All posts by bevinwaxman

The Polite Cellulite.

The Polite Cellulite

I’m givin’ you a shout out today, cellulite,

No other cellulite is quite so polite!

Now given my age, and the shit that I eat,
Be it salty, or greasy, or sugary sweet,
I couldn’t deny you, or be fucking surprised,
When you came forth to greet me (as in)
The “backs of my thighs”.

In your arrival, your gesture was kind,
Center stage’s not for you, no, no, you prefer my behind!

For when I look at myself, I don’t see you one bit,
My front side is perfect, nice belly, nice tits.

You’re smart cellulite, you know where to go,
To the place I can’t see you, it’s as if you know…

So I’ll share with you my body, I’m not looking to fight,
Just keep to yourself and stay out of my sight.

Now pass me that cupcake.

The Karmic Claw or A Lesson Given, A Lesson Gained

So I was at Chuck E. Cheese, (don’t fucking laugh and act like you’ve never been there, I recognized you even with that dollar store ‘disguise’ mustache on) and I was getting a little bored after beating my child at skeeball for the 17th time.  Being that she, like most kids, is a sore-ass-loser I gave her my 10 billion tickets so she could at least have a shot at claiming one of those nickel shit toys on the second tier. 

Oh yeaaaaaa…

“Chin up” I tell her, “You just need a little more practice!”

Not looking convinced, she moped away trailing a line of yellow tickets behind her like a tail.

I then wandered around looking for another challenge to peak my interest.  Bypassing the flashing lights and ‘pew! pew! pews!’ sounds of the arcade shooting games,  the bouncing, scrunched heads of little girls spazzing out to pop music on those simulated dance games, and the terribly creepy animated mascots with fixed, unblinking eyes and stiff, robotic arms, I found myself at the outskirts of this adult hell on earth and that’s when…. I SAW IT.

Two words: CREE PY.

Shining like a grail, sharp taloned and enticing, the Grab A Crappy Stuffed Animal With A Metal Claw Using Only Two Directional Buttons Game called to me like the dirty whore that it is.  Now, I’m a competitive bitch (just ask my kids when they’re done crying after our last Uno match) and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I may spend every last dirty brass Chuck E. Cheese coin in my pocket to defeat this Claw Machine Motherfucker… but rest assured, I WILL defeat it.

My Nemesis.

I approached this behemoth rip off of a device and began mapping out a strategy.  As you know, obtaining ANYTHING from this game is knowing that although you may want the nicest piece of shit imprisoned in this glass case, you must be aware that it will most likely be wedged in too tightly or situated just beyond the Claw’s reach and so, you must opt for what is actually ATTAINABLE. In this case, a frazzled looking yellow bird thing.

Don’t look so sad there frazzled yellow bird thing, I’m gonna break you outta this joint.  You deserve to be loved by a sticky child for a couple of days before being abandoned for a Barbie… you deserve being ripped apart cheap seam by cheap seam by the dog.  Let’s do this…

Something like this….

Coin one.
Just slightly off to the side, the slender metal finger dips down only to grab the stifled, encased AIR. To be expected, I’m getting the feel for this particular Bitchass Grabber… That was a warm up, a trial run… a minor flesh wound.

Coin two.
Here birdie, birdie, birdie, you will be mine and I shall name you George…
FUCK! Premature button pressing. I’m waaay off and the talon grabs the wispy orange hair of one a Troll doll whose skin looks inappropriately vaginal.  I must be letting the nerves get to me… Still lots of jingle in my pocket though, I got this…

Coin three.
FUCK YOU!  I HAD THAT YELLOW BASTARD IN MY CLUTCHES!!  You dirty sonofabitch… I see how you wanna play this. At least I got that bird a bit more unwedged so my third effort wasn’t totally in vain….

Coin four.
Soooo close!!  Well played Claw Grabber.. well played, but we’ll see who get’s the last laugh…

Coin five.
Now I’m starting to feel like a old crow at a slot machine.  I’m bec
oming addicted. I can’t stop.  I WON’T stop.  This WILL happen… I just need more patience grasshopper…. concentrate Daniel Son.

Coin six…
Coin seven…
Coin thirteen…

Coin twenty…. LAST COIN.
My hands are sweating, there is no more jingle in my pocket there is, however, a line of jabbering children behind me waiting to have a go at this Black Magic Machine of Trickery… 

“SHHHHH!!!!!” I think to myself.  “Don’t these snot noses know I NEED SILENCE right now????  FUUUUUUUU…”

It’s MAKE OR BREAK and although I feel as if the shiny plastic eyes of the frazzled yellow bird thing are almost taunting me by now, I MUST persevere.  I don’t even give a fuck at this point what that damn bird wants.  Maybe he likes it in that glass box amongst all the other sad and dusty toys.  Maybe he’s content and warm in there snuggled next to the Vagina Troll… Or MAYBE, he’s the mastermind behind everything!!!  Maybe his whole plan was to give the appearance of being “ATTAINABLE” but is actually in cahoots with the shiny talon, conspiring as a team to take all my brassy, fake money coins… 

Maybe I’m losing my fucking mind thinking that this dumb doll conceived in China has any thoughts at all!!  No matter, last coin. Fuck it.

