Tag Archives: humor

All I Really Want for Christmas

13 Dec
You want WHAT?

You want WHAT?

Dear Santa,

I was recently going through some Christmas mementos and found a letter you sent to me when I was a young girl. You said in your letter, and I quote, “If you are a good girl I will bring you the gift you asked for.”

Santa, I’m no legal expert, but I’m fairly certain that makes you contractually obligated to bring me the gift I want. My attorney has assured me that your letter is a valid contract, although the terms of the contract are somewhat vague.

I have attached affidavits from family and friends attesting to my level of “goodness.”

Just so you know, I do not take this gift-requesting business lightly.  After careful thought and consideration, I have found the gift that would truly make me happy.

Santa, all I really want for Christmas is a wife.

Don’t go thinking I’m off my rocker. Au contraire, Père Noël! I AM A FRICKING GENIUS! Who wouldn’t want a wife? Someone to cook and clean and take care of everyone in my home including me? Someone to run my errands? Someone to make the money work out? Shall I go on or do I need to copy this letter to Mrs. Claus so she can fill you in on just how sweet you’ve got it?

I realize that there may be some petty laws that prevent this from happening, but that’s ok. I figure you can sprinkle of little of whatever-that-shit-is you use to make the reindeer fly to make my wish come true.

Remember! Per the terms of our agreement, I expect delivery by Christmas morning!

Your friend,

The Great Mama Experiment

Today’s post was inspired by Mama Kat. Go ahead and check her out.

You know you want to.

Mama’s Losin’ It


All I Want is an 8-piece Fried Chicken

12 Dec

Yes, I’m venting. Yes, this is imaginary . . . well the phone-call part is anyway.

Damn you, Walmart!

Damn you, Walmart!

Walmart: Thank you for calling Walmart. May I help you?

Me: Yes, I need to speak to the manager please.

W: This is the manager. May I help you?

Me.: Yes, I have an issue with your deli department.

W: Ok, what seems to be the problem.

Me: Yes, I had spoken with your deli manager and placed an order for an 8-piece fried chicken. I stopped by to pick it up today and it wasn’t ready. I was told I’d have to wait 20 minutes.

W: I’m sorry that this happened ma’am. Is there something that we could do to improve your experience here at Walmart?

Me: I’m not sure because this isn’t the first time this has happened.

W: It isn’t?

Me: No. The last four times I’ve stopped to pick up fried chicken it wasn’t ready.

W: And you had called in an order?

Me: I placed my order in person! I remember it specifically because I was ordering a cake for my kid’s birthday . . .

W: Uh-huh.

Me: And I spoke with your deli manager . . .

W: Uh-huh.

Me: And I explained to her that on days that I had too much shit to do, to please have an 8-piece fried chicken waiting for me.

W: Huh.

Me: I mean, there is NEVER any chicken at your deli counter. I see the empty spaces for it but no.fricking.chicken. So me, being a planner (cuz I’m a planner!) took it upon myself to pre-order my chicken.  Ya know, to cut out any confusion and frustration on both our parts.

W: But ma’am, you didn’t schedule a date to pick up your order.

Me: Yes I did.

W: And what day was that?

Me: On the day that I have too much shit to do.

W: Ma’am, that is not a day.

Me: It most certainly is.

Uncomfortable silence.

W: Ma’am (sigh), how is my deli manager supposed to know the exact day that you will be in to pick up a fried chicken?

Me: Because.I.told.her.the.day. The day I have too much shit to do.

Another uncomfortabe silence.

Me: Ya know, maybe we could resolve this. Maybe, just maybe you could start keeping fried chicken in your deli counter. Maybe in that section that is labeled “8-piece Fried Chicken only $6.99!”

W: Ma’am, we do but . .. .

Me: No you don’t. Everytime I go in there it is empty. EMPTY! The only thing you have left is that lemon-garlic-rotissierie crap. Do you really think a two-year-old will eat that?

