Man…good morning. It’s cold. It’s colder than a witch’s tit drinking bud ice through one of those Coors color-cold bottle situations. It’s colder than the Situation’s doorman during a Jersey blizzard. It’s colder than a brand new Elizabeth Edwards joke. It’s cold, folks. Heyo. Take my wife please!
My baby is crying. This is something that’s been going on for the last straight 36 hours or so and it’s no stretch to say by the end of the night last night, I was going nucking futs. I recall a friend of mine once saying “it really only takes about ten minutes for a crying baby to start making you crazy” and that’s true. It really, truly is. Yesterday, however, I woke up to this beast just screaming and that was at 5. By the time I put her older brother down for bed at 8, I’d had a fifteen hour day with a soundtrack that can only be referred to as “the wailing of baby girl in C sharp as a toddler screams ‘daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ over and over again and points to various candybars and things that he’d like to have. Thrill a minute, lemme tell you.
Today, he’s found himself a kazoo. And it’s too cold to go outside. I mean, mo-ther-fu-cker. What do you have to do to get some peace around here: load your kids into the car and drive it into a lake?
Eh, that probably wouldn’t work, as then the cops would be all over the place and I’d be all bereaved and my wife would be screaming and I’d be screaming and then we’d see the kazoo laying there and just lose it. I’m sure I’d barf through my tears…Nope. That kind of thing’s not for me, I guess.
I guess I’ll say this for those people who take out their kids: I don’t know how they can do it. I’d be completely devastated if my daughter (the less interesting of the two by far, for now) lost even so much as a little toe. And that’s the kind of thing that, as an infant, you can really bounce back from. Even still, though, I’d be so bummed. God, when my wife cuts her fingernails (a task I’d rather die than attempt) and nicks her, I pretty much lose it. Hell, I can’t even stand this, where she’s just crying in the next room for no good reason.
But hey, that’s MY kids. I mean, I’ve got some sort of genetic imperative that makes it so I HAVE to love and protect them even if they’re awful, right (side note, there’s nothing that exemplifies the parasitic and revolting nature of the media as the swarm of jackals that descend upon the parents of [let’s say] Jeffery Dahmer the day after the story breaks and ask if, knowing what they know about what a horrible monster their son is, do they still love him…What kind of a fucking answer can you possibly have to that question? Either way, you’re horrible. An “Uh…nope?” pretty much makes you the reason that he’s into storing dicks in his freezer and an “Of course” makes you completely insensitive to all the victim’s families. Why would you ever put someone who’s just finding out extremely bad news [my kid eats other people] in that position?
(It’s like when you [assuming ‘you’ in this case is male] get in a fight with a woman: you have two options: beat her ass, in which case you’re a complete shitglob, or you get your ass kicked, in which case uh…wow, you got beat up by a girl. Nice one, guy. Does your husband know you’re out picking fights?)? Of course I do. But what about the other shit that people do? Things that aren’t harming their kids; could I do that stuff?
Like the people who just sneak up on motherfuckers with bats (for example) and beat them to death for no real reason? That’s pretty wild. I have such an aversion to the sight of blood or the sound of flesh ripping or being contused that it’s safe to say that there’s no way I could ever become a violent psychopath. No way. Even if the world changed drastically and that was the new way straight to the top: skinning dudes for their back pelts, I don’t think I could ever do it in a million years. I don’t even like the idea of fighting. I mean, I can and have in the past punched someone if the situation demands (I do whatever Mr Sorrientino says) but once it gets to stomping or stabbing, I’m out. That shit’s WAY too much for me. In fact, it’s so opposite to what I feel that I’m capable of, that if the chips were down, I’d probably rather fuck a horse than stab a guy (to bring this full circle into what standup comedians call a ‘callback’ to Monday’s entry “Horse Fucking”).
Okay, there are lots of mitigating factors: who’s the guy, what’s our relationship, what kind of horse, is there foreplay, what kind of knife, where do I stab him, is the horse at least kind of hot? etc. and let me put it this way: if the guy had in any way harmed anyone I love, and that goes from casual friends all the way up to my kids, well, I’d have no choice but to stab him, BUT, if the guy was even just a total asshole who’d never really wronged anyone I love…even if he’d wronged me (let’s take my mom’s ex boyfriend Michael Gratz of the famed hidden-shit-in-the-summer-house-debacle as a great example [I don’t recall liking him very much]) I think I’d rather fuck the horse. Regardless of equine hotness.
Yeah, okay, let’s be clear since of course there’s nothing so exciting as adding your own context to an outrageous statement: I’m in no way condoning horse fucking. In fact, I went and followed the link that one of my Dogs of War left in the Sock Drawer the other day and started watching that documentary called “Animal Passions” and I found it to be disgusting. I mean, I guess technically I don’t REALLY care, but when there’s a dude sitting there obviously checking out the rumps of a field of horses and talking about it lasciviously with his fellow beast-porker, it’s just so wrong, on such a visceral level, that I can’t get down with any notion of the horse not minding or anything like that. It’s gross, and weird and so, so terribly gross and weird.
BUT!!! I’d rather stab a horse (if you know what I mean, wink wink nudge nudge) with me bits n pieces than stab a person (or an animal for that matter) with a knife. Even in the leg. It’s just not something I think I could do.
Okay, this little baby girl is going absolutely apeshit and she’s either shit her pants or she’s hungry. Either way, something tells me she’s not gonna do a goddamn thing about it, so I guess I gotta go.