I am so happy I don't have any kids

[Ace$Thugg]

I am so happy I don't have any kids. For one, I'd probably have to go home right after work and let them out to pee. Which is a real social calendar bummer. And second, I'd probably have to give them some sort of attention, which I failed to deliver on my two other previous responsibilties: Fluffy, my goldfish, and to Fred, some Attention Defecit Disorder retard* that I neglected* to rescue during my lifeguarding days.

It's not that I hate kids, I just LOVE the fact I don't have any. I also love the fact I'm not married. Cause I figure married life goes like this:

Husband: "Honey, what did you do today?"

Wife: 'I've been trying to escape this horrible hell of having money, sleeping late, and living my life they way I want to with no worries in the world. And you know, I think the only way to possibly replace all this rancid evil would be with a child."

And everyone says that you don't know what it's like to have a child until you have one. Yeah, but I'm sure they say the same thing about brain cancer.

Doctor: "I'm sorry to inform you that you have brain cancer."

Patient: "Doc, What's that mean? Will it change my life?"

Doctor: "Yes, it will have a major impact on your life."

Patient: "Wonderful, I bet it will look so cute in my new SUV."

So to those married and to those with kids, I wish you the best. I hope you don't treat me differently cause I choose to be single and be free of responsibilities. But please excuse me and my joyous life, I've gotta take my hatchback and ugly brain cancer for a spin.

*retard is used in the sense that all kids are retarded.
*neglected is the legal term for sleeping on the job.


Ace

www.alancorey.com coming soon

 

[Ace$Thugg]

It's hard to find a sexy barren girl these days

It's hard to find a sexy barren* girl these days. On a recent blind date, I picked up a girl at her house and noticed a cross-stich pattern proudly displayed in her living room that read "Cats are like furry children" with a picture of what looked like a cross-stiched hamster beneath it. Overjoyed, I hugged her and exclaimed, "Perfect! Finally a woman who hates cats AND children."

This was immediately followed by hysterical crying, scratching, clawing...and then my date joined in (rim shot.)

No seriously folks, neither she or her cat seemed to approve of my comment, nor of my tardiness, nor of the date from that point on. And this was a blind date in every sense of the word. She was legally blind, which she failed to mention in her personal ad that read, "Do you like Brazil? I do. Come meet me."

When I first read that, I immediately pictured a bikini girl with a Spanish accent tanning in the tropics ordering a cabana boy to bring her monkey milk, speared tribesman, and other Brazialian delicacies. However, it was this daydreaming that made me overlook how she had actually written Braille, not Brazil. Yes, she actually and <I>purposely</i> wrote, "Do you like Braille? I do. Come meet me." This is inherently wrong on so many levels.

One, blind people shouldn't use personal ads. Those that don't have cats, have guide dogs. These dogs attract so many people for them to meet it's ridiculous. And they also create such ice breaking conversation starters such as "Does your dog know how many fingers I'm holding up?" to "Dude, he can't smell drugs can he?" This can easily lead to the exchange of phone numbers and future dates. I wish I had it so lucky.

And two, how many people LIKE braille? If you are blind, you can read a book using braille or you can not read.* I don't think there really is an argument on whether this makes braille a likeable subject or not. It's like asking if you like breathing. "Do you like Breathing? I do. Come meet me. Leave your inhaler at home. This CPR instructor has got a big oxygen tank waiting for ya."

Needless to say, there was no second date with this girl. There really was no second half to the first date. After dinner, I let her find her way home. This was by her request. It was also by her request for me to stop making faces at her. (Here is something I did learn and a tip for you, an unexpecting reader who many find yourself in my shoes: apparently legally blind people can still see. It's people that are <i>actually</i> blind that can't see. I'm not sure what category Venetian blinds belong to, but to be on the safe side, don't make faces at them either.)

Anyway, I didn't pay the bill. It must have been an oversight on my part. I don't think we had much in common honestly. Thankfully, I never got around to getting her view point on hamsters. I'm sure we'd disagree on that too. Cause in my opinion, hamsters are boring and they stare, just like furry eyeballs.

*barren - can mean habitually failing to fruit and not yet or not recently pregnant. It can also mean dull and unresponsive. In this case, I mean all of the above.

