Child Nazi

Recently, I've started to think that, hey, maybe having a kid or two one day wouldn't suck so much cock after all. I know I should probably stop comparing parenting to fellatio before that happens, but bygones.

The main reason why I want to have a kid is that I want to do it better than anyone else. Yep, for me parenting will be a competitive endeavour. I've said for years now that should a global council be formed with the sole purpose of deciding who may and may not have children I would like to be vice-chair. I watch way too much Rachel Maddow to allow hicks who essentially vote in favour of their own poverty to keep on procreating. It's not even my country, true, but things are seriously frightening down there, y'all.

I would love to say that I will be a modest if amazing parent, never judging others for their choices, but that would be a blatant lie.

"What? You let your kid drink actual dairy milk instead of unsweetened organic soy milk?"

"Pardon me? You don't buy 100% peanuts peanut butter and then doctor it with sea salt and honey yourself to avoid all the hydrogenated oils and preservatives?"

Yeah. I'm gonna be that guy. My kid will be allowed to bring whatever boy or girl he or she is dating home, but no fucking way is that little shit eating so much as one Chicken McNugget so long as they live under my roof.

Don't you love how I think all parenting relates to food?

I'm also gonna say no a lot. There's this whole thing now about denying your children things without saying the actual word 'no'. Like, "Sweetie, Daddy would really prefer if you didn't play so close to the freeway." Fuck that. My kid is gonna hear 'no' like an American Eagle employee hears "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey around December 21st. Every ten minutes. HOWEVER, I won't be all stern or parenty about it. I will have various No Characters. The Jolly Pirate. The Demure Geisha. The Opera-Singer-Hating Baritone. An entire cast of personae that will tell him, "Hey li'l guy, you fuckin' up."

Aside from wanting to prove my superiority to other parents, the other reason I want kid(s) is so I can be in a real life Modern Family. In other words, I only want them for family get-togethers and for those rare moments that will make for hilarious moments to tell at family get-togethers. A failed figure skating career? Suck it, Claire and Mitchell: I used to make my five year old brother do choreographed routines to Starlight Express. Essentially, I just threw him in the air a lot like a figure skat-...DAMNIT!

Whatever. So long as wind up with an Alex or a Manny and not a Hailey or a Luke. I mean, they're cute and all but everybody knows you're happier in the long run being smart rather than goodlooking.


Inner Voice: Hey, aren't you smart and miserable?

ZOMG JUST SHUT UP INNER VOICE. NO KIDS FOR YOU!

Rockabye Baby

Secret message:

Shut the fuck up and go to sleep or I will drop kick your baby ass out of the elm.

True Hollywood Story: Moses

Today, while sitting in da 'gogue, the Rabbi Older-Than-Elijah began his sermon by saying, "We know very little about Moses..."

Anticipating (correctly) the coming 20-minute snooze cycle, I whispered to Mark, "His favourite colour was blue."

Mark replied, "He was a big fan of Britney's early work."

The following is a Top Ten Little Known Facts About Moses that we composed during the remainder of the sermon:


10. His bar mitzvah reception was at the Olive Garden.

9. His favourite films were The Ten Commandments and Gigli.

8. He used Charmin Ultra exclusively.

7. He was executive producer on Children of Israel Behaving Badly VII.

6. Favourite song: Donna Summer's Bad Girls.

5. He once bought 3 "52% off Old Navy" Groupons.

4. Dislikes: burning shrubbery, armies of Pharoah, dill pickle potato chips

3. He created the trendy mixed cocktail Red Sea Breeze.

2. Loved the pan-flute, the NRA and was a backer of Howard The Duck.

1. He was Team Edward.

Gym, part the third

Just spent $2,500 on a gym membership and personal trainer.

I had better fucking have someone to hold with my newly muscled arms once I get them.

Cars are real dicks

An old university friend was in a car accident recently. He was badly injured but should be alright. Phew. I'm not awesome at condolences of any kind and so instead asked a friend to read him a note from me. I'm too busy hating my personal trainer to think of anything that good for the blog, so instead I'm just gonna publish the letter here. Enjoy-ish.

Dear Andrew,

I feel simply terrible. We encounter situations that, like a hurricane-causing asshole of a butterfly, may complete change the course of ones life. This morning, for example, I was about to leave my house when I thought I’d have one more cup of coffee. I mean, who would even question this? Coffee is delicious, Andrew. You know what isn’t delicious? Nearly wee-ing yourself during the rabbi’s sermon. If someone had just popped their head in the window this morning and said, “Hey, champ. You don’t need it. Now scoot!” well, that woulda been creepy. But they would have been right.