W: Ma’am . . . .

Me: I mean, all I’m asking for is that you actually keep fried chicken in your deli counter. Is that to much to ask for?

W: Are you currently taking any medications?

Me: I mean, how do you expect me to work all day, go to Girl Scout meetings, soccer practices, science fairs, and still have time to cook a meal?

W: Would you mind giving me your name for the restraining order?

Me: Don’t even get me started on the laundry! It’s ridiculous.

W: Or perhaps a physical description?

Me: This whole thing reeks of false advertising. And, and, and . .  .Walmart is against families having dinner together. Yes, that’s what it is!

W: Or maybe an address I can send the authorities to?

Me: Well, Mr. Manager! You and Walmart can stay the hell away from my family! Good day, Sir!


The No-Cabbage Treaty of 2012

11 Dec

The Mother and the Children,cabbage

Resolved to develop friendly relations between the Mother and the Children;

Convinced of the need finally to overcome antagonism and to develop cooperation within the household;

Have agreed upon and confirmed the following articles.

Article 1:

Her Maternal Majesty acknowledges that said Children have the right to have input into their food choices, no matter how wrong their input might be.

Article 2:

The Children acknowledge that Her Maternal Majesty, their Mother, deserves the right to have privacy, especially in the bathroom.

Article 3:

It is agreed that the Mother will not serve for consumption:  cabbage, cabbage-like food or anything resembling, by taste or smell, a cabbage. It is further agreed that the Mother will not try to disguise any of the aforementioned food items.

Article 4:

It is agreed that the Children will not stalk or harass the Mother while she is in the bathroom. The Children agree to acknowledge that the act of slipping notes under the bathroom door and/or wiggling hands and/or feet under the bathroom door as forms of harassment. (Mommy will give you a pass if she needs you to grab a roll of toilet tissue from the other bathroom. OK?)

Article 5:

The solemn ratifications of the present treaty shall be expedited between the contracting parties immediately.

It is my prediction that this treaty will be repealed before breakfast. The kids just can’t stay away from the bathroom door!

Open Letter to the Jerkward Who Broke Into My Home

10 Dec

This summer, my home was broken into and we were robbed. I still have a few unresolved issues about it.

Dear Jerkwad,

Thank you for breaking into my home on a Monday. I had spent all weekend cleaning the house and doing laundry. You managed to undo all of my hard work by dumping every drawer, tossing every cabinet and destroying each closet. Oh, and the broken glass throughout the house was a nice touch.

Don’t worry about the money you stole from my daughter. It probably wasn’t obvious to you that it belonged to an 8-year-old girl. I mean, you only found it in a pink wallet . . . . in a gir’ls bedroom. . . in a home that wasn’t yours. I explained to her that it was more important for you to get your crack fix than for her to get the American Girl doll she had hoped to buy. She’s all good now.

Thank you for not trashing the bedroom that my two toddlers share. They had already trashed it that same morning. By the way, I told the cops that you TOTALLY did that. It’ll probably add another 10 to 15 years onto your sentence when they catch  your sorry ass.

The thing that I hated the most about all of this was not the things that you took, but that you frightened my children. Something that you may not understand is that scaring the hell out of my children is MY JOB AND NOT YOURS!

But the thing that I really want to tell you is this: the day that you broke into our home . . . the same day you were tossing our mattresses and slinging Pillow Pets everywhere . . . . my five-year-old was EAT UP with HEAD LICE.


That’s the way we roll up in here, JERKWAD.

This home is protected by PEDICULUS CAPITAS.

This home is protected by

Here’s hoping that when they catch you that you have a very sweet cell mate who will pick the nits out of your hair. Speaking of being someone’s bitch, ain’t karma a bitch?

With Warmest Regards,

The Great Mama Experiment

What the ELF?

7 Dec

Tis the season for Elf on the Shelf. He’s everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean EVERYWHERE.

I do not own an Elf on the Shelf. I refuse to conform! It’s a matter of principle!

