Let’s talk about ball smashing.
Ball smashing is when mommy makes you wear a tee shirt, a long sleeve tee over that, and a hooded sweatshirt over that, and tries to cram you into your car seat without adjusting the straps. It makes for a very tight ride, but more importantly, it makes for tricky business when whoever is strapping me in goes into the scrotal area. Jaws-of-life metal
buckles on tender, testicle flesh…need I say more? Why yes, I probably should.
G.G. (Gramma Grace) has been here for about a month helping out because daddy is invalid. Oh, wait, mommy is shaking her head. He’s not invalid, he’s an invalid. Christ, here comes the adjective-noun lecture from mommy. Zzzzzzz…hang on while I take a snooze. Whatever. He’s an IN-VUH-LID. You know, because of his wrist surgery. So, G.G. goes tootin’ around with us sometimes, and sometimes she puts me in the car seat. And when that happens, she squishes my fucking balls in the car seat straps. Two days in a row she did it. The first time, I howled like a venereal-diseased laden whore douching with vodka. The second time, I held my breath, the veins popped from my neck, and instead of screaming, I saw God. (He looked amused and vaguely sympathetic. I am going to give him a fucking knuckle sandwich for not striking G.G. down with a quick bolt of
lightning the next time I see him.) So, while G.G. is not the only one to ball smash, two days in a row is something of a traumatic experience for a tyke like myself, and now I have developed a strong, bitter aversion to having my car seat buckles buckled in that very,
special spot. A complex, if you will. So I kick, and I scream, and I buck, and I beg
for mommy not to get my penis, and she swears that she won’t, but she also told
daddy she’s not going to drink during the week for the month of February, and
it’s February 1st, and it’s Wednesday, and it’s 3:30 p.m. and she is sucking on
a glass of zinfandel. Way to be strong, you crazy, drunken bitch. And may I reference a previous blog, entitled Fucking Liars. So, forgive me if my faith has weaned in the honesty of the parental unit as of late. Get. Off. My. Balls.
Anyway. G.G. leaves on Friday, and I hope my balls get a much-needed vacation from the clinching and cinching. She will be missed, because she’s been sleeping with me in my new, double-big-boy bed every night. I asked mommy, who will sleep with me when she leaves? Well, Snoopy, of course, she replied. Snoopy is my stuffed dog that is not a beagle
that I stole from Sienna that reeks of urine most of the time even though I have never peed on him directly. Not a great transition. I love to cuddle with human beings, not balls
of furry piss. But, whatever. Maybe I will sneak into Leona’s room and steal some of her clean, sweet-baby-scented stuffed animals for a change of pace. Or maybe I can jack her from her crib and have HER sleep with me. She’s kind of a whiny bitch in the night, though, and I need my beauty rest. Either way, there are going to be some nights of unrest for mommy when this all transpires.
Also, my new favorite movie is Marmaduke. If I have any readers out there that fall into the 5-and-under demographic, let me just say, if your parents are pissing you off, watch this movie. According to them, it’s fucking terrible. The acting, the writing, the uber-cheesy cinematography…it all sucks. You can see daddy seething on the inside when
he asks me what I want to watch and I exuberantly cry, Marmaduke! So, I will watch
it until they pretend to accidentally delete it from D.V.R., and then I will proceed
to Sharpie the couch and maybe The Rat to hail the injustice. Ha! And I’ll do it in February, on a Wednesday, and see how mom handles the angst.