I’m rambling a bit. Just nervous, I guess. You see, I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt ever since Sandra told me about your mob hit accident. Is she reading this to you? Say hi for me. Anyway, we’ve known each other for some years now and at once point spent quite a bit of time sitting around, getting hives from sitting on poor industrial carpeting and talking smack about flute majors. Good times. Terrible outfits. My mind has been wandering to Eating a Lot of Pie at That Shitty Restaurant But It Was Amazing Cause We Were So Tired day. Man, I hope that doesn’t become a government holiday. Long ass name to print on a calendar. As Marcy and I dropped you off at 1:30am, there was something I wanted to say, something that may have changed things, but then Marcy said something. It was probably stupid. Stupid, stupid Marcy. Then you closed the door and I thought, “Ah well, another time then.” That time never came though, did it now? No, it did not.

Do you know what that thing I now so desperately wish I would have said? It was, “You cannot run through a car, Andrew.”

I mean, good on ya for trying. Brave man. I sorely understand the temptation myself. You knock over one tonka truck as a toddler and from there the beast grows. But cars, real cars – big boy cars – well, they’re just solid motherfuckers. Even immune to atomic realignment. I made that up, but I think it would be something like Wonka-vision, but with people instead of chocolate. People, Andrew.

Anyway, I’ll keep my ear to the ground should any new developments pop up, cause to pass directly through a Subaru Outback is clearly your dream. We share that, along with a distant-but-ever-present fascination with Mike Klassen’s ass. It may have its own orbital pull by now. In the meantime, though, no more car molestations. Say it with Sandra: NO MORE CAR MOLESTATIONS. (Did he say it? Sandra? Did he?)

Speedy recovery,

David

Y’all, I seriously wish that rapture had shown up, cuz fer serious, I got nothing to write. My favourite bloggers are either:

a) riddled with anxiety, drama and drunken/drugged-out adventures

OR

b) people that actually have their shit together and lead interesting lives.

I gots neither of these things going for me. I’m out, get on well with my parents, about to have a kinda-interesting-but-only-to-me career and don’t do nearly enough drugs. Seriously. I’ve been looking and – so strange – no one has responded to my “SELL ME DRUGS” craigslist ad. I’m also doing a cleanse at the moment so I can’t even drink. I had three weeks worth of Chelsea Lately episodes to watch last weekend, an impossible endeavour whilst sober, and momentarily contemplated giving myself a vodka tampon enema (yeah, it’s a thing), but after reading into it, I decided that burning sensation, diarrhoea (that’s British spelling, y’all!) and potential death aren’t really my thang. And so I holla’ed back to my decongestant experiment days and popped 3 non-drowsy Advil Cold & Sinus. Unfortunately, they just made me buzzed and really cranky, so at 9:30pm I took an Adivan and called it a night.

Do you see? Do you see why this is not the blog of winners?

Also, follow me on Instagram @theillustriousd. I take cool pictures. Rekanize.

I am NOT what I eat if I'm a dick

I think there must be some sort of positive correlation between one’s age, the time they have been single and inquiries about if there is a guy/boy/someone special/anyone/new person/dating service in their life.

I have had some form of this question posed to me no less than 5 times this week, 3 of them by my father. He wants a gay-in-law so damn badly. Crazy hunkey.

I had a bit of revelation last month. It’s not all inked in dogma or something revelatory requiring a soapbox. However, after years of everyone and their mom (yeah, moms always wanna make sure I’m getting ass) asking about my romantic life, and me consequently spending a lot of time thinking about it, ye ol’ brain came up with this:

What if it never happens?

Let me say right here before anyone jumps in with, “Oh you’ll find someone,” or, “You’re a great person; it’s only a matter of time.”

You shut your face. Hard. That kind of talk is unwanted here. No, like really hard.

Because, not to be a defeatist, but simply from a pragmatic perspective, what if it just…doesn’t happen? Am I to wander around for the next 20-30 years looking for this elusive thing rather than just being awesome and enjoying the ridiculously cool life I plan on building? F 2 da no, I say. You gotta be okay with just you. Some people get good with Jesus. I’m going to get good with D-sus.

Yeah. That just happened. Sorry.