I went to Max’s prekindergarten assessment yesterday in hopes he would say something funny that I could write about here and continue to build my social media empire on the exploitation of my child. Of course I also wanted to make sure he was healthy and ready to go to school in September. But why not get two birds stoned at once, AMIRITE?
He was in the 97th percentile for height – BOOYAH. But he didn’t say anything remotely ridiculous — DAMN IT. He was insufferably cute and well-behaved and smart as a tack. I welled up with pride more than once and had to think of two cats swappin’ gravies in order to suck the tears back up into mes yeux. If your kid was asked “What do you do at the lake?” and he replied “Daddy throws a stick and my dog Splash swims out to get it”, you’d fucking bawl your eyes out too so shut it. Yes, even if you didn’t have a dog named Splash — that’s how sweet it was.
Plus, we had just picked him up from daycare and he was all pitifully adorable with his hair askew, his sweatpants dirty from “wiping soup in them” (not to mention tucked inside yellow rubber boots), and he had a little blob of blue something (blueberries? clay? Smurf shit?) on his cheek. The nurse asked him questions and my little skeet answered them like a champ. It was like watching the scene from Good Will Hunting where Will, the troubled, impoverished night janitor, solves equations on the Harvard chalkboard. That’s my scrappy little genius. Oooh, maybe the nice nurse lady will give us a pencil and a scribbler, or a slice of bread with some butta!
My child, formerly known as Turbo Ginger, is ruining my shtick with his wonderfulness. I have no choice but to seek twisted amusement elsewhere. So, while he was playing quietly with the toys in the waiting room at the clinic (we had to wait 15 minutes to make sure the booster shot didn’t turn him into a boy zombie), I started looking around at the books, brochures and posters. Ha ha. Jackpot, bitches.
1. So…apparently there’s a show on TV called Titch. And here’s a book about Titch, called “It’s Bedtime, Titch.” I’m sure it’s a lovely book. But all I can see is the literary love child of TITS and BITCH, with a little bit of ITCH thrown in for good measure. It may as well be called “Goodnight, Itchy Bitch Tits” because that is all I can see. The end.
2. And check out this spectacular prego pamphlet. Oral health tips for expectant mothers. I say, forget about her teeth and gums — someone get this poor woman a full-size shirt. Jesus, missus, did that apple fall out of your belly button?
5. Seen this one before. The head lice pamphlet they send home from daycares and schools whenever there’s an outbreak of pediculus humanus capitis, better known (in my vernacular) as mop maggots. And that poor, curly-headed fuck on the front. What a role to play, wha? Not the lead in the school musical. Not a watchful shepherd in the Christmas pageant. THE POSTER CHILD FOR HEAD LICE. Based on the dated look of the photo, he’s probably 25 years old now, just heading (no pun intended) into the working world. I wonder if “head lice model” is on his resume. He’s sure to get ahead (sorry, couldn’t help it) with that. Better off than the guy on the syphilis poster, I guess.