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sext: "It sucks your train is delayed but it gives me more time to work out all these farts."
When you can't pronounce items on the ingredient list, all that means is that you can't pronounce items on the ingredient list.
The dads in our suburban neighborhood are mobbing street. Looks tense. Oh god, a squat-thrust competition just broke out CALL THE POLICE.
It's Father's Day! Go hang out in a stinky bathroom for a few hours. You deserve it, guys.
I donate $10 to Planned Parenthood every time I wake up at 3am simultaneously starving, gagging and popping tums.
Let the teenage bros at the Y know you are not impressed with their swearing by calling them a bunch of whiny cunts.
"Can't wait until you're no longer pregnant."
"Yeah but then we'll have another baby."
"A baby is easier than dealing with pregnant you."
I love this age, where all she thinks it takes to be a princess is a pretty dress. (And queens wear yoga pants.)
You'd think the person who got a pea stuck up their nose would be the toddler. You'd think.
Look, chief, my kid isn't actually shy. I only say that to get you to leave her alone. You're freaking her out.
Synchronized eyerolls from me and the cashier as the middle-aged white guy from Palo Alto asks "What's an EBT card? Do I have one of those?"
We're at the stage of toddlerhood where she asks me to sing Paul Anka while she fake-cries on the toilet and I don't know how we got here.
"That's a scorpion and that's Orion and his shield protects him from being rocked like a hurricane." Reading Greek myths. Kind of.
Oh that? That's just some tomato sauce in my kid's hair. I dropped a pizza on her head. Like you do.
Giving Margaret a bath, explaining what OPP means, winning all the parenting awards.
Hey, turtleface. Want a peanut? sprattacus [at] gmail