Shut the hell up for a second and hear me out. I am totally willing to give myself and
fellow parents props for all of our sacrifices; however, let’s not pretend like
being a parent doesn’t have its advantages. People pay many rubles for things
we take for granted in our everyday lives.
Tell me more, Rebecca. Okay.
Living with children is essentially a constant probiotic
infusion. While you hipster DINKS pay five dollars a bottle for chia-brewed
kombucha, I ingest literally ounces per day of my childrens’ bacteria-riddled
saliva, snot, and skin cells (partially in my food and usually alcoholic
beverages, partially just from having my mouth open at the wrong time). Also, Fecal
Microbiota Transplant. Look it up. People pay thousands actual of
dollars to have fecal matter
transplanted from a donor into their own rumps. You know, to replenish their
healthy bacteria. Hey, I’m all about gut health. But seriously folks, just come
to my house and let my kids touch you. They say they wash their hands after
they use the restroom, those little jerks are MADE OF LIES!! It’s all just Pooptown
frolics.
Don’t even get me started on intermittent fasting. Want to
jumpstart your metabolism? Try not eating for like an entire day because every
time you try to, a kid hurts himself, breaks something, poops (see above) or PHYSICALLY SNATCHES THE FOOD OUT OF YOUR MOUTH. Then, when they are finally
asleep, and you can eat, the only thing left in the house is tomato sauce,
vodka, and fucking pickles. That’s keto-tastic, bitches!
My children restore my dermal biome every time they sneeze
in my face, or scratch their disgusting crevices and then stick their fingers
into my nose. My skin is like a cherub’s. Plus I never get to bathe, so I’m
dewy AF.
Why go all the way to Sweden to be violently massaged when I
can simply wait for the middle child to complete her nocturnal journey to my
bed, then proceed to flail me with her scrawny and yet mighty arms and legs?
Thank you, night terrors. The incoherent babbling only adds to the experience.
Finally, a good-old-fashioned cleanse. Look no further. If
you really want to purify the old digestive tract, simply watch a child eat an
ice cream cone. I challenge you to not vomit. There is nothing more nauseating
on God’s Green Earth than a child eating an ice cream cone. The ropes of saliva
mingling with the horribly disintegrating dairy abomination. The chocolate
goatees. Whisking it into repellently foamy “ice cream soup” like a deranged
celebrity chef and then slurping it down. I have watched a child balance an ice
cream cone carefully on a table, and, hands folded properly in his lap, purse
his lips and suckle the ice cream like a hungry baby goat. (I am honestly
gagging as I type this, I hope you are too. Otherwise, why are we doing this?)
I have watched children mouth-carve the ice cream into disturbingly phallic
shapes and then use these shapes to apply “ice cream lipstick”. So save some
money on that herbal cleanse packet you have been looking at on the interwebs.
Just buy your kid some soft serve and let nature take its course.
That’s all I have for tonight, folks. Never stop not
quitting, parents! Someone has to do it, and you were the one who couldn’t keep
it in your pants.