I’m about to slide the coin into the slot and my child walks up to me.

“Where have you BEEN this whole time???”  she says.

“Oh you know… just walking around…. you know…..”

“Uhhh, ok… anyway, look what I got with the tickets!!”

She dangles a plastic Fly Eye keychain in my face and a splatter painted snap bracelet.

“Cool..” I say, clearly distracted and drawn away towards the yellow devil in the box.

“You should go for that yellow bird thing.”

“I KNOW THIS, GODAM … uh.. I mean, you think so??” I try to keep my cool.

“Totally, it’s like, so easy.”

I refrain from flipping the fuck out and gently slide the coin in to the machine.
Baaaaack…. a little more… okaaayyy
Leeeeftt… leeft okaaay, looks perfect, looks square on.  That fucking bird is coming home with me….. DOWN CLAW!

The claw opens, it drops down directly on the birds head, it closes around it’s neck, it begins to rise taking the elusive yellow bastard with it…


And then, the weight of the ensuing booty I’m about to plunder is all too much.  The claw cannot hold it.  The bird slides, the claw clutches, the bird is now dangling precariously by its beak/bill/whateverthefuckthatis and then, one inch shy from the exit hole….. it drops.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!” I yell, “NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” again.  

My eyebrows are more knitted than an Irish sweater, my teeth are clenched, lips curled back like a rabid fucking dog.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” I hit the machine with my fist as mothers usher their children away from me.  My daughter looks at me.  Confused, scared.

Yep, just like that.

I have been defeated.

My daughter pats my back softly, her eyes are filled with a lot of pity but also a twinge of satisfaction.

“Chin up Mom, you just need more practice!”

And now I realize, here at Chuck E. Cheese, that Karma is like a shiny metal claw, ready to bite you in the ass but never strong enough to save you from the box of dusty old crap you’ve imprisoned yourself in.


Life’s Greatest Accomplishment — And Even 12-Year-Olds Can Do It! (Guest blog by Kimmy Dee)

Four soul-crushingly blissful years ago I gave birth to my first—and only, if I can remember to take those damn pills on time—child. She’s the light of my life, apple of my eye, blah blah blah. Whatever. We all love our own kids and hate everyone else’s, so I’m not going to sit here and try to make you fall in love with mine. She’s beautiful, smart, and witty as fuck—it’s almost as if I impregnated myself. And maybe I did, I was pretty drunk. But, as I always do on my own crappy blog, I digress.

I’m not here to talk about my daughter. I’m here to discuss an epiphany I had the other day, one of very few in my life that didn’t come to me on the toilet. (Admit it; we ALL do our best thinking there.) 

I was at my doctor’s office for my yearly physical. Not the “put your feet in the stirrups, this might pinch a little” kind, the one where you lie your ass off and say you only drink in moderation (and only on weekends!) and eat a shit ton of fruit and vegetables every day so that your insurance will continue to cover the ticking time bomb that is your janky ass body. As the nurse was grilling me on my evil exploits err daily life she got around to asking if I smoke.

“Nope, I quit almost three years ago. It was the best thing I’ve ever done,” I said. [Note: not a lie, I really did quit smoking <golf clap>.] 

A look of judgment passed across the nurse’s face and I realized my error immediately. She knows I’ve given birth. I broke the cardinal rule of parenthood—I credited something with top billing in my life’s success stories that didn’t include the person who tunneled their way out of my lady bits.

You see, once that kid pops its boogery head out of your crotch, you’re not allowed to refer to any of your other life’s achievements as being superior. It’s a contract signed by all parents in gooey afterbirth. You’re a parent now, and nothing else fucking matters—adding to the overpopulation of the Earth is the greatest thing you’ve ever done or ever will do. Period.

Don’t worry, I quickly added “—besides becoming a parent,” to my statement to appease the nurse and keep her from calling in the Cunt Crusaders to execute me. But it got me thinking about the things (besides my amazing, aggravating, astounding daughter) that I’m proudest of in my life, and how they aren’t worth shit because I’m a parent.

Please note: I haven’t actually done much in my life, so this list may seem a little sad. Shut up.

