Lecture

You have to lecture your kids. You also have to lecture your husband — and sometimes your neighbors or the mailman or a solicitor or the Jehovah’s Witnesses — or even, on a very bad day, Jehovah Himself.

That’s just the way it is.

I use a lectern. Lecterns have one purpose and lecturing is it.

I have an indoor lectern on wheels, for moving around the house, and an outdoor mobile lectern for trips to school, where my kids sometimes need my advice or a good scold during classes or recess. (Props to SNL and Melissa McCarthy for the outdoor mobile idea. That lectern is especially useful for following older my kids on their dates.)

The workers in my husband’s office are well familiar with my lecterns. The indoor lectern attaches to the larger outdoor lectern so that once I get to the skyscraper, I can just roll on in.

The White House has the most famous lectern, with a big seal on its front representing the President or the U.S. or whatever. My seals are nothing fancy like that one. Just my face with a stern look on it.

The main thing about lecterns, and you should remember this in case you’re ever standing behind one, is that you don’t necessarily have to tell the truth to your audience while you’re there, whether it be your family or anybody else. You’ll notice this with the Presidential Lectern, for example. There is something about fielding tough questions from your listeners that requires an occasional slide into fabricationhood.

How many times, oh Lord, have the kids or the hubby called out, “Yeah, but what about you?”

“What about me?” I reply. “Let me tell you how much I love you. I have been teaching you, guiding you, explaining things to you, badgering you, threatening you,  reporting you to the police and other authorities, snitching on you to your best friends, and posting embarrassing homecam shots of you on Facebook since the day you were born, or in the case of Frank, since the day we were married, and have I ever asked for thanks? No. This lectern is three inches shorter than when it was new, from me pounding on it.”

But I’ve got to go. I’ve had the bathroom door widened so I can get this thing through it when a family member requires a lecture while using the facilities.

For Daily Prompt

Memo Released to Public

I am releasing this memo to the Congressional Grammar School in Washington, D.C. because it shows that my daughter, Sue, favors my husband over me. She should be ashamed. Let the teachers and students at CGS make their feelings known to her! As for my boys, Bob and Fred, they’re ok but they could show a little backbone once in a while.

Memo

From: Sue

To: Bob and Fred

Security: Classified!

Mom is a real jerk! A boob! I like Dad a lot more.

Dad lets us do what we want, as long as we make a few bucks and don’t bug him for $$. We can litter, he don’t care. A little weed. Whatever. Let him watch TV and play golf and that’s all he needs.

Mom cares more about the poor kids next door than she does about us. She’s always out demonstrating or “organizing.” And she’s low energy. Why doesn’t she organize Dad’s sock drawer if she cares so much?

I know you guys are “older and wiser” but jeez, I’m five years old. I got my rights!

What Race Should My Sperm Donor Be? (CNN)

My first thought was to have that multi-child egg-planting procedure so I could have four or five or six babies of various races. I don’t want to get, you know, racial.

But then, why not just go mixed-race? One child, a real mongrel. What’s a better word for that? Cur? Half-breed? Mutt?

Just got my own DNA readout:

23% Abzhui

12% Sangtam

34% Kittian

18% Arbëreshë

13% Tai Lü

What? Did they just take my money and make up words? Look at me. Do I look Tai Lü to you?

So I described the kind of man I want. Big, you know? I told them, you know, I like it kind of rough. Then they told me that the man doesn’t, you know, literally do the deed. I won’t even be awake!

So I just gave them my rules:

  1. Don’t give me the cheapest or the most expensive. Cheap, you get what you pay for. Top of the line, you get lots of extras you don’t need. Give me the most economical (second cheapest).
  2. I buy fresh. No cans. No frozen.
  3. I’ll have what she had. The one driving that red beemer.
  4. I don’t mind drive-through.

Swearing toddler taken into custody

[Huffington Post headline]

What the fuck? Hey, I can walk, asswipe!

Stop calling it toddling. and get your filthy meathooks off me!  Son of a bitch! Pedophile!

Where’s my mom, motherfucker? Yeah, I still nurse. What’s it to you, hornbag? Nurse on this!

I grab one extra piece of motherfucking birthday cake and Jamie’s mom shits a brick. Who am I, Curious George? What a cunt. If my mom was like that, I’d shoot the bitch.

Alright. You don’t care? Unnngggg. Nnggg. There. Right in my motherfucking pants.! Enjoy the smell.

Hey, pussface. I’m a min-or. You put me in there with these drunk druggie faggots and I will ream you out. I will eat your ‘nads. Yes, bro, I will fuck you up.

Fine. Slam that door. When I get out of here, I will stick my foot so far up your ass, a croc will come out your earhole. I will stab you in the eye with my Barbie. I will dig up Mister Rogers, cut off his head, and leave it at the foot of your motherfucking bed. Clown-turd.

Oh, hi, Mom. School was ok and so was the birthday party. What’s for dinner tonight?

Child Labor

One of the two urinals in my workplace is attached low on the wall, situated close to the floor, as if for a child. A coworker laughingly suggested that it was in fact installed to accommodate child labor. Ha ha. But his comment did remind me of the various times that I have hired kids to work for my company.

Sadly, in difficult economic times like these, the little ones are the first to get canned. Why is this so? They work for peanuts. You can boss them around and abuse them. Yet somehow, they’re the first out the door. Maybe it’s because it’s so easy to get rid of the little buggers. You look at the charts on your office wall, all trending down, and you go out and give the first kid you see a boot in the ass and a snarl, and the next thing you know, they’re all streaming out the back door, heading back to their grammar schools.

Except for the gypsy kids that I had working for me. Skinny little monkeys. Fearless. Of course, they’ll steal you blind. Fortunately, I speak fluent Romany. I’d tell the little bastards that if they stole from me, I’d cut off their fingers. Think that stopped them? Not at all, at least till they’d lost a couple of  digits.

I find that if you can enlist enough kids, they’re sort of like ants. They can’t lift anything heavy, but they can scamper back and forth, making multiple trips, so that stuff moves from the truck trailers and boxcars into the warehouse as if by magic. I just put out a big bag of cheap candy and it keeps them going for hours, the candy and my German Shepherd Rex.

First sign that the economy is improving: hooky stats at school on the rise.