*Books on tape are not considered reading. They are however considered competition by new age music artist Mark Preston.

Ace

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Don't name your dog Brad

Don't name your dog Brad. Please don't. It's not fair to the dog. And it's only women that would do this. Naming your dog Brad is just as demeaning as making it wear knit sweaters and rubber boots. All pet owners should know that giving human characteristics to your pet does not upgrade your pet in any way, shape, or form. However, what it does successfully accomplish is to downgrade a woman from 'nice pet owner' to 'that crazy lady with no kids.'

Thankfully, most crazy ladies with no kids these days don't have any children. If so, their off-spring would be crazy, and probably be named Blacky or Fluffers. However, on the positive side, instead of being known as the crazy lady with a kid named Fluffers, you will now be known to as the hippie chick down the street. Which is fine, until your hippie kid gets Blacky Lung from smoking so much dope.

Anyway, getting back to the first point, it's these same women, who seem to think it's cute to leave on the answering machine the dog's name too. So to an unknowning caller, confusion sets in right after the message starts, "Hello, this is [girlfriend/aunt/crazy lady's name], Brad and I can't come to the phone right now." Thus, making the caller think his friend is now in a stable relationship and/or now possibly sane.

However, to those of us current on friend's lonesome bachalorettehood, at the beep we start thinking "I know that Brad can't come to the phone right now. That's because he's a dog! You know what, Brad will never come to the phone. Even when you desperately try to shove the phone in his cute furry ear everytime I call, Brad still isn't going to talk to me. You are crazy for thinking that and you are psycho, psycho, psycho!" (Be sure aforementioned thinking isn't done outloud.)

So women, please realize naming your dog Robert or Daniel or Patrick is not cute or affectionate. It's actually scary and creepy. Please remember names like Sparky and Spot are cute and effective. But, if you must name your dog Brad, please be honest with yourself and with your callers. And let me record your outgoing message.

"Thank you for calling. The Crazy Lady can not answer the phone right now cause her companion Brad has just peed on her new carpet. Brad also went number 2 in the kitchen this morning. Brad is currently chewing on pantyhose and rolling on the floor. Crazy Lady however solved last week's drooling problem. Please leave a message so Brad and Crazy Lady can call you back." Beep.

"Hey, looks like things are the same...."

 

[Ace$Thugg]

I'm not wiping any ass but my own

I'm not wiping any ass but my own. This is my main resolution I hope to keep this year. That, and to not get married/have kids/give up on life. And by golly, I'm going to keep these resolutions.

I've failed the last three years in my ass-wiping boycott. But this year, I'm 6 months in, and things are still looking pretty. The first two encounters I had in this sport* involved a dog. However, the most recent participation occurred while babysitting. Some bratty kid who was old enough to cry and turn purple when eating Legos, apparently was not mature enough to go to the bathroom without needing my ASSistance. This all started from a conversation through a closed bathroom door.

"Alan, I'm ready."
"Umm, For what?"
"I'm ready for you to come in here."
"I'm not that kind of babysitter."

Then for the next 90 minutes, I tried to teach him how much $8 dollars a hour was 'really' worth, and how if he sat there long enough he'd have to go again, and lastly, if we could just get his younger brother to do it, the return on investment would be hilariously astronomical, especially once they reached high school.

None of it worked, and for some reason, I finally caved in to a crying pooping 3-year old. It was a very vivid moment, even though I tried to block it out by closing my eyes and humming Sir Mix-A-Lot's rump-shaking ballad "Baby Got Back." I finally wrapped my hand with half a roll of toilet paper, held my nose, counted to 10, and then preceded to take two blind swipes at the doody kid's hiney. Both times I whiffed by a good 10 feet of said child's buttock which received a heckle of, "You're not a very good babysitter."

I agreed, grudgingly opened my eyes, and then did the 'job' of a good babysitter. Immediately afterwards I washed my newly shamed hands for 45 straight minutes. I could not and still can't look that kid in the eyes. He has taken my dignity, my pride, and what little manhood I had at the time. And I think he knows it. I have never been asked back to babysit for that family, nor have I ever considered babysitting for any family since then. I guess you can say I retired at the 'bottom' of my babysitting career. And I'll accept that. But I wont accept any crap from his kid when he reaches high school.