I met Lou Ferrigno.

So what, you had a baby Hulk-Smashing around inside your body for nine months, destroying evil doers such as your ribcage and bladder. That trumps the shit out of shaking hands with a washed up celebrity who’s probably a season or two away from headlining a dancing/rehab/eating gross bugs reality show.

My first published article had over a million page views.

Big deal assface, at least that many people were staring into your cavernous vagina as a tiny human spelunked her way out. 

I rode in a racecar at over 170 mph around Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

Whoop-de-fucking-do, a mini person launched herself head first through your birth canal at a rate of a millimeter an hour. Life’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon. And 36 hours of labor earns you a brand new tiny person to worry about for the rest of your life, what did the racecar earn you? A plaque? Pffffft.

I licked the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile.

Now that’s something you just shouldn’t be proud of.

I won the Nobel Prize when I cured cancer while simultaneously solving world hunger and drafting a successful Middle East peace treaty.

Even so, a drunken night of reckless sex led to far more life (and diaper) fulfilling joy.

The lesson here of course (listen up, kids!) is that despite all the negativity surrounding unprotected sex, if you’re a lazy turd like I am and don’t feel like going out and changing the world or doing anything significant for humankind, you should probably engage in this activity as often as possible. Who needs hopes and dreams; all you need is a little fertility and you can change the world—by adding yet another damn person to it.

I’ll have to end this here, it smells like the best thing I ever did in my life just dropped a deuce behind the sofa.

Check out Kimmy’s blog here!

Follow Kimmy’s Facebook page Dee’s Nuts!

Follow Kimmy’s Facebook page Turd Mountain!


“It’s not FAIR!”

No other words rattle around the rooms of my home as often as these three do.  From sibling to sibling and back again it’s like heretical head lice.  Not only hard to get rid of, but one of the most dissident childhood whines of them all.  If it had ears, it would only be so that it’s fingers could plug them while it’s big fat fucking mouth shouted:


It’s spit fiercely from small mouths, this threadbare yammering of “IT’S NOT FAIR!”,  and it isn’t intended to be some “Sibling Declaration of War” as much as it’s intended to be a fugazi “Cry for Justice”,  hopefully reaching tall enough to grate upon the eardrums of any and all household higher-ups… namely: YOU.

It’s the tired ass tattletale of a child begging their parents to jump up and suddenly swath themselves in the cloaks of justice, string around their necks the whistles of refs, and come running to set shit straight by restoring all fairness to the world…and by “world”, I mean playroom… and by “fairness”, I mean in their fucking favor. 

But you protest:

“Being fair is good.”  

“Being fair is RIGHT!”  

And that’s when I say:

“Being fair is imfuckingpossible.”

Listen, accomplishing “fairness” between siblings is assuming that siblings are the same. Of the same mind, of the same body.  Identical ages, identical feelings, identical needs……. SHIT, even IDENTICAL TWINS don’t work that way.  Not to mention, you know what happens when you ASS U ME.

Kids AREN’T THE SAME and it’s subtly proven every time you say things like:

“No little one, you can’t ‘have a bike toooooooo’ because you can’t even STAND ON ONE FOOT YET… like, at all.


“She gets to sit in my lap because she’s still little and you’re not!  You want me to put a goddamn diaper on you too??

Sound familiar?  Sound frustrating?  Sound ENDLESS?  
Well, it is.

It’s ENDLESS because as you’ve learned by getting shit on in one way or another….LIFE IS, UNFUCKINGFAIR.  This is a piece of valuable knowledge that can only be gained by life experience... something children have NONE OF.

There’s cute techniques of course, that try to assist you in bringing equality to your kids lives.  You got that whole “I cut, you choose” shit, but really, it only works on limited levels of sibling life, mostly involving slices of cake, peanut butter sandwiches, and lengths of lanyard. Out of all of these types of sayings, the only one that is at all useful in my opinion is “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.” I use this often because basically, it’s a cutesy, rhyming way of saying:“Tough shit.” Right. Up. My. Alley.

When it comes to dispelling the myth of fairness, what’s a parent to do?

Well, here’s MY solution:

I think that it’s more productive to point out all the unfairness of the world that happens to us as adults on a daily basis because even though I’ve TOLD my kids that  “Life is Unfair” (about a fofillion times),  the looks on their skeptical mini-faces tell me, they aint really buyin’ it.


Go ahead, tell them that that lady just got a free coffee ’cause the coffee man thinks she’s prettier than the lady in front of her… the one he just  OVER charged.

Tell them that that Sarah Mclachlan bitch is pissed because wretched people treat animals like shit and don’t spay and neuter their pets like Bob Barker told ’em to……(God rest his ‘Come on DOOOWN’ soul.)

