God Damn Those Fat Teenage Moms

Yahoo, as usual, has the scoop on how teenage girls who have babies can now benefit from a study designed to find out why they’re not rushing right out after having said babies and getting their lithe teenage bodies back.

Because, really, how is it possible that people who don’t have access to nannies and personal trainers and vast amounts of coke have such a hard time looking ready to prance down the catwalk in their underwear a mere ten weeks after giving birth? Do you suppose that girls who have a baby to attend to and school to attend might have other things on their minds besides how big their asses have gotten?

Oh, you fat teenage moms. Your priorities are so out of whack. Not only are you slutty and impoverished burdens on society, now you’re no fun to look at. Damn you, teenage moms. Damn you.

Good Girls Gotta Get Down with the Gangsters

Ack, I don’t even have anything witty to say. I just love that line–“Good girls gotta get down with the gangsters”–in Beyonce’s new song and have been looking for an excuse to use it. Is “This post cannot help but be boring, better spice up the title” a good enough excuse?

Join with me, dear reader, as we find out.

Anyway, last night, I had dinner with my dad at the O’Charley’s in Hermitage. Then, I dropped him off at his hotel, watched as he, a small man in a bowler, shuffled towards the door, with his hands full of pop and snacks, and headed on home.

I took the long way–around Briley Parkway–since it had been so long since I’d driven a car. There were quite a few cops out and one person in a Mazda, who was driving just a little faster than me, and chain smoking, as the ends of cigarettes kept flying out his window and hitting the road in front of me, sending flashes of yellow and red across the pavement.

I keep thinking that I ought to make some kind of New Year’s resolution. I normally don’t. I don’t like participating in large group activities and choose to keep my own superstitions in my own way. But I feel good and hopeful, lately.

And so, I think I’m going to resolve to choose to be happy. Or at least to practice being happy.

We’ll see how that goes.

A Day of Trials and Minor Tribulations

  • Mrs. Wigglebottom went to the vet. She didn’t care about having things stuck up her butt. She didn’t mind having blood drawn, even though the vet had to poke around to find a vein. She gave a rat’s ass about the shot. But let that motherfucker try to shine a light in her eyes and it’s on. Luckily, she didn’t bite the vet, but she gave it her best shot. And when we came out of the examination room, she barked in alarm at the puppy, “Holy shit, run if you can! That monster has a light he’s going to shine right in your fucking eyes!!!!!” The puppy then also began to bark in alarm. Still, Mrs. Wigglebottom is in good health–58 pounds, no heart worms, 5 years, 8 months old. That last part tickled me because I don’t remember ever knowing when her birthday was, but at some point, we must have thought we had a firm idea.
  • I’m still sick. I’m tired of talking about it.
  • The fucking libertarians are right. Having a gigantic manly afghan the size of a small continent is all kinds of useful, I discovered while sick. So, I’m making me one.
  • My dad is fixated on meeting Sarcastro and the Wayward Boy Scout. I’ve convinced him that he cannot possibly meet the Wayward Boy Scout while he’s here, but he won’t let the Sarcastro thing drop. It just goes to show that I probably would have been better off letting him talk to them at Thanksgiving. Now he’s had a month to dwell on things and think of all the awesome stories he would have told them, if only his cruel, heartless daughter hadn’t handed the phone to her mom. All through dinner tonight, it was “Ask Sarcastro to come to dinner with us tomorrow night. Or Thursday. He’ll want to meet me. Tell him I’m British.” “You’re not British.” “He won’t know that.” “Yes, yes, I think he might notice that you aren’t actually British.” “I’ll use an accent.” “Oh, of course. Well, in that case, he’ll be utterly fooled.”
  • We had to go to Walmart. This actually didn’t suck as bad as one might think because there was a veteran in a wheel chair speeding down the aisles at some ungodly speed shouting, “Get out of my way! I don’t have any brakes!!!!” while his mom (I presume) waddled after him begging him not to make a scene. I was praying for him to make a bigger scene, since this one was so amusing.