*sport - yes, a sport, like NASCAR..

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Who's your daddy?

"Who's your daddy?," I asked.
I receive a blank stare.
"Princess, is something wrong?"
Crying begins.

This is why I hate pre-schoolers. For one, they don't let you help them locate their parents. And two, they don't like it when I call the more feminine boys Princess. But when I'm in charge of lost children at a shopping mall, I think they should understand my job has to come with a little sense of humor. And occasional cruelty.

But I'd never be overly cruel, I wouldn't say things like, "You can't find your parents because they are dead! Ha ha ha!" But I'm not above telling them about the boogie monster that eats little boys who wear pink girly shirts. And although, technically, this is lying, I honestly think there should be a boogie monster that eats little boys that wear pink girly shirts. Cause it scares the crap out of little kids. And pink girly shirts are lame.

The second part of the job is meeting the parents. They were never really concerned about the kid, but they always seemed to be really interested in me. I must say, a lot of attractive single women 'lose' their kid in the mall. Which made my life hellacious, then a little sweet, then full of free samples at the food court.

I remember one woman, a young blonde, who seemed unrattled that her child had been missing for over 2 hours (I don't blame her, the kid was a retard*) She came in, and in a few minutes made it known to me she was single, liked my smile, and also liked the sales rack at Victoria's Secret. This woman was on to me, and I was on to her. Our banter continued to progressively get more and more risque, to the point that we started talking about our favorite positions (her's being of authority, mine being short stop.)

I, never being one to pick up a woman, especially with spoken words*, felt a sudden rush of confidence and bravado, and a urge to win over this woman right there and now. And as she bent down, to show me her newly purchased lingerie, I couldn't resist any longer. I grabbed her thin beautiful waist, spanked her gently on her perfectly shaped rump, and said what came naturally to me, "Who's your daddy?"

And she gave me a blank stare.

"I'm sorry, that was so wrong," I muttered.

And then the woman starts telling me about lawyers who come after men who sexually harass customers. And how I was dead, and my boss was dead, and that the mall was dead.

I begin to cry.

*retard - as in all kids are retarded
*mumbling doesn't work well either

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Don't let your baby grow up to be a terrorist

Don't let your baby grow up to be a terrorist. First off, you will be instantly titled an evil-doer (just for procreating.) And secondly, you will be considered a bad parent in most book-club gossip circles. And no matter how many terror-themed pool parties you throw or suicide notes you pen for him, Junior is still going to hate you. Because that's what baby terrorists do, they hate and they despise and they poop. They probably even poop hate. And they are going to despise you for it, the birther of terrorists. But imagine the endless conversations you can have:

"Mom, I was raised to hate."
"That's my boy."
"I hate you."
"No, you like me. You hate everything else."
"Oh, I hate that."
"That's my boy."
"I think there's something in my poop."
"That's hate."
"Oh, cool. I love that!"
"No you don't."

So, I'm here to tell you, that being a terrorist parent is not all that's it's cracked up to be. Also it's definitely not, as kid's these days would say, "da bomb." It's hard work and you get no rewards. Imagine being in Afghanistan right now and having to tell your children, "Sorry, kids, doesn't look like there's going to be any terrorist camp this summer." That's not going to make him love you, but you might get a gift in the mail.

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Do these pants make me look pregnant?

"Do these pants make me look pregnant?"
"No, and neither does your gigantic oversized belly or your maternity mom back-support. You look as fine as any infertile chick working at that chi-chi club Home Depot."

If you ask this question, there are major issues you need to address yourself first. If pants can make or break you on looking pregnant, I think some excercise needs to be in order. Or if it's that baby in your stomach that's making you look pregnant, you should definitely stop everything you are doing and write a letter of complaint to Levi's. Cause it's definitely not anything you did that would make you appear to be giving birth soon, it's the cut of the jeans and they should know about it. They should also know it was the pockets of the jeans that didn't get you into the club on Saturday and that the denim totally gives you swamp ass. Realize however, it's not all that bad, because it was the super easy zipper that helped you get that promotion last week, and it was the low riders that got you hit on at the subway by those hunky construction workers. So, take your losses with your gain, a gain of your belly that I have to hear about.

