Wednesday, November 30, 2011

moving day!!!!

I've moved. You can now find this amazing compendium of dickjokes and ill thought out rants over at the vastly more fashionable

See you fucks over there!

Monday, November 28, 2011

Plum Island

Well, I hope all you lard-asses had a nice Thanksgiving! Me? Oh, I ate until mashed potatoes leaked out of my dickhole like some kind of slow trickle, really tasty gonorrhea and I drank my fill of beer and wine and whiskey, all while watching vastly more football than I could ever hope to give a fuck about. It was a tri-generational affair that was, overall, a great success. I particularly enjoyed the fact that, with my whole family stuffed into my house and nowhere to go and nothing to do but sit around in our slovenly cycle of compulsively gorging and passing out, I was able to watch a few movies that I really like.

There was absolutely nothing on that fit the criteria of being both A) interesting looking and B) something I’d never seen before so I settled on some of my old faves like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (one of the most fun movies of all time) Private Parts (actually not that great overall when you really dissect it, but a great portrait of a pretty spectacular career and personality nonetheless) and finally, Silence Of the Lambs, which is totally terrific in every way.

While watching Silence of the Lambs in my near comatose state I was struck by a thought: Namely, that I will never be brutally or senselessly murdered. This is, obviously, not a rational thought at all, but as I was sitting there watching Buffalo Bill get that woman to help him get his mattress or whatever into his van, I found myself thinking “that kind of shit will never happen to me.” Several reasons why not instantly came to mind.

Firstly and mostly, I’m not the kind of person that gets senselessly murdered. I don’t live in a bad neighborhood, I’m a fairly large male, I’m not wealthy, I’m not often out late, I’m almost never completely alone, and most importantly, I’m not a prostitute. The kinds of people who get senselessly, brutally murdered are usually women, kids, prostitutes of all kinds, hobos and people who go around with lots of drugs or money on them. I don’t do any of that stuff.

For another thing, it just seems unfathomable that I’d find myself in that kind of situation where I’d be helping someone get something into their van or get outsmarted and wind up trapped in some kind of torture pit or whatever. I think I’m a little too paranoid for that kind of thing. And finally, it just seems unfathomable. That kind of stuff, while widely sensationalized, is pretty uncommon. Most people don’t like killing other people and of those very few that do, they don’t end up killing THAT many people in the great scheme of things (regime leaders and bigtime gangsters notwithstanding) and I just think the odds are in my favor to the point where I don’t have to worry about psychopaths any more than I have to worry about, say, nukes or leprosy.

But you know what? NOBODY thinks they’re gonna be savagely murdered, even the people who end up as nothing more than a cock and balls in the crisper of Dahmer’s fridge. Those guys didn’t think they’d get savagely and senselessly tortured and murdered. That chick helping Buffalo Bill get the mattress into his van didn’t think she was doing one of the last things she’d ever do (I realize the two major flaws in this example…just bear with me here). To use some slightly different examples that are all over the news, Joe Paterno didn’t think his legacy was gonna be ‘pederast sympathizer’ and back when she was just partying and getting pregnant and being pregnant and having kids Casey Anthony didn’t think she was gonna be known to the world as the worst, luckiest mom of all time.

I have an acquaintance in Germany (the guy who had all the Iranian fighting cocks in his living room for those of you long time BSC readers) who’s ex father in law was so fed up with his wife’s shitty attitude that one day he went into her supermarket, blew off both her legs with a shotgun while she was working and then killed himself. He’d never been even remotely violent or hot headed before. There was no indication he was gonna snap. I bet NEITHER of them thought that’s how they’d go out, but uh…whoa.

Similarly, that lady with the chimp that ate her face, she had a whole life made up of little accomplishments, hopes, dreams, fears and noteworthy moments that, until that chimp ripped her face off, were gonna be the sum of her existence. She wasn’t thinking that she was gonna be torn apart and given one of the first face transplants and live out the rest of her days blind and crippled because her shitty choice in pets went crazy and pulled her into pieces.