Tell them that rich kids have more shit than they do because they’re rich, but that they sit ho
me and cry because their iPads can’t tickle ’em till they fart like YOU do.

Tell them that Grandma’s not here because she died and even though it sucks,  death is a part of life.  Tell them you KNOW it’s unfair that they don’t have a grandma now, and tell them it’s even MORE unfair to YOU who doesn’t have a MOM.

Tell them whatever the fuck you want, just don’t be afraid to let them know that not getting their way is important to experience because…

C’est la vie, c’est la guerre, life is unfuckingfair.

Happy Mother’s Day, Now Fuck Off.

Roses? Breakfast? I love Mother’s Day!

You guys are so sweet, now go the fuck away.
It’s MY day, you hear that? 
That’s right, ME not YOU,
And I got a whole list of ‘Fuck Off’s I’m ready to do:

Hey toilet with shit stains, and you, laundry too!
Read my lips bitches, it’s MY day — FUCK YOU.
To the layers of dust chillaxin’ on shelves,
Hooray! You can stay one more day..

Messes in dressers, clothes that need folding,
Smelly cat litter,  kids who need scolding,
Mother-In-Law, Husband,  and any others I scoff,
Listen very carefully, read my lips —  FUCK OFF.

I aint’ doin’ shit, not moving ONE inch.
So kids, bother your Father if you’re stuck in a pinch.
For 364 days, I put myself last,
So for the next 24 hours, you can all kiss my ass.

Hey dishes, and dirt, hey bread with mold,
Hey stains on kids shirts, and bed sheets to fold,
Hey garbage, hey floors, 
Hey grocery stores!
Hey toys, hey closets, 
Hey rust and lime deposits,
Hey phone calls, hey cooking, 
Yo, vacuum,  you too!
It’s Mother’s Day bitches, so guess what? 

Wanna make Mommy happy?
How about peace and quiet?
It’s not hard to FUCK OFF,
So ahead, try it!

Hubs, do me a favor, take these kids far from home,
The best gift you can give me is to leave me alone.

I’m taking this day, the whole damn thing.
You see, I paid in advance when I put on this ring.
When I pushed those kids right outta my twat. 
When I worked my hands to the bone for diddley-squat.
I don’t get no checks,  no paid vacations,
No Human Resources, no Customer Relations.
All I get paid, is this one lowly day,
So thanks again for the roses,
Now go the fuck away.

Happy Mother’s Day!
Fuck off.


My Ode To Scrappy Girls.

Scrappy girls.  I fucking love them.  Ponytails loose and all askew. Dirty scabby knees.  Shorts and sneakers with frayed laces, untied and trailing.  Tree climbing, tag playing, ball throwing, dirt digging, bug collecting, SCRAPPY GIRLS.  

The only thing that I don’t like about them is the title they’re given: “Tom Boys”.  

Yup, another goddamn double standard.  

Suck a dick society.

More loaded than an NRA convention, the term “Tom Boy” is a backhanded compliment that’s as overused as it is outdated.

“Girls who like sports more then dresses?” 

“Girls who prefer pixie cuts to pigtails?”

“Girls who’d rather play with balls than dolls?”

Girls who don’t act like GIRLS?

Ahhh.  We shall call them BOYS…….TOM BOYS.


Should we call boys who enjoy dolls or dress-up (as many do) oh, I dunno…


I do believe that there are inherent differences between boys and girls. And I love that shit.


I love how many young boys I have met and know have direct perceptions that don’t allow for much time wallowing in the emotional.  This “In The Moment” purity is so off the hook that their transition from BOY to    SuperHero/Wrestler/Airplane/Ninja/Whatever Screams and Hits is as seamless as a fucking tube sock.

“Take your rings and shove ’em up your ass Wonder Twins!!  I got a towel around my neck and some shiny ass boxers!! Watch out, ‘cuz Immabout to fuck you and your purple tights UP!!!  RAWR!!”

Oh yeah.

Now let’s talk about GIRLS. 

First off, I was one before I grew into a bitch.  

Secondly, I have a sister who, as a girl, blessed me with many important life lessons including “How to not cry like a fucking pussy when being punched in the face”.  

Last but not least, I contributed to the female population by shooting two more out of my very own girl parts.

After all this, I think I can safely say, girls as I know them…. 
are annoyingly complex.  

It’s nobody’s fault.  Like salmon swimming upstream or spit on a cowlick, girls are a dichotomy. They want to be instinctually who they are yet are confined to the societal space that has been predetermined for them.  

There are just too many insecurities hovering around their heads.

As I said earlier, and shall reiterate: 

Suck a dick society.