If you really are pregnant, I would think incognito fashion is probably not the best way to approach your day. It's not like you are going to pick up a man, have him fall in love with you, and want to be a father in about a month's time (or a lifetime.) The better approach would be to do whatever you were doing that got you pregnant in the first place, cause obviously that worked. However, if this activity involved keg-stands, drug parties, or breaking Guiness Records for the number of cars driving over your stomach, I would stop immediately. Not cause it would be detrimental to the life of your future child, but because nobody likes a show off.

Most likely, it's the lack of excercise that makes those devilish jeans fit so poorly and maybe you should suggest to Levi's to make some excercise pants. And I don't mean pants you excercise in, but actual pants that excercise for you. Or maybe if they had "No, I'm not pregnant" cut jeans, or "It's not my fat that makes me look fat, it's the way the jeans are cut" cut jeans. This would solve all of our problems. Just like how the ab belt, and the botox, and the magic fairy dust is making you look so much better.

And so you know, maternity fashion is not supposed to disguise your sexual history either. Nor is it designed to hide your health. It's designed to make pregnant women comfortable and confident for a 9 month incubation period. It's their future kids and another period that make them irratable, out of breath, and bitching to me about their jeans.

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Little Leaguers suck

Little Leaguers suck. And I don't even think they know it. And
since I was there watching them play "baseball" , I figured I, being an avid fan of the sport, should let them know that they weren't meeting my expectations. This opinion was apparently not shared by others. Quickly, I was told by these others that my comments were going to be inserted into my body cavity and then stomped on by heavy foot apparel. Then their parents approached me. And although they appeared to not be pleased either, they offered me trips to a place called Hell and to give me body massages with blunt objects. I declined, I mean, I didn't even know these people. But I do know when I see bad baseball.

First off, each team had a pitcher that also doubled as the coach. And the coach/pitcher would pitch to his own team! Now, if that's not rigging the game for high scoring action, I don't know what is. And they STILL never homered! I sat through 6 innings of a Little League baseball game and didn't see one single homerun or a brush back pitch or even a beer vendor. I did however see 35 errors, 78 swinging bunts, and 18 uncoordinated fat kids.

The most confusing thing was the other fans in the bleachers. They were going batty. Every player was doing a "Good Job!" and a mundane action of hitting a foul would recieve a cheer of "Way to go, Timmy!" But then no one would criticize Timmy when he would miss EVERY ball in right field because he was busy picking four-leaf clovers or tossing his glove in the air. Come on Timmy, be professional!

All of these players had obviously never seen A League of Their Own either, cause there was definitely crying going on in this baseball game. Jonathon was in tears cause he tried to catch a ball with his forehead, Douglas was bawling because the bat hurt his hands, and Freddy was red-eyed from being ridiculed, but rightfully so. Unprecedentedly, Freddy attempted to underhand toss a ball from left-field to I guess, centerfield. And it was not just centerfield, but over the fence in centerfield. Which confused everyone so much, they decided to have a do-over. A redo in baseball? I'm just glad I wasn't scoring the game.

The best thing about Little League is the concession stand. The Big League Chew, the Red Hots, and the fact that you are no longer watching the game. The concession stand was also frequented by kids who were supposed to be currently playing in the game, but figured they could leave unnoticed. And they were usually right. I recognized one player, the only girl on the team, Nancy.

The worst kid had to be Nancy. I'm saying that, cause her position was pitcher...also. Which meant she stood next to the real pitcher (the coach) and never got to pitch. I don't know if she was instructed to do this, but she ran screaming in the opposite direction of every hit ball. She also screamed at Joey for eating her M&M's while he was in the on-deck circle. She also had annoying parents.

Mom: "Keep up the good-work, Nancy."
Dad: "Way to go Sunshine!"
Me: "Shut up, Nancy!"

All hell then breaks loose. Her dad, fuming, throws a punch at me. I get up, run around the bleachers, and the dad chases me. He grabs my shirt and pulls me to the ground. Then out of nowhere comes a foul ball from Timmy, hits Nancy's dad on the head and knocks him unconscious. At this point, I grab my Big League Chew and Red Hots and try to leave before the whole thing is ruled a do-over. On my way out, I invite them to see real baseball, played by real players, on real teams like the New York Yankees or the Atlanta Braves. And they tell me, "it's Little League, they're suppose to suck."

