to give you a bunch of free stuff; a baby doesn’t need things like diapers or clothes or formula, when he has such a regal sounding name.

Her post went on to read:

“Y’all have been talking s— about my unborn baby. AN UNBORN CHILD. How can you judge an unborn child??”

Some of you might argue that people aren’t talking shit about the child as much as they’re talking shit the THE UNBORN BABY’S batshit crazy mother. Well, you people disgust me.

Her post continued:

“He will not be allowed to have a nickname, he is to be called by his full and complete first name…”

You may thinking the child will receive nicknames regardless of the mother wishes. Nicknames such as:

  • The Kid Who Gets Punched A Lot
  • Crazy Ladies Kid
  • Squire Sebastian Stupid-Face
  • Seabiscuit
  • Squire of Turdville
  • The Kid Who Runs Away From Home A Lot
  • Dwayne

The woman defended her choice, claiming her family is descended from a long line of “both squires and senators.”

She went on to write:

“If you look back in our family tree, the survival of this clan is literally rooted in squiredom. We are all related to senators too. This name conveys power. It conveys wealth. It conveys success.”

I wholehearted agree with this assessment; I am overwhelmed by its undeniable brilliance.

You may be thinking that while the survival of this woman’s clan is literally rooted in squiredom, the child’s survival will be literally rooted in his ability to runaway very quickly from other children throwing rocks. Shame on you.

I wish I had a name like Squire Sebastian Senator. My name is Larry; its sheer boringness has crippled me.

I applaud this woman and I hope she has a dozen more kids, all named as regally as Squire Sebastian Senator.

Godspeed good woman.

Addendum: I’m considering having my name legally changed to Lord Larry Legislator. Then I can just sit back and wait for the power, wealth, and success to start rolling in.

squire boy

Squire Sebastian Senator, but I call him Dwayne.

A Family Christmas at the Fish and Game Club (the Foul Stench of Death)

 

 

 

deer heads

Merry Christmas…not for the deer.

A dark and dusty cabin that sits atop a lonely hill. Filled with cobwebs and death. Some of the dead things are animals that were stuffed and posed for display, some just crawled in and found it a suitable place to die. Morbid, dank, ghoulish, and creepy, it’s the perfect setting for a weird occultic ritual, or in your case: the big family Christmas party.

They’re all there: Grandmother, aunts and uncles, cousins, second cousins, Cousin It, that cousin that everyone thinks is a hobbit, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, not so great-grandchildren, in-laws, outlaws, felons, those still awaiting their court date, significant others, insignificant others, and that weird guy with the eye-patch that doesn’t seem to belong to any particular family, but who always seems to be there.

Upon arrival you must approach your grandmother and “kiss the ring” before doing anything else. One year your cousin Bucky went to get a Coke before “kissing the ring.” His family now refers to that year as the year of tears.

Grandmother sits on her throne, peering down over her kingdom like Yertle the Turtle, but without the Seussian whimsy.

“I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence this year,” she says, her voice filled with reptilian cold-bloodedness.

“Yeah, sorry about not making it last year, but I was in a fairly severe accident,” you defend yourself.

“So severe you couldn’t be here?”

“I had several broken bones and a puncture lung.”

“Just one punctured lung–you have two of them don’t you? Anyway, you should be more careful.”

“The other guy ran a stoplight.”

“Don’t try to blame someone else for your carelessness.”

“He was a serial killer trying to evade the police.”

“I’ll bet he at least spent time with his family.”

“I’m sure he did,” you respond, “it takes time to chop people up and bury them in the backyard.”

You decide to move on as she gives you her look of glaring disapproval–it’s a look you know well.

As you approach the refreshment table you overhear your cousin Beatrice talking to your aunt Mitsy. “How has the Wednesday night book club been going?” Beatrice asks Mitsy.

“Book club?” you say confusedly as you interrupt, “I thought you got together on Wednesday nights to sacrifice small animals, and put curses on those who have disappointed you over the course of the week.”

“We talk about books too,” Mitsy yells defensively.

As this is happening your Uncle Finster and Aunt Sally arrive with their two children, Ignorance and Want.

Note: yes, Ignorance and Want are horrible names for children. Sally read A Christmas Carol one year and badly misinterpreted that part…she’s an imbecile.

As Finster exits the car, an avalanche of empty Coors Light cans spill to the ground.

“Should you be doing that after what happened on Thanksgiving,” Cousin Bucky asks Finster.

Finster stops and reflects for a moment, “I don’t remember Thanksgiving.”

“He doesn’t remember November,” Sally says tersely.

The in-laws are out at the gun range, slugging down vodka, firing weapons into the air, and ruing their life choices. You decide to avoid that.