Girls are bullied by pressures that are weird and constant.  For as many times as you try to be the “strong woman role model”, consciously making the “anti-girlie-girl” selection, picking “The Boy” to play in Chutes and Ladders or favoring Barbie’s brown haired friend (what the hell is her name anyway?) , I many times feel as though I’m fighting a fucked up Robotic, Pink Hello Kitty System… 

It’s all bigger than me.

At their most candid, without the scourge of the Disney princess locusts blinding their behavior,  I have found my girls to be: complex, competitive, emotional, introspective, intuitive, and analytical.

So, are boys and girls inherently different? Yes.  

Should their differences be obstructive to any activity in the world they would like to pursue INCLUDING kicking a Wonder Twin’s motherfucking ass??  
Not. At. All.

So back to my inspiration for writing this blog..
Guess what Disney!?  

Scrappy girls from around the world didn’t get your fucking memo.  

Know what else?! “Tom Boys” are still ALL GIRL, and so much more. 

They could care less about Ariel because their mission is so much more meaningful.   It’s about being who THEY are………….

knocked out tooth and all.

So hey you, scrappy girl sitting outside the principal’s office…

You, scrappy girl with the broke knuckles and freckles,

You, scrappy girl with the cornrows and overalls,

You, scrappy girl who had to show and prove….

That’s a strong lil girl right there. Could MY daughter do THAT? Could YOURS?

Here’s to you and your rugged innocence!  

It won’t be long before the pressures of the world have you
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G”, after your knobby knees have climbed those trees….  

Sooo, before you relinquish your naive power… 

Before you fall in love with a boy make sure you…  

“Boys Catch Girls” FIRST!!!

Shut the fuck up and hold my doll.

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Get Your Man’s Tongue Waggin’

Did you know that the male hippopotamus will helicopter his tail so as to frantically spew piss and shit in all directions just to get the attention of a female?  Although I think that if my three year old had a tail, she would do this just for fun, I don’t think my husband doing this would get him a piece of ass.  Well, not a human piece of ass anyway.

As segues go, there may be none so poignant as those that include the phrase “a human piece of ass” so let me not waste too many moments entertaining delicate inferences. It’s Nitty Gritty time…  

for a fucking HIPPO maybe..

Different male species in the animal kingdom do a wide and weird variety of shit in order to gain the admiration of their female counterparts, but in my house, it is I who calls the shots.  
It is I who lets my Hippopot…. I mean Husband know when he needs to show the fuck UP with the intention of going DOWN.

“How do I do this?” you ask.
“How do I release pheromones that swish around my sexy ass like Pepe Le Pew’s smoky trail of stinky swagger?”  

Well, you ladies are goddamn lucky because tonight, I’m gonna share with you my:

Top Three Ways To Get Your Man’s Tongue Wagging Like A Wolf At A Pig Roast:

1. The Dunkin’ Druck Lip: What’s better then a drunk bitch?  A drunk bitch that’s your wife!  Not only are all the strings already attached so there’s nothing new to remember, but you even get to wake up in your own bedwhat could be a better combo with getting LAID than THAT??
Winner winner drunk wife for dinner.

Now, don’t get offended here because I said “drunk bitch“.   Truth be told, by drunk bitch I really meant “sloppy vixen”, and by that, I meant sensual fox.  

**Tip** Be sure to apply a coat of turquoise eyeshadow (Wet ‘n Wild makes a perfect cheap piece of shit one) and a garish lip color preferably in the coral family (Wet ‘n Wild makes a perfect cheap piece of shit one) in order to accentuate a slutty peacock effect.   If the contorted orange duck lip doesn’t get ’em, the glistening jewel-toned flash of your one dippy eyelid WILL.  You may not know it, but that pile of empty beer bottles on the table may look just like a pile of empty beer bottles on the table, but to your man, it spells “F R E A K Y”.

Go on! Cluck around and strut your shit because you are a creature to behold. 
And you will be held
All the fuck over…
And it’ll be great…

You might not remember everything, but hey…

Fuck it.
Had sex, doesn’t matter.

What husband doesn’t wanna see THIS when he gets home???

2. Shave Your Shit And Smell Sweet: My husband knows that when he opens the door as I step out of the fucking shower, and lets a shit load of COLD AIR in to the bathroom, he should DIE, but  because I’m lenient in the murder department,  I allow him a fair amount of time to escape before shanking him with my BIC.  In that time, the crafty fellow will most likely spy with his perverted eye, a shaved putty tat.  

Now I may or may not do this whole “shave thing” often, but the fact is: It DOES Happen.
Combine the knowledge that his woman is shorn with the scent of… well with the scent of..

fuck it, I confess, I just added the “Smell Sweet” part for the sake of alliteration in the title…. 

