If I see another movie with an animated rodent in it within the next twelve months, I shall kill myself.
If our Homeland Security policy revolved around my ability to make a cookie…
…we’d all be fucking camels right now.
…more than usual.
On a related note, my junk smells like Al Qaeda.
Let me explain.
This past Sunday, my wife took my 5 year old son to one of his girl classmates’ birthday party.
He was the only boy invited.
My wife told me that all the girls were all over him – hugging him, holding his hand.
The kid, I tell you, is a playah.
Don’t think that I don’t know that girls also flock like this to homosexual men.
But I’m sticking with the notion that he’s a ladies man.
It’s how I stop myself from crying myself to sleep.
I planned on taking her out to lunch. A nice day out.
Then, my wife reached down and removed my testicles.
Wife: “Oh. While you’re out, go get her a new leotard.”
(that’s the sound of my left nut being removed)
Me: “What’s a leotard look like?”
Son: “Well dad, it’s a…”
Me: “YOU ARE NOT GAY!”
Wife: “You’re not serious, are you? You don’t know what a leotard is?”
Me: “Of course I know.”
(I have no idea)
At least I still have one ball left.
Wife: “Oh – and when you get home, you two can bake Snickerdoodles!”
A Snickerdoodle is a cookie. A wonderful, delicious cookie.
I know this, because my wife made Snickerdoodles with the kids a week ago, and I ate 43 of them within 20 minutes.
THEY’RE SNICKERLICIOUS!! (trademark pending)
But I’ve never MADE a Snickerdoodle.
Before I knew that a Snickerdoodle was a cookie, I thought it was the thing that my college girlfriend used to do to my bunghole when I was drunk enough to let her.
Tequila numbs my sphincter.
Fine. We’ll make fucking Snickerdoodles.
Me: “Here, honey, I’ve saved you some time and snapped my penis off for you.”
First stop – the leotard.
We stopped at the local Walmart where – for the first time ever – I was not greeted by anyone.
No elderly man.
No elderly woman.
No person with some distinct mental handicap.
No person with no visible deformities but still harboring a deep desire to KILL KILL KILL THE INFIDELS IN MY HEAD!!!!
Like Cinderella said, “You don’t know what you’ve got…till it’s gone.”
I miss the 80’s.
After wandering around the Girl’s Department in Walmart for a fucking half hour looking for a leotard we finally found one in the ‘socks’ section (how is this thing possibly fucking footwear?) and headed home.
(queue MC Hammer)
My kitchen island looked like afterbirth while I was trying to make these fucking things.
After not softening the butter enough, and realizing that I had two different mixer-spinny-things in the mixer which almost broke the fucking thing, and telling my daughter to NOT LICK YOUR HANDS THOSE WERE RAW EGGS, and deciding to nuke the batter to melt the butter a little and then making big balls of dough (hey! Maybe I can attach THESE!) we were ready to cook those little bastards.
They didn’t cook.
I gave up trying to cook them when they went 4 minutes over the time the recipe said to cook them and they still looked like my balls on a hot summer day.
(note to myself to try sprinkling cinnamon sugar on my nads…the dog should like that)
I looked at my cookies.
I looked at the old batch.
My wife’s cookies looked like cookies.
My cookies looked like giant piles of light brown shit.
Me: “Fuck that shit. Eat your goddamn cookies.”
Ungrateful little shit.
Here I am having quality time with my daughter making undercooked, giant Salmonella-infested shit-looking cookies while my kitchen looks like a rhino tried fucking a box of flour in here…
…and she wants to fucking start over?
I don’t think so.
Next time, I’m doing the birthday party thing.
At least I can watch my son score 5 year old chicks at the rollerskating party.
Yeah, it was a rollerskating party.
That’s manly, right?
I’m crying myself to sleep tonight. I just know it.