Baby Of The Year

An obnoxious woman was going on and on about her kid. Please, parents, knock that shit off. We, the non-parent people of your child, don’t give a rats turd about stories about your kid.

I’m going to say that again so you know I’m serious, no matter what brilliant thing you think your twat snot did. Unless it’s win a Nobel Peace Prize for sleepiest baby or got drafted womb fresh in the first round of the NFL draft or cured juvenile diabetes (which would be the only disease that selfish little bag of turd would tackle), trust me, there is little difference between one sticky factory and another.

We’ve all been there. Proud of a child’s accomplishment and wanted to talk about it but sitting up and pointing at a color a Van Gough it does not make. So take it down a peg or you will have to spend all your time with your sweet little blob because no self-respecting adult will be seen anywhere near you.

But you know how it is, once you have one of these proudness missiles in your vicinity you’d need mace and an M-16 (both of which you sadly forgot) to even
wind her. So she’s chattering, I’m not hearing one superlative she’s uttering but it still bugs the shit out of me that she thinks because I have not caused blunt force trauma to her head I give a shit.

“Well,” she breathlessly states. “I have to be going. I have so many things to do with the baby. After I leave here we’re going to baby yoga.”

“Huh.” I say really meaning it. “Yeah well, I gotta go too.” She looks at me as if whatever I’m doing could not compare with baby yoga with the future mop
boy at the Seedy Shack. But I have a surprise for her. Unbeknownst to her, I’m more than willing to lie. “I have to take my baby boy to his class too.”

She brightens up a smidge. Maybe thinking there’s a play date in our future. How she can pawn the spawn off one day with me while she goes and bangs a crane
operator she picked up in some shit hole bar. But I’m too smart for that. When I’m done with her she’ll want to forget she ever told me her blessed stories.

“Yeah, he really like going to tiny tot MMA.”

Her face got all cute and baby pink like.

This just in.

A fight broke out between rival dollar stores. Management of the store where the battle took place reports damages in the tens of dollars.

Ten Things I Hate About The Holidays

10. The commercials start in August

9. Mistletoe anxiety

8. The clanging bells outside every store

7. Rudolph. He knows what he did on my roof

6. Geese a layin’ ain’t as sexy as it sounds

5. If the glove don’t fit, you must stand in line for an hour and a half to return it

4. Billions of dollars in no bid contracts. Oh wait, that’s things I hate about Halliburton

3. Finding out how Santa becomes jolly.

2. All the fruitcakes

1. Too much egg not enough nog

Saved The Day

I walk into a bar and three guys are freaking out. One of them is holding what looks like a stringy cat toy in his hands. A seat away from these three was a
guy who’d obviously had more than his share of fun. He was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed.

I went to the end of the bar and ordered. I couldn’t help but hear what the three guys were talking about. I looked over to the sleeping guy and, damn, if they didn’t cut off that guys tightly wrapped rat tailed beard.

From their talk when he awoke from his slumber he would be none too happy with the situation. They were starting to blame each other when, honestly, they
were in it together.

I half hoped the guy would wake up and slaughter them all for being whiny. You did the prank, suck it up and take the consequences. But I also don’t feel like being a witness for a triple homicide. That can tie up a whole day in court. Figuring the guy was a doofus, just like his friends. I decided to help them out.

“Hey,” they spin their heads I’m sure thinking the guy had woken. When they see it’s just me they calm a little. “Is he a prankster like you guys?” They
slowly grumble that he is. “Is he prone to make rash decisions like you guys?” Once again they grumble affirmatively. “But he’ll still kill you if he found out you did this, right?” No grumbling there. “Then I have a plan. Do you know if he’s left or right handed?” There was a few moments of debate, guys being so attentive, but they come to the conclusion that he’s right handed. “Good. Put the scissors in his right and hair in his left. When he wakes up your story is you tried to stop him but he cut off his own beard in a drunken stupor.”

Although it took a few beats longer than it should have they slowly begin to figure out that this is the most perfect plan ever spoken. They walk up to the
guy and, more gingerly than I thought was necessary, put the scissors on his fingers and hair across his left palm. They were giggling like little school
girls at their first boy band concert.

They then quickly fell into a group silence, I’m assuming, thinking how awesome it is that they are going to get away with it. But what I truly believe they were thinking about was tits.

They purchased me a beer which I drank thinking I was saving humanity at a much too low cost.

I went back a few days later and the same bartender was on. He said the guy finally woke up after an hour or so and slowly blinked the hair and scissors into view then looked at his friends and said,

“I’m such a fucking dick.”

And I am the savior of three young (yes, dumb) men’s lives.