I am really sick of taking naps. And I am really sick of having to scream for an hour before mom and dad finally look at one another, solemnly shake their heads, and exchange the “fuck it” eyes. You know what, guys? It’s not that big a deal. You need to pick and choose your battles, and you know I will go down fighting. And it’s not becoming of an adult to tell a child that if he doesn’t take his nap, he will never get another treat ever again for the rest of his life. I know this is crap. If you want me to keep the poop in the potty and the piss in the bowl, you have to give me treats. Toddlers have no functionality as little beings without treats. And it’s so feeble of an attempt to get me to shut my eyes for thirty minutes that I almost feel sorry for the miserable pricks. Why do parents think it’s okay to nurture honest, loving offspring with lies? It’s a pile of stinky, hypocritical bullshit, and my mom and dad own the biggest shovels in town.
Daddy told me once that the toe fungus creatures from the Lamisil commercial would crawl into my bed and chew on my feet if I kept on touching the flatscreen. Points for creativity, but come on. Mom used to regularly inform me that if I stuck my fingers in the vents of Leona’s humidifier, sharks would bite them off. Sharks? In the humidifier. Insulting. Once, I pulled the egg carton off the kitchen counter and eggs broke everywhere on the floor, evoking an instantaneous urge to run my fingers through the perfectly gooey yolks. Mom fuh-reaked out and ran for the wash cloth and soap, shrieking that if I moved or touched my mouth, mean chickens would grow inside my tummy and peck their way out and I would bleed and it would hurt very, very much. While I knew this was a slight fabrication of what Salmonella can actually do, I was not completely immune to the idea of chickens with pointy beaks getting their cluck on in my belly. I had a bad experience with a rooster once, and mommy knows this, and she is sort of a bitch for hitting below the belt with that one. And then, there are the usual, day-t0-day lies that I just go with and even repeat back to them when they ask. If I play with the door handle in the car, I will fall out and get run over by a really big truck. If I don’t keep my annoying little paper bracelet on at The Jungle (a very rad indoor jungle gym nearby), a stranger will take me away and I will never see my family again. Which, depending on the circumstances of my life at that point, could be the third greatest day of the year after my birthday and Christmas. Oh, and most recently, mommy “calls the police” when I pretend that I am drinking beer from my sippee cup. And then she tells me to go pack my bags because they are coming to take me to jail in five minutes, and jail is a place where you get locked in a cage with poop sandwiches. Not cool. So I pretend to cry, only I know how to bring real, fake tears, and then she feels bad and gives me a hug and says she’s only kidding. So, I get the last laugh. Would you expect anything less from a son cut from the cloth of lying bastards?
Well, it’s nap time. I think I’ll go easy on the old lady today. She looks pretty hung from her sushi date with daddy last night.