Do you see my point? I don’t THINK I’m gonna be savagely murdered, but John Lennon’s last thoughts were probably ‘hey, this dude’s reading Catcher In The Rye’ and I’m almost positive that those Ed Gein dead skin mask girls didn’t think they’d end up as lampshades.

Life is fucking WEEEEEEEEEIRD, man. You really never, ever know what’s gonna happen next. One day you’re just rolling around, being awesome and the next day a bunch of weirdos are cutting off your tits for hats while you’re forced to listen to someone read a TV guide in the back of a body shop.

My point is, be careful out there. This place is full of dicks.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

a foreign national's guide to the traditional american thanksgiving feast

Well, international readers of BSC, thanksgiving is upon us and as always it’s this time of year when depressed American losers such as myself sit around and listen to everyone carrying on and on about what they’re thankful for. In just two short days, we’ll all come together and stuff ourselves full of shitty foods that we seem to recognize aren’t that good 364 days of the year. The object (and I’m not making this up) is to make yourself so full that you become hugely uncomfortable and eventually pass out in the vapor of your own gluttonous sloth. A true thanksgiving victory is only achieved if, after your nap, you go back and pack more food into yourself. The farting gets pretty atrocious, honestly.

The food, it should be noted, is not only unhealthy but also prepared in such a way that encourages rabid gluttony. This is particularly interesting because the ACTUAL items being prepared (let’s just go with the basics: turkey, potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans and cranberries) are extremely healthy (the exception being potatoes which are neither healthy nor bad for you in their natural state…like brandy). HOWEVER, these items, once thanksgivinged become some of the most deviant monuments to slothful corpulence ever assembled on one table. Let’s examine, eh?

The turkey: Turkey (no skin!) is one of the healthiest meats out there. It’s lean, it’s packed with protein, it’s gross so you can’t eat too much of it. It’s practically a superfood. On thanksgiving this cannot stand, so what do we do? Well, we stuff an entire turkey with a mixture of bread, eggs and meat and then smear butter all over the skin so the skin itself becomes crispy and even MORE deliciously bad for us (Some Americans, not content to stuff the turkey with such mundane items actually stuff the turkey with a duck that’s been stuffed with a hen that’s been stuffed with ham [I am not making this up]) . We cover the turkey with various fatty drools (gravy!) and shovel it down by the bucketful. But hey, if you’re gonna go crazy on something on thanksgiving, make it turkey. It’s still healthier than everything else on the table and it won’t be as awkward as going crazy on your creepy uncle that used to make you shower with him.

Potatoes: Potatoes are so often made into unhealthy treats that it’s tempting to suggest that the potato itself is unhealthy. It’s not. It just tastes terrible unless you smear it with grease and butter and lard. On thanksgiving, America has taken it a step further by not only mixing potatoes with insane amounts of heavy cream and butter, but also liquefying the mixture into a smooth consistency that could be consumed with a straw. There is nothing as completely emblematic of the fallacy of the healthy American diet as a gigantic pile of buttery mashed potatoes covered in gravy being greedily inhaled through a straw by an obese four year old boy. I don’t know if that happens (it probably does) but it’s not a stretch to imagine it, is it? That means we’re doomed.

Sweet Potatoes: These are a real genuine superfood. Good thing we cover them with butter, sugar, honey, cinnamon and a fucking LAYER OF MARSHMELLOWS before we serve them. Yes, this shit is delicious. It’s the best vegetable preparation ever. But when this is the healthiest thing on the table, it’s a lot like looking around at your new roommates and deciding to share a room with the rapist because he seems the most sane and at least he seems to shower every once in a while.

Green Beans: We put the green beans into a casserole dish. We cover the greenbeans with cream of mushroom soup (cream, mushrooms). We cover that with some indeterminate little deep fried crispy things that can’t possibly have anything to do with the natural world. This is technically eating greenbeans. It’s also technically picking around greenbeans to eat mouthfuls of heavy cream-soaked little crispy things.

