I Birthed a Republican

My 5 year old daughter adheres to a strict moral code. Her right wing tendencies first emerged when she saw a man with long hair. She looked horrified and said, “Is that a girl?” I informed her that this lovely creature was in fact a man with long hair. She shot back, “Mama. Only girls have long hair. Boys don’t have long hair.” We went back and forth until I realized she wasn’t backing down despite his bushy “chingina.” I can’t totally fault her as I’ve recently procured unwanted facial hair. Her incorrect gender assumptions are tied to men with earrings, her gym teacher, boys who wear pink, The Bee Gees and so on. I’ve been cool with her Archie Bunker ways until the day she busted out with, “Two men DON’T get married.” What in the name of Oral Roberts did you say? I wanted to grab a picket sign with a picture of labia licking mommies on it and protest. I explained marriage is a celebration of love for another person regardless of gender or race. However all she heard was “celebration” and oddly, “cake.” I quickly realized I was throwing fuel on an already smoldering fire because in addition to my girl being a republican she’s also a Bridezilla. From a very early age she’s dictated intimate details of her wedding. I got her back on the gay marriage track with an analogy about her not being allowed to marry Joe Jonas. After we ran through her wedding menu she changed her tune and voted ‘NO” on Prop 8.

Imagine if it were this easy to change people’s minds. We could break down conflict to its basest form and forget fear and bullshit. Just bottom line everything. I found myself wondering where my children stood on other issues. What would they think about health care reform? Or the legalization of marijuana? There have been several shows depicting children as drooling little morons saying, “The Darndest Things”, but did we really pay attention? Maybe the children are our future. Maybe they’re “of the Corn.” I’m not saying they hold the key to peace in the Middle East. Frankly, my little Assjackets can’t share the tape dispenser. I just think everything is so jumbled these days and kids simplify things.

I really thought I’d stumbled onto the biggest untapped resource. I was ready to make DVD’s with colorful toys and play Bach while children break down race relations and gun control. I was going to have my own infomercial until a few days later my daughter loudly declared, “I do NOT like the Chinese and I’m NEVER going to China.”

I Have Big Breasts and I Can Not Lie

I have a love hate relationship with my boobies. They’ve gone up and down in size for various reasons over the years, but they’ve never been small. It’s been a blessing and a curse. Sometimes they get me things and sometimes they just get in the way. If I misjudge a bite or a sip by even a centimeter, I take it on the boob. Then I’m stuck with coffee, sauce etc. on my tits drawing even more attention to them. Most women look forward to pregnancy because of their growing breasts. Mine were elevated to a fetish level of porn. I wish I’d appreciated them a little more when they were darn near close to perfect. I might have dabbled in stripping had I known they’d be ravaged by time.

It’s no surprise I married a “boob man.” In fact, from what I can tell, most men go ape-shit over mammaries. I’m reminded of the time I was walking back from lunch with my boss and a lovely gentleman walked by and loudly barked, “Nice tits!” Now you would think I would have had some witty retort to make the situation less awkward, but alas I pretended it didn’t happen and hunched my shoulders a bit. It’s just so silly. They’re flesh and tissue. What’s the big fucking deal? Ladies, we don’t help the situation either. I mean I kind of get the showing your jugs for cash thing, but for cheap plastic beads? A free drink? A Girls Gone Wild shirt? Really? What I want to know is how’s showing your boobs going wild? I’ve shown my cans to many people including the mammogram technician and Victoria’s Secret sales help. All of them were able to refrain from dousing my fun bags with milk and licking it off.

For a society that is so breast obsessed you would think someone would have invented the Breast Transplant. You can donate all sorts of organs nowadays. You can even give someone your face. We should be able to suck titage from one lady and put it in another. Sure you can get breast implants but nothing is as good as the real thing. Not to be morbid, but what if someone with super hot knockers dies? Wouldn’t she want them to live the life she couldn’t? As an ample bosomed lady I would gladly share the love. Frankly my shoulders and back would thank me. To quote my husband, “Big or small, I love’m all. Now put them on my face.”


**Self breast exams save lives. Have a glass of wine and touch your tits. For all my Twitter lovers, please put your guns away and just forward this essay 

You Want a Piece of Me?

Time seems to be going by really, really fast. Remember when a year seemed like forever? Now seasons are blending and things are shifting which is making my nipples perk up and pay attention to those darn Mayans. I will disclaim right now I know nothing about the Mayans other then they are dead and want us to die a fiery death on December 21, 2012. Who the fuck follows the Mayan calendar? I know my liquor store isn’t giving that shit out. Are there people out there who say things like, “Let me check my Mayan calendar to see if we’ll be able to attend your holiday party.” According to the Mayans the end of the world will take place just a few short days before Christmas. Clearly they knew nothing about how seriously we take the holiday season.

All this has got me thinking. If I’m going to die in two years, I better start making things happen. I don’t have time for a “Bucket List.” I’m making a “Fuckit List.”

My Fuckit List:

1. Make a porn tape. This is not for mass distribution mind you but for my own enjoyment. My porno includes high jinx as well as steamy monkey sex.

2. Participate in a McDonald’s cheeseburger eating contest. Honestly I don’t give a shit if I’m the only contestant. Those burgers are some trans fat perfection.

3. Properly crash a wedding. I mean do it up. Dance with an Uncle. Sing a song. Order the chicken. The whole nine.

4. Leave a steaming pile of dog shit on someone’s doorstep. Feel free to imagine said dog shit being left for whoever has wronged you. If you so choose you can light it on fire.

5. Lay on the beach with a cocktail and a book for an entire summer. Send those sweet little fuckers to sleep away camp.

6. Take the nicest car parked with the valet, have sex in it and return it with my DNA in the back seat.

7. Dine and dash. Not just eat and run. I want costumes, Morse Code, accents. “Alias” style.


Alright Mayans, this better not be some Y2K bullshit.