Your cousin Philippa, the vegan, arrives and regards the various moose and deer heads mounted on the walls with a sense of disgust. “The air in here is rife with the foul stench of death,” she says.

“That’s your Aunt Sally’s three bean salad,” Uncle Finster replies as he unsuccessfully tries to take a swig from an already empty and crumpled Coors Light can, “it could also be your Aunt Sally,” he says with resignation. “I hate my @$#%ing life.”

You suddenly feel a chill that penetrates to your soul. You turn to see your aunt Jackal approaching.

“I see you’re here this year,” her voice drips with disdain, “we missed you last year.”

You know she didn’t miss you the way one human being misses another human being, but more the way a poisonous snake strikes at a bunny rabbit, but misses.

In your mind you play out the possible scenarios for the course this conversation could take. Then you decide screw it. “You are a hideous intolerable bitch and I don’t want your shrill voice piercing my eardrums.” As you walk away you mutter to yourself, “that one is going to cost me big at next Wednesday’s “book club” meeting.”

As you sit and gnaw on dry turkey and three bean salad, (the three bean salad really is shit) you watch a gaggle of your aunts in the corner scheming and peering in your direction. You watch as Sally screams at Ignorance for pulling Want’s hair. You watch in amusement as Finster urinates in the fireplace. He won’t remember December either, you think to yourself.

As you attempt to cut a piece of turkey with your fork, (knives haven’t been allowed at family functions since the stabbing incident of 2009) you watch as one of the in-laws limps in with a fresh gunshot wound. It’s Uncle Gabe–you win the pool.

It’s just another big family Christmas at the fish and gun club.

bad family

These are not your family members…you should be so lucky.

 

The Family Thanksgiving Without a Stabbing…Fingers Crossed

 

Bourbon

The Wild Turkey at your family’s Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is just a few days away and you’re still trying to recover from the previous years festivities.

Your Uncle Gabe attempted to fry the turkey in a deep fryer, which led to him setting fire to most of the barn, part the house, and all of his face. He burned off all of his hair. (Even the hair around his naughty bits.)

Your Uncle Finster was on his way when he was pulled over by a police officer, which led to the following conversation:

Police Officer: there are 15 empty cans of Coors Light on the seat next to you.

Uncle Finster: it’s a long drive–at least 20 minutes.

Police Officer: there’s a child in the backseat playing with a revolver.

Uncle Finster: it’s not loaded.

Police Officer: the child next him is playing with the bullets.

Uncle Finster: don’t worry, she never shares.

Luckily for Finster the police officer was called away due to a convenience store being robbed.

Your cousin Milton was arrested for robbing a convenience store.

It turned into a hostage situation, but since he was the only customer, he was forced to take himself hostage. The police stormed the store, so he shot himself leg. As they dragged him away he was heard yelling, “I didn’t want to do it, but they gave me no choice.”

Your cousin Milton is stupid.

Your aunt Peggy announced that she had taken one of those DNA tests and discovered she is 46% troll. She declared she was going to leave your uncle Karl, live under a bridge, never bathe, consume nothing but other people refuse and rats, and engage in occasional tussles with goats.

Basically her normal routine, just under a bridge.

Your uncle Karl seemed pretty okay with it all.

There were two stabbings last year, but that was down from previous years. You’re hoping that trend continues.

There’s bound to be a few drunken brawls, but you hid your uncle Philbert’s crossbow, so nobody should lose an eye this year.

Your in-laws will gather outside around a barrel fire like a homeless rabble and drink copious amounts of liquor as they shiver and lament their obvious and dreadful life choices. But at least they’ll be outside.

Your aunt Zelda will bring her famous potato salad, so there will be vomiting…some of it projectile. But you’ve invested in a case of Pepto Bismol and a disposable mop.

This year you’re feeling good about things. You’re feeling confident. You’re feeling prepared. You’re feeling hopeful.

Who are you kidding–it’s going to be a disaster.

police lights

“Can’t we have just one Thanksgiving dinner that isn’t lit by police lights?”

Clowns and Penises: A Message to Overbearing Parents

brat kid

What a precious child.

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?

sleestack

Daddy?

 

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 that it is 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 fridge 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 art work involving clowns and penises.)

Do you know what happens when you constantly praise your child for things at which she’s bad? She wastes three years at college majoring in art, when what she actually excels at is smoking pot, wearing berets, growing copious amounts of body hair, and doodling clowns and penises.

Then she comes home with a giant face tattoo, and informs you she’s dropped out of college to focus on her poetry. (Dreadful scribblings that mainly focus on clowns, penises, and when she’s ambitious: clown penises.)

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 riding a unicorn, 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.

gollum

Mommy?

 

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.

fire

The future?

