Best Fetus


I’m one of those doting parents who couldn’t stop talking about my baby as soon as she hit the eight cell mark.  And things have only gotten more interesting from there! My little darling has been developing, feeding on the nutrients provided to her through the bloodstream, and growing at a startling rate.  In a matter of days, she had already reached the size of a Duracell battery.  So big and healthy!  Though I probably shouldn’t repeat this in case I make the other parents jealous, the ultrasound technician said that this was the most beautiful fetus she had ever seen. 

Yes, I developed an Angelina Jolie fetus. It’s too bad I can’t pierce her ears yet; I’m sure she would look fabulous. 


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Random Thoughts

If I make minimum wage at a part time job, can I say that I wasted my week’s wages after buying just one beer? And should my S.O. feel angry about it?

Enough with the no-makeup celebrity photos. Try no makeup in a Target uniform under fluorescent lights, with at least one zit. Then we can talk.

School teachers possess both an affinity for controlling others and a partiality toward smiley face exclamation points.

Blasting techno makes a bunch of sweaty people standing around in a room into a special night to remember.

Improv is like Joni Mitchell, and stand up is like Leonard Cohen. Joni runs away crying when the audience heckles her, whereas Leonard feeds off of the heckling and summons its evil for his songs.



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To the Swim Lesson Parent Who Complains that His Child Should Pass this Level:*

Your little bundle of genetic material is clearly the best. For whatever reason, your DNA, combined with your egg donor’s DNA, formed a unique superchild with fearsome abilities. Your child, unlike every other child in the pool, somehow does not need to practice or even listen to the instructor. Your child, unlike every other child in the pool, has the benefit of supergenes that bestow him with the kind of infinite strength and ability that has elevated his back crawl to epic proportions. Truly, only idiots rely on the slow process of constructing muscle memory. Idiots like… every other child in the pool.

Your wrath at your child’s swimmy report card is of course justified. We swim instructors do not know what it’s like to deal with a prodigy; after all, we have only years of collective experience to rely upon. Perhaps even a decade’s worth of experience is not enough to truly grasp the level of talent that your child possesses.

If your child has not literally–literally–blazed a path of glory through that pool’s water, the swim instructor must take full responsibility for her failure. Some questions to ask: Has the swim instructor properly showed your child attention to the exclusion of other children? Has the swim instructor explained the principles of behaviorism to your child, forcing him to understand the dynamics of learning? Has your swim instructor stood over your child and corrected every single lapse into bad habit (even though your child does have bad habits)? Has your swim instructor repeatedly shouted your child’s name and, when the child pretends not to hear, jumped into the water and forcefully corrected that child’s front crawl? Has your swim instructor tried psychotherapy?

You cannot blame a parent or a child for a failure such as this, the failure to pass on the the next level. After all, discipline is an over-rated virtue, and passé besides. Why should your child have to deign to listen carefully to his instructor and apply what she has said? Why should you have to create a stable home environment? Most importantly, why should you have to take precious effort to deal with your child’s bad behavior? We as a society need not place these heavy saddlebags upon parents, the most important members of society, bar none. Truly, all parents deserve to have as much power as The President of the United States. Yes, The President of The United States.

You–special, wonderful parent, executive operator of all that should be, had no other options left. You simply had to verbally abuse a worker paid below the poverty line, to let her know just how poor a job she did with your flawless mishmash of DNA that you call a child. Congratulations on your forceful show of opinion!

*Mothers often have this same reaction, it’s not just Dads. In general, most swim instructors appear to be women.

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To Make a Cake with a Small Child:

After adding eggs, flour, milk, and sugar, this recipe calls for the child to insert his or her dirty hands into the mixture. The recipe then calls for zero minutes of baking time; the batter will be all over the floor before the oven finishes preheating.

The recipe calls for enough energy to pack the diaper bag, strap the child into the car, carry your kid into the grocery store, find a place to leave your cart while you change your kid, carry both kid and cake out of the store, and then drop the cake in the parking lot.

Finally, the recipe calls for Mommy’s Valium.

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Rich People Art Project

Perhaps Bill Gates could provide the 1 billion dollars worth of funding for my new art project. I would take a large mansion and fill it with paper måché furniture slopped together by kids. I would past the tiles onto the bathroom myself, just to make it look crappy, and have guests specifically use that bathroom, because art. The rest of the mansion could be one giant iPad, where you could touch the walls for apps. My servants would creepily interject into conversations to make it clear that they’d been spying on guests all along.

Then a giant robot would come up to the rich people and pull down their pants. And I’d be sued a bunch of times, and my lawyer would show up in a Prada suit that was two inches short in all of the most awkward places.

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Date an Alcoholic.Com!

A sketch wrote by yours truly, and brought to life by many talented individuals in my community.

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The Wonder of Indie Dance

One fine day, along came indie dance music–electronic songs with throwback sounds and/or lyrics that contain actual ideas. Indie dance music, in its most pure form, exists as distilled fun. It can be found on college radio, Pandora radio, and pirate radio.

Just add a few sound waves of indie dance music, and any mundane area of life becomes exciting. Commuting home? NAWPE, you just found yourself hosting a personal party in a rotating room.

Working your part time job? No, oh no; it’s much better than that. You feel the beat, then box items in free form style.

Watching an elderly individual take a walk? You witness a dancing machine, who would blow your mind if she thought it wouldn’t flat out kill you.

Last month, in an artsy section of an artsy city, a young woman with short blonde hair spins a record to no one. No one. But the jam she plays sounds so good. Four individuals emerge from the darkness and start shaking it. Inhibitionless. Spin it.

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