Baby Talk

“It’s just a baby. It’s no different than caring for a dog”

No different, eh? How about we rephrase that into Kenny language:

“It’s just a baby. It’s no different than smuggling a Mexican across the border with a bag full of cocaine.”

Now you catch my drift?

I continuously get asked the same questions from close friends once in a while. Many of them already know where I stand when it comes to marriage, lifestyle, and career. But for a small glimpse of hope they think my answer will change whenever they ask: “Do you want children?” sometime they’ll add “yet.” to the end of it.

The answer for a long time will always be: FUCK NO.

Get it. Write it down—with a permanent marker. Read it—over and over again. It ain’t gonna change honey!

A friend very close to me is trying to have a baby. She just found out that she may be with child.

Yay! Yeepee! Better you than me, is what I have to say to that.

The other day she sent me a text of all the things she ate that day (mind you, she just found out she MAY be pregnant less than 24 hours prior to the text):

This is what I ate today: 2 waffles, sushi (cucumber and daikon maki), half a cupcake, poke kimchee cucumber, cheese burger and fries, pizza, ice cream and pie. Seriously, I must be pregnant!

If only I weren’t drunk and my phone was on it’s last life-line when I received that text I would have texted back:

It’s only 8:00PM, here is my list: 2 éclairs stuffed with custard filling and drenched in powder sugar, 4 fruit bar thingys, 2 tacos, 1 burrito, beef stew with rice, 1 red bull, 4 Dirty Bombay Martinis, 6 slices of pepperoni and sausage pizza, 1 corona, 1 Kobe Beef slider with French fries and some really amazing mayo-base dipping sauce, and one big “you’re overreacting” leftovers just for you!

But alas, I guess my “angel” came out and saved me from saying such harsh things. Shit. My 7 year old nephew could eat that amount of food and still down a can of coke!

I don’t hate children–I dislike children.

Recently I read another blogger’s list of reasons why they hate children, here is my version:

Top 5 reasons why I hate children:

1)  They are shopping plagues!

If I could, I would scream, hit, trap and frighten any child that makes my shopping experience horrible. A mall IS NOT a fucken playground for your pests to run around screaming and hiding in the damn racks and playing “peek-a-boo” with whomever walks by. Children are devious little bastards, they train their parents well. When they want something they will whine and throw their tantrums until their parent gives in.

Malls, supermarkets and businesses need to forbid children to enter during peak hours, much like parking down in Chinatown from 6-9AM and 3-6PM is prohibited because of prime traffic time.

2)  They replace YOU

“Hey John, how’s life going?”

“Oh man! Peter has baseball practice almost everyday, games every weekend, and he currently has to deal with diarrhea!”

(Damnit! I don’t give a crap about your little bastard, I asked about you and secondly you didn’t have to go into detail about his health!)

or

“Hey Kritine, Lets go grab some drinks after work today?”

“Oh, I can’t. I have to take Rachel to her friends place, they are having a sleep over. To talk about sports bras and boys penis’.”

(Frick, why can’t so-called friends parents pick her up!?)

3) They are spot-light stealers

We all know its ALWAYS about Kenny and my Kennergy. And when I head over to a friends house and they have a child, those little bastards think they are the center of attention. Shoving crayons and books into my face as to allude me to sit down and play with them. I want nothing more than to feed you those crayons and watch you poop rainbows!

4) They’ve got crappy jokes.

What did Justin Bieber’s mom sing to him when he was a baby? Baby, baby, baby ohh…
How do you wake up Lady Gaga? Poke her face.
How did Jordan Sparks die? She had no air, air…

Nuff sedd.

5) They remind me of midgets. (If you don’t understand this, please refer to: Dashboard Confessions)

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Don’t get me wrong. I admire people who love, want, and care for children—endlessly, effortlessly and put in all the money for them. But, I like to keep my money to myself. I like to buy shiny things.

Children are annoying little shits! They are miniature drunken adults that say and do things without ever thinking.

I am the type of person to google “10 gifts parents hate when you give their kids”.

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Do you know Kenny?

Did you know…

I have a BFA in Photography?

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I teach Turbo Kickboxing?
I can live off the following:
And lastly, Do you know what I look like drunk?
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Dashboard Confessions

What is your deepest darkest secret? Would you have to kill someone if you told them? Do you have a third nipple? Do you speak in an “Exorcism” voice to memorize people’s names? Are you afraid of brushing your teeth?