A Wasp Nest and a Bad Idea


wasp nest in tree

“How do you see this ending?” You ask your Uncle Finster.

“I don’t know what you mean?” Your Uncle Finster replies with a touch of petulance intertwined with genuine ignorance as he wildly swings a garden rake at the wasp nest directly above his head. He loses his balance and nearly tumbles from his perch, shakily atop the seat of a riding mower. He steadies himself before taking another wild swipe at the wasp nest.

You pause a moment to reformulate your words. “How do you imagine your state of being in, let’s say, ten minutes from now; do you think you’ll be well or not well?”

“I will be very well once I get rid of this wasp nest,” he says as he takes another swipe, missing the bottom of the nest by an inch. “Wasp nests are very dangerous.”

“They are very dangerous,” you acquiesce, “that’s why I’m standing at a distance and not directly under the wasp nest.”

“You have to break a few eggs to make an omelette.”

“But when you break an egg, wasps don’t fly out and sting in the face a thousand times.”

“Omelettes are delicious,” Uncle Finster admonishes you.

“Omelettes are delicious,” you agree. “A face full of wasp venom: slightly less so.”

Uncle Finster takes another wild swipe at the wasp nest, again barely missing it, this time losing his balance and nearly tumbling to the ground. “Are you here to help me or just to mock?”

“I’m definitely here to mock,” you clarify, “and I suspect to eventually call 911.”

Uncle Finster stops what he’s doing to look at you. “You always think the worst is going to happen.”

“This just reminds me of the time you had that hornet nest in your shed and you attempted to remove it with gasoline and a road flare.”

“I got rid of that hornet nest, didn’t I?”

“You got rid of the shed too.”

“I built a new shed.”

“And we all look forward to you burning that one down.”

Undeterred, Uncle Finster takes another swipe at the nest, again barely missing, and again nearly tumbling to the ground, regaining his balance just in time to swat a wasp from his face.

“That mower seat isn’t the sturdiest thing to stand on,” you warn Uncle Finster.

“This is the sturdiest mower on the market; that’s why I bought it.”

“I thought you bought it because your last mower burned up in the shed.”

Uncle Finster ignores your previous comment. “Maybe if I jump in the air while I swing the rake.”

“Maybe I should just get your ladder,” you offer.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It burned up in the shed too,” Uncle Finster tells you as he crouches down in preparation to jump.

“Of course it did,” you reply.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I have to get rid of this thing before my big kick-off-to-the-Summer Memorial Day picnic. I wouldn’t want anything to ruin it–my kick-off-to-the-Summer Memorial Day picnics always go so well.”

“What about last year?” you question.

“What about last year?” he demands.

“Uncle Philbert had a heart attack and fell face first into Aunt Peggy’s coleslaw.”

Uncle Finster halted his assault on the wasp nest for a moment to stop and reflect. “Aunt Peggy was really mad that no one would eat her coleslaw after that, but let’s be honest: nobody was going to eat that coleslaw,” he pauses for a moment to reflect with disgust, “she puts prunes in it.”

“Actually, Uncle Philbert’s heart attack was the main thrust of my point.”

Uncle Finster straightens and addresses you with all seriousness, “He survived didn’t he?”

“What about the year cousin Erina got the lawn dart stuck in her head?”

“She’s had worse things stuck in her head and it’s not like she’s going to get more stupid,” he says as he leaps in the air, unleashes a mighty swing at the wasp nest and catches the bottom of it. Uncle Finster crashes to the ground, followed by the rake which takes a strategic path straight to his forehead followed by the wasp nest and all its inhabitants.

It was glorious.

Uncle Finster did destroy the wasp nest. The admitting nurse at the emergency room laughed hysterically at pictures you got on your phone. And the wasps rebuilt their nest in Uncle Finster’s new shed.

So, all’s well that ends well…very well.

emergency

“It says here on your chart that you’re a dumbass.”

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Just a Fact

Every parent believes their child is an adorable, angelic, bundle of perfection.

brat

You are horribly mistaken!

(You know who you are.)

Which is the Worst?


hard choices

 

Which of these scenarios is the worst?

scenario #1

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.

 scenario #2

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.

scenario #3

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.)

scenario #4

You have to swim a mile through raw sewage and dead rats, and you have to use the breaststroke.

scenario #5

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?

potato salad

Your aunt always uses too much eye of newt.

Uncle Finster’s Picnic and Brightly Colored Marshmallows


colored marshmallows

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.

jackal

Your Aunt Jackal in her natural habitat. She’s probably just killed something.

“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.

green jell-o

This would be great if it contained chunks of seedless watermelon.

 

Dragons, Lies, and Dragonflies

dragonfly

They’re really hard to catch.

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.

dragon

Little Cousin Erina–post transformation.

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