Gifted, My Ass

STEP ONE: Put fan power switch in the OFF position.

ME: I finally figured it out. The reason you’re coughing and snotty and all plague-like sounding is because you have allergies. I think we should clean your room really well.

UBER-GENIUS GIFTED CHILD: That’s probably a good idea, Mother. I’m so lucky to have a smart parent like you. (shut up, this is my version of the conversation)

ME: Let’s open up the windows, air things out, get it smelling fresh and… HOLY SHIT look at that dust on your ceiling fan! No wonder you’re sneezing! You have to wipe all that dust off!

UBER-GENIUS GIFTED CHILD: I can’t reach up there. But you’re still supremely amazingly smart for suggesting it. (I already told you to shut up.)

ME: Stand on your bed, then you’ll be able to reach it.

UBER-GENIUS GIFTED CHILD: But I can only reach this blade right here. The rest of them are too far to reach. And you’re pretty, too.

ME: The ceiling fan spins, honey. You’ll be able to reach the other fan blades.

UBER-GENIUS GIFTED CHILD: Won’t the fan hurt me if I try to wipe it while it’s turned on?

It would be amazing and incredible and made of bunnies if this conversation had not happened exactly the way I just depicted it. I want a refund on my taxes because the public school system is obviously wasting the money that we give them for gifted programs on things like urinal cakes in the boys’ locker room.

I’m Taking Out a Mob Hit on The Lorax

WARNING: The following blog post has been brought to you by mixing Nyquil with large amounts of liquor.

I don’t give a rat’s ass how brilliant Dr. Seuss was. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he was an amazing writer who inspired countless millions of children to want to read and blah-di-fuckety-blah. All I know is some stupid book comes out about how this Onceler shithead chopped down all the Truffula trees and The Lorax tried to speak for the trees and then those bears in their pajamas had to move away and take the ducks and the fish with them, then it’s up to this kid who probably steals money from his mom’s wallet to buy weed and he has to replant the entire world with trees. Thus ends my book report on The Lorax.

Somebody who probably loved that book as much as I used to saw a random real-life tree and thought to himself (it was definitely a man who did this to us), “Hey! That white fluffy tree looks exactly like those Truffula trees from that wonderful Dr. Seuss book! Who cares if they smell like whale semen? We should plant them EVERYWHERE! And I mean, EVERYWHERE!”

And now I’m surrounded by these stupid fluffy trees called Bradford Pears and they’re all trying to kill me at the same time. I am so allergic to those trees that they should be illegal. And they don’t even produce pears. And I’m sure the guy they’re named after was an asshole.

LOOK at all that pollen! Do you see what he's doing to us???

I know, it’s kind of sad how worked up I can get over a member of the plant kingdom, but the trees really are trying to kill me. My eyes water so badly that my contact lenses slide right out and run down my cheeks. I’m producing more snot than an entire kindergarten class. I’m coughing and sneezing and during those magical moments when I happen to cough and sneeze at the same time, I also end up peeing myself. If I knew where The Lorax lived I would cut him.

To make matters worse, there’s no medical treatment for being this allergic to something and that only makes me want to punch the lady from the Claritin commercials for being Claritin-clear. The only thing that halfway brings any relief is drinking Nyquil straight from the bottle and washing it down with undiluted Jack Daniels. The store didn’t have any cherry Nyquil, so I had to get the antifreeze-flavored Nyquil instead. It’s all kind of put me in a mood, if you couldn’t already tell. I’ll feel better when the little flowers fall off the trees or once that Lorax opens the package I mailed him.