It doesn’t matter though because, shaving your shit alone is enough to have your man excited enough to stay in on a Saturday night savoring the subtle smoothness of your shaved sexy parts. So you see, shaving is sure to set the scene for seriously steamy seduction. ..
Sorry, couldn’t help throwing in some more shameless alliteration… suck it. 

Don’t usually get a WHOLE BUBBLE BATH, but shit gets done.

3.  I Dream Of G-Strings: Yeah, I know pajama jeans are fucking comfortable… I know your period panties is where it’s at. Sometimes though, to be the alpha bitch, you gotta bite the bullet and dress up your bulgy parts.  Albiet it a necessity, it still is the “sure win” of the three, never failing to “woo” where the others may not.  

So what if it’s a pair of old beige knee highs?  
Got a semi-tight mumu?  Cut some strategic holes in that shit.  

As Prince would say, “You don’t have to be rich, to be a whore.“….
…or some shit like that.  

Bottom line? It doesn’t take fancy lingerie to to be the MacGyver of G-strings, just some desperate ingenuity. 

If he can have a haircut like THAT, he can do ANYTHING!

Now do you think those three are easily topped?  Well, they ARE.
Simply COMBINE ALL THREE for the most outrageous night you could ever have with a man you didn’t meet at the circus!  You’ll be slurring his name so loud, the neighbors’ll be peeping in windows sayin’ prayers and shit.

So y’all, what’ll it be…? 
Wet ‘n Wild in the bedroom with some bud and a bustier?
Or a husband, spewing piss and shit in helicopter fashion?

Thought so.
Bang a gong.

Get it on bitches!!

Kids These Days….

This is a topic that’s close to my motherfuckin’ heart.  I love it because it begs repeating generation after generation.  It’s a little bit “Poor me” and a little bit “Poor you” and although there’s a timelessness to it, it has modern day dickery plugged in to all the right places.  It’s basically a free pass to be a crabby bastard just because someone’s considered “old”.  Now when I say “old”, I’m really referring to someone who’s at an age where a bunch of shit they grew up with is obsolete.   Fortunately, and UNfortunately for me, technology is moving so fast, I can actually claim “Old Lady Status” at the tender age of thirty-go-fuck-yourself-it’s-none-of-your-goddamn-business.

So without further adieu, I shall stop wanking words around and get the fuck to it.
Hand me my rocking chair.

Thanks, Sonny.

Let me start by taking y’all on a trip to the late 70’s early 80’s, the era of my childhood, and probably yours too….

Come, hop on the Great Space Coaster and pop open a Tab, ’cause we’re off to the times of cassette singles and brown corduroy Alll. Day. Long.  When the streets were sleazy and the shoplifting’ was easy.  When kids were scrappy and didn’t take pills to be happy.  
Oh snap, yeah, I just said that.

Either you know it… or you don’t.

This was a time when the biggest “class” was straight up the middle.  There were no labels on clothes and Converse had laces. At the age of 7 you ran with a pack of kids whose names you didn’t all know, and like a feral cat, you climbed any tree you could find and dangled your knobby legs over limbs Too. Damn. High.  You knew you’d better be ready to take on any fucking dare chucked your way, lest look like a pussy and be eaten alive.  The camaraderie with your fellow feral friends was simple;  it balanced on a sharp stake of which only pussies were impaled.  (bonus points to anyone who caught that Lord of the Flies reference…)  You’d come home each day with blackened fingernails, bloody knees, and always, ALWAYS rocked a motherfuckin’ dirt mustache.

Aww, what’sa matter Piggy? Broke yer glasses??

If you were late to come home, your mother would beat your ass before sending you out for a carton of cigarettes or maybe something alcoholic.  Dinners were from a family pack of drumsticks, or a tin foil covered TV dinner.  You ate it off your metal Dukes of Hazard TV tray, targeting the little compartment of the peach cobbler FIRST.  OJ came sliding out of frozen cans in orange fucking cylinders.  The word McDonald’s was synonymous with fancy, and you’d get real glass Star Wars tumblers with every Happy Meal.

‘Member these?  I do.

Both boy’s and girl’s hair was winged, styled by the goddamn wind itself, because no matter where you were, or who you were with, you were RUNNING.

Running from those bastards on the other team in “Capture the Flag.”
Running so you weren’t the “Rotten Egg”.
Running from the dude in the candy store where you just shoved a bunch of Bazookas in your motherfucking pocket…. 

Damn, I LOVED those mini-comics…

How fucking weird.