Oh, so you know.

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Give me Kiddie Porn or give me death

Give me Kiddie Porn or give me death. The Kiddie Porn industry has gotten out of control. The younger the "models," the quicker the sale. And this has become so wide spread, that most obstetricians are supporting it.

"With advances in technology, we can take pictures of babies as early as the first trimester, and it's legal," said greasy baby doctor Dr. Cutter Umbilical.

"Doctors aren't to blame for this, technology is...and parents. It's up to the future parents to decide if they want to show the ultrasound pictures to others. I don't get any residuals for it," angered fetus photographer Dr. Donte Abort informed me.

Obstetrician Dr. Oliver Stork: "What's gross is that every single mom and dad that comes in here after seeing the first pics and gets this perverted sense that their kid is going to grow up to be a supermodel. I break the obviously bad news to them gently, and tell them, "Well, they do have your genes."

Technology is advancing at such a rate, some predict in the next decade we can actually rent from the movie store a tape of the conception, the pregnancy, and the birth all on one DVD. And this excites movie watcher and father of five girls Tony Cinema. "With a DVD like that, I'll finally be able to prove to my ex-wives that porn is educational. I'll show them double-pentration threesomes always result in having baby boys."

One outspoken opponent to this widespread practice is psychic Moonbeam Galaxy. Moonbeam's psychic business has seen a steady decline in expectant mothers since the 1970's. "Yeah, we used to get a lot of beautiful pregant mothers in here and they would totally want to know if their baby was going to be a boy or a girl. The stars would tell me and I'd tell them. But now, it seems they want to hear some guy with an education and camera tell them the sex of their baby. I just don't get it. Why would the stars tell doctors anything?"

It doesn't seem like this practice is going to stop anytime soon. The only way to fight this abuse of children's privacy is to not use ultrasound or to avoid talking to expectant couples about the sex of their unborn child. This question only encourages ultra-Kiddie Porn behavior, thus adding to the derogatory, yet commonplace, photography happening behind doctor's closed doors across America. Pscyhics like Moonbeam will continue to target doctors as the evil-doers responsible for this trend, but doctors are steadfast on blaming technology and parents.

"If I didn't have the resources to do this, do you think I would be doing it?," explains Dr. Donte Abort. "It's technologies fault."

Dr. Stork adds, "It's the idiotic parents. You know how many dads who try to get creative when they feel the baby kicking, and comment how the boy is going to be one hell of a soccer player? Geez, this is so trite and hacky that I feel like I have to let them. So I always smile and say, "You should move to Europe."

But every health offical agrees on one thing, abstinence is a big key. Health spokesman Ed Apple, "Being abstinence from pregnancy is crucial. There is no child privacy being invaded if you don't have a child. So do what's right for children, and don't become parents. "

So practice these methods to help lasso Kiddie Porn. Cancel your subscription to UltraSound Monthly, and also avoid pregnancy. It will do all of us a favor. Or you can choose to appease Dr. Stork when he comments, "I wish all parents would die...Oh, damn! I just told you my wish, now it's not going to come true!"

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Television makes your teeth curly

Television makes your teeth curly. This was told to me by my great-grandfather one day while I was eating carrots. I'm still not sure exactly what he was advising me to do: to get braces or to not eat our television. At the time, I took it to mean continuing to eat my carrots was acceptable in terms of diet and the consequences thereof. However, my daily servings of sugar made my family (and me) bonkers.

I would put sugar on everything. I'd put it on my cereal, on my bologna sandwhich, even on my marshmallows. It was almost like I was incapable of swallowing without the soft lubrication of granular sugar coating my food.

Like most kids, after every meal I would slowly achieve a bell curve of energy. I would slowly start talking louder and louder and LOUDER and also talk faster and faster and fasterfasterfaster and then gradually a little slower and sloooower and slooooooooower and softer and softer and softer until I was so soft and slow that I was hungry again. And I would be so down from my sugar low, sometimes I would just go straight to the sugar bowl and lick directly from it.

