Amelia loves books. Shocking, I know, since I’m barely literate, but there you have it: genetics are fucking weird.
Anyway, for her birthday, she got a good number of books. Being the last of three, it’s nice for her to get something that’s NOT a hand-me-down from her brothers, so she eagerly tears into them. And, really, anything else, but that’s neither here nor there.
I was laying on the couch trying to beat a particularly vicious level of Angry Birds on my iPad when she padded over and plopped a book – from her birthday – onto my lap. Politely she asked me to read it.
“Okay,” I said, giving the stink-eye to those stupid pigs on Angry Birds, “come on up.”
Wow. That’s fucking cute! I thought to myself as I began to read.
Aww, they’re friends. I bet this is gonna be an ebony/ivory kinda story – you can be friends with anyone! What a great moral that is for kids.
And now a monkey as a friend! Wow, what a great story this is. And the pictures? Amazaballs. Plus, I mean, a PRESENT? Who doesn’t love a good present?
Okay, now you’re losing me, book. Cooking is bullshit. CookBOOKs are bullshit. But okay, the kid prolly thinks this is great. I’ll soldier on.
I thought they were BFFOMGLOL. And now we’re talking about EATING our friends? What the shit kind of story IS this?
There’s dead mouse every-fucking-where! But! But! Mouse loved to PAINT! They were BFFLOLOMG!
How can you EAT your BFF?
I FEEL LIKE I’M GOING TO BARF.
It was then that I closed the book.
Who the hell WRITES these kind of books anyway?