There are a select group of people that know my secret, a secret that could be used against me in a very evil way or a secret that someone would try and protect me. The latter NEVER happens. When I tell them my secret, the first response is usually “Are you fucking kidding me?” followed by a deep bellied laugh.

No. I strike my “I’m-so-serious-right-now-stop-laughing-at-me” face.

“Did you say you’re afraid of midgets? M-I-D-G-E-T-S?!”

Yes, goddamnit! I’m frightened, terrified, horrified of them. I have a midgetphobia!

(Are you done laughing now?)

There is something about their big heads, wobbly short arms, and miniature legs that freak the SHIT out of me. They resemble a dashboard bobble head and those are just as ridiculous. It could be a mile away from me and I know it’s there terrorizing me. My heart begins to beat rapidly as if it were going to break through my dark skin, my palms develop small moist droplets of sweat, and my body shuts down knowing the evil has taken a hold of me.

(No, seriously. Stop laughing. Are you done?)

I’m not sure if I was traumatized at a younger age from my mom’s continuous replays of The Wizard of Oz or Willy Wonka–but let me tell you, a fantasyland with munchkins–NOT so fantasy! And a chocolate factory with oompa-fricken-loompas is just plain WRONG!

My friends had a joke going around that when I turned 18 they would all chip-in and buy me midget porn for my birthday. Yes, MIDGET PORN. You can imagine the day I turned 18, I avoided my friends as much as possible. Midget porn is like watching two mentally challenged people color in a coloring book—both scary and messy!

When the movie ELF came out, I was thoroughly relieved that they used proportionate humans to play all the elves in The North Pole. Then, near the end of the movie THEY HAD to put a damn midget in. I am not lying when I say this; I literally put my pointer finger in front of me to purposely cover the midget on the screen. While Will Ferrell thought he was talking with a midget, it was my finger he was really talking to. My finger would dart across the screen, then back, then towards Will in a ferocious fight—my finger won.

You need to understand that I have no problem with “little people” such as dwarfs. They are perfectly proportionate and have the right length of arm, legs, feet, neck, head that fits for their tiny bodies. Midgets on the other hand resemble a bobble-head dashboard décor; they are the bobble-heads for King Kong and Godzilla. Very wrong.

So do me a favor. If you have a midget, keep it away from me. And if you have a dashboard bobble head please remove prior to me getting in your car.

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Masturbate, write a letter, get a nurse…

I have  a question. Do you talk to yourself?

Yes, you.

Do you?

Remember that movie where they had that crazy person talking to themselves in the corner of a padded room, rocking back and forth, and picking at their skin? It used to be that talking to yourself was alluding to the fact that you were on a one-way trip to a mental institute where Nurse Ratched would be your stereotypical bitch!

I’ve come to realize that I don’t give myself enough credit and that I need to start (possibly) by talking to myself. Yes, people, you read that right. I’m going to start TALKING to myself.

“Hey Kenny, you did great tonight! Why, thank you Kenny!”

Okay–lets put my car in reverse…how about I/We (for those of you willing to try this) start by writing a letter to ourselves. It can’t hurt. I mean I’ve always loved myself. But there are a few things that I’d love to share, but wouldn’t want to share it with anyone besides myself. They do say that if you write things down on a piece of paper it’s a way of self-healing.

So here goes…

Yo Kenny–you crazy kid you!

Dude! Where are you coming up with all your material!? I mean you totally cracked me up with that last blog post! “Luke, I am your lover.” ?! I mean, seriously, you made me pee my pants!

OH! And this past weekend when you took your nephew to the mall, in order to keep him from running away from you, you told the poor little bastard that there’s a zombie ghost that snatches little children who are walking alone and takes them to his underground basement (you pointed to the random storage closet where janitors grab their supplies) and in a frantic voice you say, “In-In-In-In there…he will eat you!”

Your nephew never left your side. He would even watch out for other kids! From the second level of the mall, looking down he saw a random fat Asian kid walking alone. Yanking at your shirt, “Uncle Kenny, that boys walking alone.” Your nephew gazed up at you with tearful eyes (poor bastard.) “Yup, he’s going to get snatched!” And it JUST SO HAPPENS that a second later you look back down and he’s gone! (Where did he go? You had no clue. All that matters was your nephew definitely believed your theory!)

What really sucked was when your nephew actually explained all this to his mother and worried that he’d tell all his friends in school and they would tell their parents and then the mall would go out of business. SHEESH! Talk about a slippery slope!