Cranberries: another ‘superfood’ (I hate that term by the way. Broccoli used to just be something you should eat because it’s a green vegetable. Now, we spend so many meals eating flaming hot cheetos and twix bars and shit that the natural benefits of a regular old vegetable have been somehow elevated to super human. Nice. [I love flaming hot cheetos and twix by the way]). However, you won’t really recognize your little buddy the round, berry-esque cranberry on the thanksgiving table. No. In fact, all that’s left of the cranberry is a gelatinous mass that is shaped exactly like the tin can it came in and sliced into discs. This is another one of those items that could be readily consumed with a straw if you felt that lifting and lowering the fork was too much work.

Of course, after all this come the pies. Pies are SUPPOSED to be bad for you, so I’m not gonna really waste time admonishing everyone for having pies. Pies are okay. My wife makes a pumpkin cheesecake that will melt your dick right off. It’s so spectacularly good. One slice contains the annual caloric intake of a typical Darfurian too, so it’s PACKED with energy. In fact, if you don’t go run like, seventeen miles (or hectares or whatever) right after you have a slice, you can actually sit there and watch your dick disappear into your expanding abdomen.

Well, that’s all, internationals! I hope this little breakdown was enlightening. You all have a happy, regular old ho-hum Thursday while we here in America prove, once again, that as long as we’re the fattest we are the best. USA! USA!


Monday, November 21, 2011

Here he is! Your new American Idol!!!

Let’s say you got onto American Idol. What would you do? We are gonna have to make a few assumptions, and here they are: 1) you can sing well enough that you got on the show and 2) you enjoy singing. That’s all. Essentially, you’re just like you now, only instead of being untalented and full of spite and bile, you’re a good singer with an enjoyment of something, dig? Okay. Oh, we need to make one more assumption and that’s that this new season of American Idol, the one you’re on, is somehow still relevant and if you win, you WILL become a very successful recording artist, albeit one that works with Coca Cola and Ford and all that shit, but hey, you’re gonna be singing for a living and that’s better than the shitty job you have now.

Yes, the whole thing is perhaps a little unsavory. While getting onto American Idol is a great opportunity, there’s no doubt that it’s pretty brutal in a lot of ways. You’ll be scrutinized by the world, your appearance will be ridiculed (probably, look at yourself for fucks sake!), your singing will be criticized harshly, you’ll be forced to sing dorky songs with horrendous arrangements and you’ll be constantly judged by three complete dipshits. You’ll have to publically beg America to like you and you’ll be forced into the indentured servitude of doing shitty commercials for the aforementioned Ford Scion and various Coke products. People will speculate that you’re gay, or a little bit too fat. They will, if you proceed onwards, interview your horribly embarrassing parents and your friends and they’ll take a camera crew to the house where you grew up and they’ll exploit every inch of everything that you feel is true and good and genuine about yourself all in the name of revenue. You’ll have to talk to Ryan Seacrest. You’ll watch as the person you’ve always prided yourself on being is reduced to an archetype with questionable (at best) taste in music as you belt out shit like Heard It Through The Grapevine or The Lady In Red. It will not be entirely pleasant.

BUT! You’ll be in LA living in a nice hotel. You’ll be famous. People will want to do nice things for you. Your selection of dicks/vaginas on demand will greatly increase. You’ll have the chance to show the world your talent. You’ll get shit for free. You’ll potentially step ever closer to living the dream of just doing something you like, seeing the world and getting paid for doing nothing more than you’d already do in the shower every day. If you win, or even just do well, you’ll be able to tell everyone in your life that you don’t like to go fuck themselves. You can make as much or as little of your fame as you want once the show is over, meaning that if you decide the limelight’s not for you, you can just not do any touring or recording and you’ll eventually fade back into obscurity. OR you can tour and make records and wind up in crazy hot tub parties with Diddy and Ke$ha and piles and piles of strawberry cocaine. It’s your choice.

So what do you do? Do you try as hard as you can? Do you play the game? Do you show people a really palatable version of yourself and do the interviews and jump through the hoops? Do you really take the criticism to heart and go for it with everything you’ve got? Do you forego sleep and leisure to do everything you can to insure that you’re gonna move forward and give it the best possible try you can?