You watched TV on Saturday mornings because that’s pretty much the only time cartoons were on.  You dug for decoder rings in cereal boxes.  Even in all this ‘wildness’, you still read books, made intricate Lite Brite and Etch-A-Sketch masterpieces, and wove potholders for everyfuckingbody on little plastic looms.

You had focus and didn’t even know it.  You were driven by outdoor play and so the worst punishments were the ones that kept you
.  It was the same as being chained to a radiator, or getting stuck in a bear trap… you’d chew off your goddamn foot just to play until dusk.
Call of the motherfucking Wild  (bonus points to anyone who caught that Jack London reference).

Even still.. like a BOSS! This is mine. True Story.

NOW, fast forward to today.  Instead of running around, kids just wander around with their noses shoved into handheld gaming devices like dogs with each other’s asses.  Bragging to their friends about “Leveling Up”  but can’t for the life of them “Put ‘Em Up” even if their Pokemon cards depended on it.

They run through war zones, defeating opponents with hand to hand combat in the virtual world of video games like a fucking BOSS, yet whine helplessly if they have to get their asses off the couch to find the remote.  If they ever do run, it’s to GameStop to preorder the newest version of ‘World of Whateverthefuck’.

Little girls are duped by marketers to worship stupid ass pop stars and configure their painted-nailed fingers into heart signs and peace signs but have no clue how many sides are on a fucking STOP SIGN.  Raised by Disney, and dressed by Sketchers, they know a million and one abbreviations for words and phrases they can’t even fucking spell.

‘Peace!… and texting…and doing shit like this shit with my fingers.

Images are fast, fads are fast, and food is fast.  Mix all that shit up with the quick fix pill mentality of today and what do we see?  Skyrocketing diagnoses of such afflictions as ADD, ADHD, and Diabetes.  I’m NOT discounting such conditions, nor am I calling them illegitimate…. I’m simply begging the question: When is the last time Johnny climbed a tree?  Played a sport?  Dug a hole in the dirt with a stick…?  A REAL hole, with a REAL stick??

I’m not judging, I’m just pointing some shit out.  Like I said in the beginning, the same children I’m calling “soft” today may be like the motherfucking Rambos compared to the generation coming up.  And in turn, I bet my Granny would like to punch me in the fucking face if she read all the shit I just said here!  She’s probably spit in my eye and ask me if I knew what is was like to live through a World War AND be a goddamn immigrant.

and then.. I felt like a dick.

To Granny, even in my brown corduroy glory, dirt mustache and all……
I’m still just One. Big Pussy.

I’ll gladly pay you tomorrow, for a hamburger today.



Desired, despised, too small, too big, envied, painful, sexual, natural, fake, amazing, disrespected, revered, glorified and mourned….  

What the fuck is up with these yellow, fatty piles of flesh on our chest?  

If men knew what was really goin’ on in there would they be as appealing??

Like snowflakes, farts, and fingerprints, each set are unique, and within each set, they are unique to each other.  

Sometimes wrapped in a silky skin facade with a cherry on top….and at other times, a 
not so silky facade, with a cherry… well, let’s say…… 
on the bottom-ish?  For many of us, in the span of our lifetime, both.

I remember when my flat nipples suddenly popped out like a couple of  goddamn turkey timers.  
I was 10? 11?  No idea.  

What I DO remember is that not only was it a really weird occurrence, but an extremely painful one! 

Somehow, creepily enough..the boys in my grade knew this fact.  I realize now, this wasn’t just MY first fascination with mammaries. It seemed the boys wanted to know what all the hubbub was about too.

After many a training-bra-strap-*SNAP*,  I learned to shield my tender buds with a fierce veracity… It fucked me up a little. 

“I didn’t ask for this. “ 

I was happy as a scrappy little tomboy.  My hair was short and my legs were long… knobby too. I played 
“Boys Catch Girls” and always won.  
(Don’t even ask what constituted as winning.) 

I wasn’t about to accept this psychical disadvantage… 

I wasn’t ready.

Turkey timers don’t really give a shit whether or not YOU’RE ready.

I would NOT let these inferior boy bastards know that I gave a shit about all the attention I got from such a shitty disfigurement. That’s exactly how I saw them then.  One big fucking hindrance…..Well more like two tiny ones…

“Hello.. confused here!”  

What was going on???? 

I wasn’t ashamed of my mother’s boobies! 
In fact, they felt quite comforting to me.  
Somehow though, I was being made to feel ashamed of MINE….?  

Fuck YOU fuckers.

It took some very rough years of puberty for me to start realizing just what the hell I had here… The more I grew to understand that there was not much about men to understand, the more I became aware of the power that lie beneath thine shirt.

What started out as annoying bug bites blossomed in to some Princess of Power type shit.  