All-in-all old pal, hanging with you is loads of fun. But can we talk a little bit about what you are wearing? You’re wearing brown shorts, with a tan shirt…you do realize that you are a brown boy as well–right? You look like a walking piece of shit.

WHOA! Easy there thyself!

Be nice. I am nice. No you’re not. Yes I am.

Love you,

Kenny

Alright, so that was a bit strange. It’s almost like masturbating. You give yourself pleasure–why not write yourself a letter?

And as Augusten Burroughs said, “Your mind is like an unsafe neighborhood, don’t go there alone.”


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The Gay Post

“How is it that you’ve NEVER seen STAR WARS before?!” he says with a scoffing tone.

Peering down at my feet shuffling back and forth as if I were playing patty-cake with the floor below. “Uhh, I well, never found it interesting.”

“Well, what DO you find interesting?”

Definitely not you. I’m interested in figuring out why you think talking about Star Wars right now trumps me checking out that go-go boy behind you? Or why in the heck are you wearing khaki pants and slippers in a club, you might as well be wearing a sign saying “Can no longer get an erection”? Why of all the men in this gay bar, I get stuck with the geeky Star Wars Nazi who thinks the world is ending one gay man at a time for not having the force within us?

——————————

This conversation has happened many times in my life. In a variety of setting: around a table of friends as we sip wine while dressed in our fancy 20’s outfit, a brisk walk through the park with an elder man (we won’t go there), my dog (who randomly brought me a toy Darth Vader one day). Alright, so the latter never really happened. So what. It might as well have.

I think we get the picture.

Why am I blogging about this? I have no clue. Just thought I’d share my Star Wars adventure. Why is it, when we find out when someone hasn’t seen, heard, visited, tasted something that majority of the population has, that we work ourselves up to a frenzied excitement only to make that one person feel shameful.

If I could change people, which I think I have the super powers to do so (I have my list of candidates), I would first start with King Triton of The Little Mermaid, what makes you think you can go into Ariel’s room and destroy all her belongings–The NERVE of you! I really liked her thing-a-mabobs. Secondly, I’d like to change Donald Trumps toupee. And lastly, I’d like to change all ugly men–they are the reason I drink. A lot.

As David Sedaris would say “If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.”

I wonder if there is a gay parody of Star Wars?–that surely would catch my attention.! “Luke, I am your Lover.”

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Say it with me…

Given this being my first blog experience, much like the first time I ever kissed a girl (Esshk!!) I figured I should start with a little bit of tongue.

Ever have one of those days with a group of friends mingling, chatting, and laughing; really enjoying each and every moment and then suddenly you realize you’ve gone from talking about the latest APPLE gadget to someones favorite word being “melon”. Say it with me…MeL-(roll it off the tongue a bit)-on. Melon.

For some odd reason, many months ago, my friends and I got into this 6 month phase of coming into work with a favorite word of the day. Whether its the way its spelled or the way it sounded, we all looked forward to what word would come about in our morning conversations. We were the live version of those “tear-away” calendar pages that gave you a new word in the dictionary everyday. Expect we are “funner”!

There would be a few days where I would drive to work for 45 minutes repeating my “new” favorite word in my head over and over again…”Barnacle, Barnacle, Barnacle, Barnacle…oH! Thats a red light!…barnacle, barnacle, barnacle.” I’d walk into the office and scream out “BARNACLE!!!” Then I’d say it again, I little slower this time, letting the tail end of the word roll off my tongue in a slight flirtatious way. Baaaarnaclleeee…(I think I even gave a wink at the end of it, actually I’m pretty sure I gave a wink and flipped my hair)

After a while I’ve realized I have an all-time favorite word. No other word will replace it. What can it be? Knowing my background you’re probably thinking: Vodka! No, no…can’t be. “Deep Fried!!”–Wrong again.

SPORK

Say it.”Spork”

How does it feel?

Like it? It’s nice isn’t it?

Sssss-PORK! Doesn’t it have the same effect as Superman saving a train from plummeting 100 feet into the pavement below!? (I think so.)

SPORK-spork-spork-spork…its a heroic word.

Well, now that I’ve proudly given you my favorite word–

Are you a girl? Wanna make out? (I had to come full circle.)

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Bloggalicious!

Really?

Did I really just start a blog only to “like” a friends recent entry?

Why yes, yes I did.

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