Or do you just act like yourself, wear the clothes you normally wear, show up, sing the songs you want to sing, not putting any more effort into it than you do with your regular day to day life in the hopes that your “realness” will win over the hearts and minds of America, and generally treat the whole thing like a game?

Or perhaps you actively try to subvert the entire thing, doing things so outrageous, picking such bizarre songs, acting like such a maniac that the show has no choice but to deal with your shenanigans, perhaps forcibly removing you or asking the audience to vote you off? What’s your move? Do you squander the chance of a lifetime because it’s not ideal or do you bust your dick/clam to make the most of it because the ultimate result would be better than right now?

Because when you consider the amount of eggs in your mom’s uterus and the zillions of loads in your dad’s balls (eeew), just getting here, getting born, is like winning the lottery and this place that we all occupy does, indeed feature avenues by which, if you bust your ass, can end in mind boggling success and a life of doing exactly what you want to do. There’s essentially no difference between getting born and going to LA with American Idol. Both offer the chance of insane success and morbid embarrassment and both can be subverted, ignored or squeezed for every precious opportunity. Just being here is pretty fucking exciting. Sure, it’s scary and it sucks a lot of the time and people are cruel and confusion and shittiness abounds on a massive scale. Dickheads like Ryan Seacrest are around every corner being vapidly awesome at collecting money for nothing discernable and self doubt is pervasive and there’s always someone younger, better looking and more talented than you doing exactly what you’re trying to do but just so much better.

But man, what the fuck is the point if you don’t try to give it every single bit of energy you have? This is the only chance you’re ever gonna get at this, this one life, right here that you’re living in. While you sit there in the dark, slowly whacking off over the course of 4 straight hours, you’re literally the youngest and most dynamic that you’ll EVER be again. You’ll be dead soon, and you can definitely subvert existence or ignore it and look back on a life full of bong hits, internet porn, texting and a zillion endless days feeling like a useless shithead. You can. A lot of us will. But that’s gonna be depressing. When you die, wouldn’t it be nice to remember that even if you fucked it all up, at least you did your best to do SOMETHING?

Of course there’s also the argument that if you’re just destined to be a shithead failure, it’s much nicer to just let the current carry you. Fighting only gets you tired, and makes your meat tough and stringy.

Eh, I dunno. I just thought maybe you’d like a little motivation on a blue Monday.

Or not. Fuck it. Who cares?

Friday, November 18, 2011

Sweet, what's mine say?


Thanks. We now return to our prepared program:

How fucking stoked is Ashton Kutcher today? He’s getting divorced. He’s fucking STOKED!!!! Think about this: he’s been married to an older (admittedly smoking hot) woman with three kids for the past six years. He’s a ‘beautiful drifter’ millionaire who’s been playing dad and house and acting like it’s okay that his wife goes to bed at 8 and gives him two blowjobs every quarter and generally, shit’s probably been good (sixth anniversary hot tub infidelity fuckfest notwithstanding). Fuck, man. That marriage rocketed him into the land of the superstar.

Obviously, though, he’s a guy and a desirable one at that (not to me, I find him to be a little too feminine and doughy, but still) and the notion of how many awesome, wanton, under the table/in the hallway/up against the speaker in the club/six faced blowjobs he could be getting from hot, enthusiastic women every single minute of every single day has not been lost on him. For six plus years he’s watched his mom-wife work up the nerve to stay awake late enough to bone him and now, now he’s free. What a day it must be to be Ashton Kutcher. It’s like waking up and realizing you no longer have acid reflux or Chron’s disease. The world is suddenly your oyster, and this has GOT to be made even sweeter because in Ashton’s case, the Chron’s disease made him rich and famous beyond his wildest dreams.

