And now, my friends, the post that you’ve all (not) been waiting for is up over at Toy With Me. The post about what I would do if I had a penis. It was written while I was both high on life AND cough syrup AND The Swine Flu, and was a total blast to write, so please go over and hump the shit out of it.
Also, do I need to remind you that it is TOTALLY not safe for work?
Click here, bitches. Or read on below.
(why have OR when you can have AND?)
Every now and again, Daver and I will set up shop outside (typically nursing a couple of cold frosty ones. Like Miller High Life: The Champagne of motherfucking Beers) and discuss our children.
His work tends to be the sort that my brain is not large enough to process and my “work” is so mind-numbingly dull (“…and THEN, and THEN I emptied the DUST BUSTER! Bwahahahaha!“) that neither of us care to discuss it.
So we instead discuss the future lives of our children. Hypothetically speaking.
And since I was a bit of a rebel in my own way, and marrying me is COMPLETELY a sign of rebellion (have you MET ME?) we often wonder what my children will do to horrify us later in life. It’s inevitable, so we try to brace ourselves for whatever would bug us the most.
Maybe it’s because I’m so graceful that I nearly broke my foot walking down the stairs, or because last summer I literally fell through the front door while stone-cold sober, or because I broke a toe making a motherfucking sandwich. I don’t know. I’m willing to bet that for our eldest, it will be interpretive dancing.
It will also make my soul wither up and die.
I have no real problems with dancers in general; if I were going to do something cultured, I’d likely chose the symphony or the opera – didn’t know your Aunt Becky liked opera, didya? – and not the ballet, but the ballet is different. I can understand ballet.
Interpretive dancing, however, baffles me. I simply don’t, and probably never will, follow or appreciate what some people think of as Dancing With The Music (Creepily). I just don’t get it. And I’m kinda freaked out by it.
I made the mistake of telling my older brother and his wife about this in a completely stupid turn of events, so now every time they see Ben, they encourage him to “do a dance that reminds him of a salad” or “doesn’t the thought of a cat make you want to dance like one?”
I sit quietly there, while poor Ben tries to act this out, clenching my teeth and hissing that they had better get damn good and comfortable going to every.single.fucking.show.he.does.
They always laugh, seemingly unaware that I am deadly serious. I will drag them from their comfortable yuppie North Shore home and drive them to the abandoned warehouse my son – my interpretive dancer son – and his troupe of equally misguided youths will perform for us all.
In 100+ degree heat.
While we sit on the cement floor next to scuttling cockroaches and cokeheads.
I’ll clap when they’re done pouring paint on one and other while they act out what blue is supposed to look like, or maybe I won’t clap, I don’t know, but really, I’ll be clapping because I can get the fuck OUT of there and back into the cool comfort of my car.
Then I’ll drive through McDonald’s, relishing that no one tried to act out what my diet Coke was supposed to taste like, and I’ll shake my fists at my brother and sister-in-law, who will be stuck in the backseat of my car, and remind them that tomorrow’s performance will be featuring the color red.
The color of anger.
What would be the worst profession you could imagine your future child doing? Let’s assume that they are happy with it, so you can’t use any bullshit “whatever he’s HAPPY with” line. Let’s also leave “soldier” out of this one, because here on my blog you mean “politician.”