And I guess I turned out ok. But the thing is, I was productive with my energy. I would torment my dog, I would torment my sister, and I would torment my sister some more. Now kids just eat sugar and sit. Sit, sit, sit. They burn their calories by flipping channels, playing video games, or chewing. America has the highest obesity rate in the world, and now thus, the lowest sister tormenting rate in the world. Is the American dream to be so unhealthy you can't make someone else's life a living hell?

Call me old-fashioned (not to my face,) but kids today seem to have it so much easier. Instead of parent's closets, kids can just go to the internet to find porn. They've also got 88 flavors of Gatorade to choose from, instead of the 3 I knew. And the "fat kids" from my generation would definitely be considered svelte and agile compared to the kids today. Now a days "Fat Ass" doesn't mean you are a little overweight, it means you probably have a sumo wrestling career ahead of you. And unfourtunately for these kids there isn't a "cute" fat, like pets sometimes have. You will only hear "Darren is the fattest one, isn't he cute?" when someone is talking about gerbils.

I think it's up to the parents to advise their kids to do SOMETHING. Anything! Run circles around the house or no Frosted Fierce RazzleDazzle Boo-boo Berry with Lemon Twist Ginseng Gatorade for you! Make some rules. And stick to them. I'd so much rather have skinny kids make me bonkers with their annoying activity than have fat kids bother me with their super-inactivity. Even my sister would agree. Right? Sis, WAKE UP! I said, RIGHT, SIS?!?! Oh, sorry, didn't know you were sleeping. HA HA HA! Go to sleep YOU CURLY-TOOTHED LOSER!

 

[Ace$Thugg]

The kid ain't an artist

The kid ain't an artist no matter what kind of art it is. You can call it "abstract" or "folk" or "painted by an elephant," but this kid ain't going places. This picture is creatively titled "Whales," creative in the fact that I believe it's supposed to be a wounded chicken face first on a hack saw.

And in fact, if Andres, age 8 meant for it to be <i>Whales</i>, the other "whale" probably harpooned/drowned/erased himself to save some digity from this child "artist." And I'm not saying the kid is to blame, it's probably the parents optimistic delusions or the excess supplies of paper and markers at his house or the huge whale modeling community. But somewhere, you got a got to let a kid know, he ain't an artist.

I was told this year at the age of 24 that I am not an singer. A singer can otherwise be known as a performing artist, unless you are R. Kelly, then you are just known for performing. And I've actually been told not to perform songs before on numerous occasions, but this one was the most disheartening, mostly since money was involved and for once it wasn't me getting paid not to sing. As a comedian and writer, I hoped to maybe record some off-the-wall songs that I wrote, which prompted me to hit up my local community center for some singing lessons.

I entered the cramped community center across the street from my apartment and inquired about lessons for beginners. This immediately put the older woman behind the desk in a whirlwind of excitement. And then she asked repeatedly if I could audition <i>now</i>.

"Audition now? For what? I need lessons."

"No, no, let's audition you now to see what level you are at," her eyes got as wide as her once over-sized bi-focals.

"I'm at level zero. I can't sing, that's why I need singing lessons."

"Let's audition you!"

"I can't audition. I can't sing!"

This went back and forth for the next 5 minutes. Ignoring my dead-on critiques, she finally grabs my arm and leads me down the hallway with even more gitty and excited than before. We enter a side room and she rushes to the piano and asks, "What song do you want to sing?"

"None. Listen, I can talk, I can bark, I can sometimes chortle, but I can't sing."

"So...what song do you know?"

"I don't know any song but Jingle Bells."

"Ok, Jingle Bells it is."

I don't know the first thing about music, but I did recognize she started to play Jingle Bells. I then started "singing" after she cued me for the fifth time by nodding her head in my direction.

"Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells...," I started slowly.

And she kept playing, immediately nodding her head back and forth, in a Stevie Wonder fashion. I was feeling surprisingly good, obviously she was getting down to my rendition of Jingle Bells even in the sweltering of June. I gained confidence and each line I sang louder and louder as I went.

"...in a one-horse open sleigh, Hey!"

"Ok, that's enough," she quipped still shaking her head. "I don't see any future for you, I'm sorry." And then she got up and left the room.

Catching up to her, I agreed, "Yeah, I don't see a future either, you see I got these funny songs..."