In fact, a more accurate assessment of what’s gotta be happening in Ashton’s life would be if we correlate him with Midas. He went for it, found out that his wish wasn’t all it seemed, then somehow parlayed that into being able to turn shit to gold whenever he wants (of course the gold in this case is hot anal sex with anonymous stewardesses on sexy international flights) without any of the ‘prisoner in my own wish’ elements at play. He’s beaten the system and here’s the best part:

Most people get divorced and they’ve got kids and it’s shitty and it makes you sad and poor and you get spit out on the other side and you’re old and you’re out of the game and you don’t know what the fuck to do or how to get laid or even talk to single people and you’re surrounded by all the weirdos who are single and everyone seems like a loser and you’re not even interested and the people you’re interested in aren’t interested in you and you miss your kids and you cry and you eat dogfood right out of the can in your shitty one bedroom ‘bachelor pad’ because you can’t even afford off brand spaghetti-o’s and you don’t shave and you get fat and your wife starts fucking someone that you just KNOW is not only giving it to her better than you did, but ALSO getting blowjobs from her and that burns you up inside and again, you cry and you realize that you can’t go home again. For better or for worse you’ve been domesticated and turdified and the you that was out there contemplating getting married vs ‘all the pussy I could get if I don’t’ get married’ is long dead and all that’s left is you, your dogfood breath and your porn collection for the rest of your sad, armpit stained days.

But that’s not Ashton, man. Those kids weren’t even his!!!!!!! He’s skipping out of those privacy gates like someone who just took a six years in the making, six foot long impacted dump. He’s only what? Thirty two? He’s one of the most well paid dudes in Hollywood and the people that are interested in fucking him? Well, if you lined them up, they’d stretch to the sun and back sixteen times. In fact, he’s got, by my count, about fifteen years of just fucking everything under the stars and sleeping in and not giving a fuck before he Demi Moore’s some young starlet, knocks her up and maybe marries her.

At that point, he should have it all figured out. Although he seems like he’s terribly stupid. Maybe he’ll just hop right into another tired old bag who’s already been there and blown that, and he’ll fuck up THIS beautiful rebirth as bad as he fucked up The Butterfly Effect (which was a genius piece of cinema ruined by Ashton’s over the top performance [I can’t even bullshit this…that was one of the most uniquely shitty movies I’ve ever seen…his name was Chris Treborn?!!? That’s some heavy handed shit, folks]).

Ah, I dunno. Maybe he’ll fuck it up eventually, but for now, what I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall of the room that contains his disgusting, herpes and syphilis laden petri dish of a hot tub. I bet the party is just getting started.

Have a good weekend.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

rambling incoherence

It’s a busy day. I’ve got some meetings and then I’ve got Falcon practice because we’re playing a show with the mighty Naked Raygun at Metro next Wednesday. Bring your grandmas folks, because this amazing performance by the Falcon is sure to drench the panties bunched around even the most ancient and desiccated vaginas. That’s a moneyback guarantee folks (not valid). So come out to the Metro on the day before thanksgiving and throw your bras and dickslings, eh?

Anyway, last time I rapped at you I was talking about parent/teacher conferences and I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Of course, it’s short sighted to feel too good about anything that’s going on in schools when congress is declaring that pizza is a vegetable and making sure that our kids get plenty of delicious fries with every lunch. Not to mention, it seems like there’s been a real spate of child buttrapes in the news lately, which is disheartening, to put it mildly. I mean, don’t get me wrong, whenever I’m showering with a bunch of kids just going about the ins and outs of regular old naked, sudsed up horseplay, a penis can sometimes up and slip right inside someone, (who HASN’T had that awkward experience? Am I right?) but this isn’t about who raped whom or who’s pawning off horrific monstrosities as ‘towel snapping’ (though it bears mentioning that one of the big defenses for Sandusky’s actions is something along the lines of [and I’m paraphrasing his pedophile lawyer here] ‘He’s a big kid, a jock. That’s what jocks do, they take showers after practice and they roughhouse and stuff.” Okay, firstly, I was involved in various organized team sports from the time I was 4 until I was sixteen. In all that time, I NEVER once experienced a team shower. The notion seemed and still seems weird, and no one wanted [wants] to get naked around each other and well, I can’t be alone on this one. I’m pretty sure that the team shower is the stuff of movies. I remember that sophomore year we were ordered to shower after swimming class in gym but realistically only about 2 dudes did it and even then it was in their swimsuits [and they were the dweebs].

