Monday, May 26, 2008

When I was a surrogate mother



While I’ve been living at home this past month I’ve been trying to help my frazzled, overworked mother out with household stuff and after only one month I gotta say that motherhood is the crappiest job ever.

And I’m not even technically the mother, but I have been doing tasks that have traditionally fallen to mothers and that mothers, even women who work full-time, still get stuck with even today. I’m talking about cooking and cleaning.

The first thing I learned is that nothing makes you hate your offspring, or surrogate offspring a.k.a. little brothers and sisters in my case, like cooking for them. I sit there and chop and mix and bake and all I get is attitude from the little jerks.

They come up to me like “We’re starving! We must eat this instant!” So I politely say, “Dinner will be ready a few minutes.” Then they look at whatever I’m making and say “Ew, what is that? Is it good? Will I like it? If I don’t like it, which is very likely, will you make me something else?”

So I chase them out of the kitchen brandishing some sort of cooking utensil, finish dinner and then try and call them back into the kitchen to eat.

“Um, hold on a minute, let me finish what I’m doing,” they invariably say.

What?! I thought you punks were starving!

After I drag them all back into the kitchen they descend upon the food like a swarm of locusts and devour everything in sight. This process takes about ten minutes. The labor ratio ends up being over two hours of cooking to yield less than ten minutes of destruction. Extremely depressing.

Then as quickly as they came they vanish, leaving the kitchen in shambles. I have to drag them back into the kitchen again, chasing them down individually, begging, pleading and threatening to get them to come back and help clean up the devastation.


And not only can they destroy a kitchen in less than ten minutes, they can destroy pretty much any room in the same amount of time. I think I could vacuum, scrub and organize until judgment day and still some little kid would come in while my back was turned and dump part of the elementary school sandbox out of his shoes onto the floor, throw toys everywhere, eviscerate a bookshelves and cabinets, color on the walls with crayon or puke on the carpet.

So when some lady seatbelts her kids into a car and proceeds to drive said car into a river, I think I will judge her less harshly now. That is bad to say, but it’s true.

I’m sure that stuff like this led to the feminist movement. Women probably started to think, “Why are we stuck with this crap?” Next thing you know there’s burning bras and all kinds of stuff. Shoot, if I wore a bra, I would burn it after this month. Actually, I might need to start wearing a bra soon because I don’t have any time to exercise now that I am cooking and cleaning, and I feel some man boobs coming on.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Roswell 101

I knew America’s schools were in bad shape, but I didn’t realize the scope of our educational deficiency until one of my friends asked me “What’s in Roswell?”

What’s in Roswell? Roswell, New Mexico is only the site of a purported alien UFO crash landing and purported government cover-up. Here is how it all went down:

On July 8, 1947 the military released a press release saying they had recovered a “flying disc,” only for another press release to come out a few hours later saying it was only experimental weather balloon debris. And I don’t know about you, but nothing says “military cover-up” to me like “experimental weather balloon”. Come on. The government makes crap up all the time when it suits their purposes, take “weapons of mass destruction” for example.

Some people speculate that the military pilfered technology from the recovered UFO pieces and we currently use alien technology in our everyday lives. iPods? Alien. Waffle Irons? Alien. Bluetooth ear phone talky things? Totally Alien. Have you seen people walking around talking to nothing with those things clipped to their ears? Nothing could look more alien.

People have also speculated that the government performed autopsies on the bodies of the deceased aliens, so somebody out there knows how many arms aliens have and what color their blood is and they are holding out and I think that is just wrong. The American people, nay, the world, has a right to know how many arms aliens have and what color their blood is.

One story says that one of the extraterrestrial passengers survived the crash and was nursed back to health by the military, which established a happy little rapport between the government and the alien’s homeworld and they started an “exchange” program. Your foreign exchange student is from Germany? That’s nothing. Ours is from Zeta Reticuli.

The point of all this is that on July 3 I will decide for myself if aliens exist and if they did, in fact, visit Roswell by attending my first ever Roswell Annual UFO Festival. I figure I will see the UFO museum, watch the UFO parade, see a band with an alien drummer and maybe take in a few abduction seminars while I’m at it.

I was also thinking of starting a restaurant in Roswell, with a UFO theme. On the menu I’ll have a sweet hamburger called the “Cattle Mutilation” and an awesome salad called the “Crop Circle.” I think it will be a hit.

So hustle some plasma, steal from your auntie or pawn you grandma’s jewelry. Heck, pawn your grandma if you have to, just do whatever you have to do to get the to this once-in-a-lifetime, er, annual, event. It will change your life.

See you there. Seriously. www.roswellufofestival.com