Except I didn’t need a sword or a fucking steed. 

“By The Power Of This Tight Grey Sweater!!!”

The funny thing is,  is that there’s almost a hypnotic appeal to boobs.  Perhaps it’s the pendulous quality, the sway back and forth like a magician’s stopwatch…

“You are getting sleeepy…. very sleeeeeepyyyy….” 

I’m almost certain I’ve had men act like chickens without them remembering it…

Maybe it’s an oedipal thing.  It brings men back unconsciously to their babydom, of being nestled in their mother’s bosom… 

EW.. great, now I’m thinking of my husband as a baby with my Mother-In-Law all fucking exposed like twisted Rococo painting…*GAK*!!

Even the swan is all “Da Fuuuuuq???”

Well whatever it is about titties, I’m rollin’ with it.  Hey, if a dude wants to give me a free Starbucks because he’s entranced by some cleavage, fuck it!  

“Thank boob very much.”  

If the suave Manager Dickhead at the restaurant can be reduced to a bumbling butthead because of some breastesessss cutting my wait time for a table in half…… BOOYA for me!

Listen, I’m aware that this world is a sexist, whirling ball of shit that clings like a dingleberry stiffly to it’s misogynistic idealologies (PENIS) but I’m also aware that these knockers of mine will one day lose their magical powers…  

So I say this, if you got it, flaunt it, use it or lose it, and that it’s okay sometimes, to use what you got to get what you want.

Dear Margaret, 

I may not be God, but I’m here for you, and I can tell you that whatever bullshit you’re dealing with as a youngen, in the end, the last laugh will be yours.

Another Bitch Whose Been There.

Don’t sweat it girl, you’re good.


What do we want for our kids?  

Why do we stand thigh high in this parental tar pit of shit and trudge forward with children held high on our shoulders, above all the evils of the world that wrap themselves around our ankles?
We would give our lives, become fossilized in sludge, just to see our children tread safely on dry land.

Ask most parents and they’ll tell you —

“I struggle so that I can give my kid the very best.”
“I want to be able to give my kid more then I had.”
“I want my kid to DO more, HAVE more, BE more then I was…”

Why do we say this?  
What the fuck is so bad about US that we strive, struggle, scrimp, and pray for our own children to be more than who WE are? … 

To be better….?  

Is it a hindsight thing?  
I mean, as children ourselves, did we feel like we had shit so bad, or do we only feel that way now as adults looking back?  

Do we really even feel that way AT ALL??

I’m sure many of us had less then perfect childhoods (is there such a thing as a perfect childhood?) fraught with divorce or money problems perhaps, but even so, I always remember assuming that things like this were just a part of life

Resilience was not just desirable, it was innate — it meant strength and wasn’t questioned.

I knew others had more than I of course, but I never remember wishing for it.  
My birthday wishes, behind tightly shut eyes and a scrunched nose, were never something I had to think about.  
I always just allowed them to wish themselves.
They were their own, and I never disagreed.  
I treasured them as much as the gifts I got on that day and NEVER revealed them to ANYONE in fear that they may not come true…. until right now….

They were always the same.
There were two:

“I wish everything is going to be okay and everyone will be happy” or
“I wish I was a good singer.”

I know now, that about 50% of birthday wishes come true…. 
Fuck it, I’ll still get up for Karaoke if drunk enough so kiss my ass.

The point is, I’m happy with who I am because of where I came from.  
My kids come from a different time, a different place and are different people.  
Comparing their lives to mine is pointless, and so, what exactly is this “MORE” that I want for them?
There’s plenty of people that have “MORE” things and are far LESS happy — so that’s out….  

“MORE” knowledge?  Well her education is great and wisdom’s only real teacher is experience — so I guess that’s out too.  

“MORE” confidence?  Well I know I was always praised for my achievements and encouraged to try whatever interested me, as long as I gave it my all.   

I didn’t get a prize for fourth place and so, never settled for it.  
I was and still am strong and confident because I had to earn it 
as do my daughters — so I guess as far as that “MORE” goes, it’s a ball that rests in their court.

You know what I really want for my kids?  
I want to give them LESS comparisons to myself and MY childhood.

I want them to be able to take what they have, add it to whatever I can give, and make it their own.  
I want them to strive, I want them to persevere — to make their lives better through their own achievements and to build their lives using their own strength.

I’ve given them a foundation, and I’m happy with that.

I guess the only thing I could EVER hope my kids have “MORE” of than I had as a child?

There are two things:

Hugs, although that’ll be really hard to beat.
Wet Willys… ok, ok, that’s totally just for my fucking benefit… 

What can I say? 
Maybe there’s still a little “MORE” childhood left in me I’m not quite done with.