(But fine, I’ll accept that maybe it happens. I never played organized football. Maybe team showers are the holy communion of football practice. Maybe [and I’m doubting this seriously] everyone positively LIVES for the team showers afterwards. BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The coach is NOT EXERCISING DURING PRACTICE, and therefore DOESN’T REALISTICALLY NEED A SHOWER AT THE END OF PRACTICE [I am, for the sake of giving the benefit of the doubt {barf} ignoring the completely inappropriate nature of being a grown man and jumping into a shower with someone else’s kids]. I don’t think that there’s any way to spin that one. If you’re showering with my son, sorry. I’d like to see you in jail if you’re not my wife or someone age appropriate that he’s dating or at the very least someone he very much wants to bang [you know, once he’s old enough for that kind of thing to become a non-creepy, reasonable idea.] There’s just no reasonable excuse that places a naked old man in a shower with naked kids, right? Right? Okay. Good. Glad we had this talk).

No, my concern is with the fact that they’re beginning to phase out cursive in schools!!!!! Can you believe it! An outmoded, nigh unreadable style of writing that only serves to confound and annoy and then be suddenly forgotten is being phased out of curriculum! What the fuck? But I learned cursive! So did my mom and dad! Holy fucking SHIT!!!! NO CURSIVE? What’s next? Rape showers and force feeding our kids plastic garbage? Oh. Okay, let’s keep some things in perspective, eh?

Cursive is useless. Well, I guess it’s not ENTIRELY useless. Women continue to write in some form of bastardized cursive their entire lives. I suppose it’s technically important to have an exercise that forces children to correctly manipulate their fine motor skills in unplanned ways, but cursive is hardly necessary these days, what with all the typing that people do. I mean, I hardly write shit down at all anymore (and when I do, its not in cursive) but fine. I’ll admit that my ‘cursive is useless’ statement is kind of harsh, but you know what? There are other ways to teach fine motor development. How about a regimented art class? How about music classes with instruments? How about fucking knitting? People make LIVINGS making music and art and scarves, but there’s not a fucking person on the earth who’s paying the bills by writing cursive.

It just infuriates me. Our nation is fat and slovenly, lazy and riddled with diabetes. We construct nothing in this country. Yet we shave off art and gym and shop classes like it’s no big deal at all and then something completely outmoded and antiquated gets put on the chopping block and people lose their fucking minds. I mean, I don’t fucking understand. We had plenty of time to learn cursive along with everything else and now that there’s no gym or art or music, it seems like there’s PLENTY of time for cursive, but whatever. I don’t think it’s worth getting pissy about.

In fact, I think the whole thing is fucking stupid, but you know what? This is what we’ve sown. The last forty years has been a systematic pillaging of the social and physical infrastructure that the ‘greatest generation’ (an infuriating but shockingly apt moniker, at least in terms of what I’ve seen) by my parents’ generation. And the worst part is that they didn’t even raise us well enough to give a fuck or fix it. Look around. We’re all visionary geniuses now, myself included. Everyone’s great and no one fails and OUR kids are EVEN WORSE. We’re fucked, people. They’re dumping mercury in lake Michigan and running out of money in Detroit. Prisons are now legal slave labor camps that have created a powerful slavery lobby (in the name of the drug war) and nobody has a job and the only fuckers getting rich are the same dicks that got us into this mess in the first place.

Fucking cursive. Fuck cursive. I’m moving to Uruguay.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Don't tell me how to raise MY kids!

Last week I attended my very first parent/teacher conference as a parent. For some reason I feel like I used to go to the parent/teacher conferences when they were about me, but that could be wrong. No matter. The point here is that I went in there, listened to a very nice older woman talk about my kid, who she told me, as nicely as possible, is an utter spaz. He can’t sit still and he likes climbing and running and when he has to sit still, it’s pretty much an impossible task. He’s no longer allowed to sit next to his best friend because together they’re an unholy menace.