"Look, I'm saving you money. I'm not going to give you classes."

"Huh? What? No, I understand I can't sing. "

"I don't want to waste your time or mine. I'm sorry, I've got nothing for you. Thank you."

"You don't offer beginner classes?"

"Not for you."

"Not for me? What? Put me in your worst class, I understand, there will be no hard feelings.

Silence.

"What is your worst class?"

More silence.

"What is your worst class?"

"We have a class of third-graders," she says in a snotty tone and crosses her arms as if all her excitement had been replaced with pure annoyance.

"Great, I'll take that class. Can I take that class?"

"You want to take a class with third-graders," she says to herself, still shaking her head back and forth.

"Yes, I do. I will pay for it. What's the big deal?"

Then she does the arm trick again and leads be the entrance, "I'll think about it. I'll let you know later. Goodbye." And pushes me out the door.

I haven't tried to find singing lessons since that day, and my desires to record my songs haven't diminished either. So, I'm trying to think of alternate ways of achieving my goals. Maybe I can just sing naturally hoping that will add humor to the songs or maybe send my voice through several reverb changes and pitch levels so it sounds somewhat digestable, a la Limp Bizkit.

It's just that the whole experience made me more confused than anything. I've never known anyone to pass up money, nor pass up someone elses desires to learn a new skill. I was frank and honest and up-front in my inability to sing. I mean, it wasn't like I was trying to convince the lady a chicken was whales.

 

[Ace$Thugg]

I've been called worse

I've been called worse. Whatever it is, I've heard it. I've gotten everything from "mother __ donkey ____ unfunny ____ of ______!" to "This is my future husband." Though these comments are obviously meant to hurt and to cause me pain, I've learned to brush it off and remain optimistic. This is a skill that takes many years of practice. And also one children should tackle early to help them later on to lead a healthy and well-adjusted adult life.

If I fall to the prayers of my foulest name-callers (my parents) and (gulp) happen to have a child, I'm definitely going to start him/her/it on the right track by providing a solid foundation for life, a good name. I'm not going to name the kid something annoyingly optimistic like Smiley, or Happy, or Jesus. Instead I've decided I'm going to name my far-far-far future child something a little more intriguing, a name of all names, the name of Jumbo.

Granted my partner in crime probably wont let me name our child Jumbo, but I'll have a lifetime to convince her otherwise. And Jumbo is a perfect name, and I'm going to use it whether it's a boy or girl. It can be considered "fitting", it can be considered "Southern", but most likely it just won't be considered.

But I'm going to try. I'm going to make my little girl put Jumbo Corey on all of her homework, maybe buy my boy a JumboTron to play video games on, maybe even cook everyone's favorite Cajun meal Jumbo-laya.

Eventually, the name HAS to catch on. And when it does, my unplanned miracle child will be better for it. Jumbo will be better able to handle criticisms and putdowns, have the ability to think really really really big, and also say witty things about being named after reproductive organs. And I'm convinced these characteristics help create a strong, tough, and well-rounded adult.

And if for some reason my naming experiment backfires, I'm not going to take full responsiblity. Parents (plural) share the blame. For me to produce a child, it's most likely I was heavily drugged or hoodwinked by a crafty DNA snatcher. But even if it comes down to scapegoats, I'll stick to my hypothesis that naming a child Jumbo is better than naming a child Chipper, or Babyface, or Gay. (Well, maybe not Gay.) But when I am scientifically* proven wrong, I will accept my defeat gracefully, and I will no longer introduce my child/experiment as Jumbo, but be forced to introduce my child/lab test with a more aptly fitting name, such as, "my Jumbo mistake."

And people will yell and holler and say I shouldn't tell my child he/she/it was a mistake, and I'll inform my critcs that I'm referring to the experient that failed as the mistake, and not-so-off the record that the child was too.

But I'm not going to fret, cause I've still been called worse. I've been called someone's "future husband." And that is truly a scientifically* proven jumbo mistake.

*scientifically- to not be associated with Scientology.

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Secretly I want kids

Secretly I want kids. I'll admit it, I do. As in, "Honey, please don't tell anyone about our kids, it's a secret." Especially if they turn out ugly. Then I'll just clarify that they are my wife's from a previous marriage. But I'm postive on one thing, I'll make sure my secret ugly kids will be a good return on investment (ROI.)