I don’t really care about that shit. I mean, sure, I’d like him to be well behaved and not be disruptive, but he’s a three year old boy and I’ve got what I believe are fairly realistic expectations of what is to be expected of him. As far as I’m concerned, all that shit will fall into place, and there is really only one thing I want him to take away from preschool: the ability to make and maintain friendships (this includes big, important intangibles like socialization and also simple pragmatic things like not just being a dick and punching someone in the face because you feel like it), and it seems like he’s doing that just fine, so whatever.

However, I also know that it’s a teacher’s job to assess and communicate any issues that could potentially be concerns and that the absolutely shittiest part of a teacher’s job is dealing with parents who are inclined to argue with the teacher’s assessment or dismiss it as shortsighted, prejudiced or in some cases an outright attack. Teachers have a shitty, hard job. I deal with two kids that I love more than anything on earth and after about two hours I am completely at the end of my rope. Teachers deal with dozens of little shits every day who they have no genetic imperative to love or nurture, and kids, when put into groups, go fucking bonkers. I can’t imgine how shitty it must be to endure day after day and then, when the teacher finally sees the malicious, shitty, dumb kid’s parents and expresses concern, the parents say things like “you just don’t like our son. He’s plenty smart” or whatever the fuck it is they say. The upshot of this is that although I’m not overtly concerned about my son’s designation as a spaz (and I’m completely stoked that he’s made a bunch of friends and seems to be popular) I listened and talked through it with his teacher and I’m gonna be sure to work on helping focus his energy at home to hopefully make the teacher’s life easier.

I talked to a few other parents in my kid’s class though, and I was amazed at how defensive and shitty they got when relaying to me the minor issues (because these kids are so small, it’s all minor issues) that the teacher said their kids have. One parent was mad that the teacher said that their kid wasn’t developing skipping skills (which is admittedly kind of stupid), apparently and another parent was livid that the teacher suggested that their child was an aggressive kid who was prone to getting up in people’s faces. These people were kind of mad, but what the fuck? Those are things that could, potentially be concerns. Gross motor skills and socialization. That’s the bread and butter of preschool assessment, man.

How the fuck can you get upset about that shit? What is the endgame? You can’t possibly imagine that the teacher would just create a hostile parent/teacher conference just out of the ether for no reason other than she dislikes your child. That’s just inviting a fight for no reason. It seems to me, that, were I a teacher, when the really shitty, hopeless kid’s parents came in, I’d say “eh, he seems fine” and be done with it. But that’s because I’m lazy and really not cut out to be a teacher.

And yes, I DO realize that especially as kids get older, there are shitty, vindictive, completely fucked up teachers out there and that they may in fact hold grudges and throw little petty hissyfits about my child even if he’s an absolute angel (ha!) and that will be something to navigate and deal with as the situation arises, AND I guess that I can think of some three year olds that really, truly rub me the wrong way, so I guess it’s not a TOTAL stretch to say that perhaps these parents are not just bent out of shape for no reason, but fuck me, man. This is a sweet little old lady preschool teacher we’re talking about here (and YES, I’m aware that sweet old lady preschool teachers can be terrible people when the parents aren’t around too) and it’s not like any of it matters.

Look around at all the people around you right now. Notice anything about them? They’re all completely demented and fucked up and gross and rude and unbelievable. At best they’re dorks and at worst they’re YOUR disgusting friends and family. Everyone in this place ends up fucking crazy and bizarre. There’s no way out. Somebody calling your child an absolute angel and blowing platitudes up your ass isn’t gonna save ‘em, and their inability to skip or keep their hands to themselves, (while they are things you should work on with your child), isn’t gonna be the fault that tips them into the depravity they’re eventually destined to inhabit. The only thing to do is just get out there and try to encourage your kids not to punch or kick or choke. And hope they make some good friends, because nothing will fuck up a kid so fast as bad friends or a bad girlfriend/boyfriend situation. That’s how you get into TROUBLE.

But my kid is 3. So I’m not too worried about that yet. Besides, the only way to combat bad friends/boyfriends/girlfriends is to be a good example yourself, so well, chances are, you’re either completely fucked or all set from day one.