I am a fan of raising kids the ol' Russian way, and no I'm not talking about making them cold and starving Communist vodka drinkers. I'm talking about making them cold and starving Communist vodka drinking gymnasts. Raising these kids were a business. Everyday from 9 AM to 5 PM Lil' Boris would be coached in an array of flipping and bending lessons on an open bar/pommel horse.

And then 15 years down the line, Lil' Boris would be a hunky denim and fanny pack wearing citizen winning Gold Medals and getting hair product endorsements. This is when the ol' Mom and Pops hear chi-ching, or this case, "Oh, this is what bread tastes like."

A few Americans have caught on to this way of raising kids and it has turned very profitable. And it's not just in the sport of gymnastics. This trend is found in other sports and even in music. Tiger Woods, the only marketable person in golf, was raised with club in hand and Nike on his pacifer. Serena and Venus Williams were raised on the tennis courts of Compton serving aces and doing hair weaves at 6 AM everyday before school . And music legend Jerry Garcia spent every waking hour of his youth not just playing guitar, but playing guitar and taking acid. And look what the Grateful Dead accomplished. (Namely being the 1996 Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor of the year, <i>Cherry Garcia.</i>)

Child actors have also been supporting their parents over the years and it great to see parents getting that ROI they have always dreamed of with their little ones. I just can't wait for the day my son tells me he wants to star in a really bad sitcom as a character named Screech or Urkel. Call it what you want, but it seems it's also somebody else's <i>ugly little secret</i>. And it's making some money. Chi-ching.

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Son, do your chores

 

[Ace$Thugg]

Take a bite out of animals

Take a bite out of animals. Somehow I got signed up on some animal lovers mailing list and now I'm bombarded with junk mail regarding everything animals: Cat Fancy, Dog Fancy, Modern Ferret, you name it. I'm also being sent issues of The Reptilian Diet, toothbrushes for cats, and in case I feel the urge to knit, I have some sizing charts for dog sweaters.

Now I do place pets higher on the totem pole than children, but it’s for a perfectly good reason. With pets, I can get away with not having to feed, bath, or clothe them every single day. Until apparently now.

Reading TRD, I’ve found out “some domestic breeds of iguanas need a balanced diet, sometimes consisting of prepared food.” I’m a top-of-the-food-chain human, and I don’t even eat prepared food! I eat processed food cause it’s easier, faster, and most cases, tastier. Don’t tell me now every time I get hoodwinked by my neighbor into iguana-sitting, now I have to bake, boil, and stir-fry! I might just end up stir-frying ol’ Mr. Green Jeans too, then.

I know three things about cats: they like fish, they always land on their feet, and they have tongues to clean themselves with. So why would I need Ravioli-flavored Fancy Feast, a kitten landing-pillow and a cat cleaning kit? These are all going against instinct. And speaking of going against instinct, who subscribes to Cat Fancy?

Cat Fancy is a magazine I will not ever understand. If you have a cat, look at your cat. If you don’t have a cat, look in the dumpster. Do we really need a magazine? What void do you have that is fulfilled every month by looking at centerfolds of hairless pussies? I’m not talking Playboy either, but if you are someone who would pass on a Playboy Bunny to look at a Fancy Cat, you are someone’s crazy aunt. Or you’re someone’s gay uncle. And yes, that is why Thanksgiving is never at your house.


But sweaters for dogs are the last straw. You are basically taking the coat of a sheep and putting it on a dog. Since when must dogs wear layers? This gives new meaning to a ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing,’ one that’s probably a bit humiliating for a canine, since they are forced to wear something that draws attention to itself while they are outside. And why are they outside? Oh, because they are publicly defecating. It’s like, “Hey, look at me. I’m wearing someone else’s clothes and I’m doing number 2 on the sidewalk.” I think most pooches would choose shivering over wearing a monogrammed humility costume. But you don’t realize that, cause you are wearing a matching outfit, one that says ‘Pooch’s Mommy’ on it.

So basically, let’s all get together to stop blurring the lines between pets and kids. If pets now have to be taken care of daily, then I’m going to have a lot of extra stir-fry.