Ok, I don’t want to spend the $29.95 . . . . . and I’m afraid I’ll forget to move the damn elf one night and disappoint my kids.

Plus, he’s creepy looking.

Just look at those eyes!

Just look at those eyes!

However, I did stumble upon the New and Improved Elf on the Shelf. I’ll admit that I’m intrigued.

The new version still sells for $29.95 but is a better bargain because he is life-sized. If you know me, you know that I love a good deal.

Don't worry. He won't be so squinty-eyed once the drugs wear off. Apparently he put up a pretty good fight while they were boxing him up.

Naughty or Nice?

He won’t be so squinty-eyed once the drugs wear off. Apparently he put up a pretty good fight while they were putting him in the box. But don’t worry . . . he won’t say a word because nobody talks about Fight Club.

How the Grinch Got Tourette’s Syndrome

6 Dec
You're a mean one, Mama Grinch.

You’re a mean one, Mama Grinch.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, the children were bugging me to put up the Christmas tree.

Kids: Pleeeeeezze, Mama?

Me: No, it’s too early.

Kids: Pleeeeeeeeeeeeezzze!

Me: No, I don’t feel like digging the tree out of the closet.

Kids: Pretty please?

Me: No, the house isn’t clean.

Kids: We’ll clean the house!

Me: snort

Kids: What was that horrible and terrifying noise? (I’m paraphrasing.)

Me: It was me.  I snorted at you in disdain and contempt.

Kids: If we clean up, can we decorate the tree?

Me: snort. Sure. Whatever.

Exactly 12 minutes later . . . .

Kids: Mama, we’re done. Now can we decorate the tree?

Oh, my! My little angels! They did clean the house! You could actually see the floors in their bedrooms, the living room, the bathrooms! I HAD FLOORS AGAIN! It was truly a Christmas miracle.

I had no alternative but to reward my darlings.

I watched the kids decorate our tree. All the ornaments were placed within an eight-inch section of the tree. The garland was mysteriously missing. Most of the ornaments were made at daycare. But that’s ok. It’s our tree. It’s representative of where our family is at this moment. The only thing that is perfect on our tree is the lights. Thank goodness for pre-lit trees!

The decorating was done, the house was clean and the kids were satisfied. I decided it was a good time to take a shower.

Exactly 12 minutes later . . . .

I emerge from my room showered and refreshed. The decorations were up and my home was cl . . . . err???  What’s this? The lights are not lit on the Christmas tree. Oh well, some kid probably turned off the light switch that controls that outlet. Ah, those curious kids!

Err???? What’s this? The light switch is already on. Hmmm . . . ah, one of my little geniuses probably just found the switch on the cord attached to the tree. Heh-heh-heh . . . those cute little trouble-makers! I’ll just check the cord leading up to the tree . . .

Err???? What the hell? What the f . . . MY TREE IS SPARKING AND SMOKING! omg! OMG! OMG!

Me: Son of a bi . . . GRRRRRR . . . mother f. . . . . GRRRRRRRR . . . .

I was SO angry and I couldn’t even cuss because my children were watching me.

Kid #1: What’s wrong with Mama? She’s talking funny.

Kid #2: I don’t know.  Maybe she’s having a stroke or something.

Me: Fricken frack. Arrrrrrgh. Hmmmmm.

I could barely control the urge to say something that I should not say in front of my children. I couldn’t trust my words, so I sent them a telepathic message.

Leave my presence, you destroyers of Christmas spirit. Leave this place at once so that I may put my fury into words instead of directing it at the guilty parties.

They stood there . . . staring . . . like idiots. What good is a mother-child bond if you can’t send a fricking telepathic message in the event of an emergency?

I did the best that I could. I’m aware that the following sentence makes no sense.

Me: Who broke my HONKING Christmas tree?

Kids: (in unison) Not me!

I got a confession one week later. The youngest two decided to see how long they could spin the tree. This led to the cord wrapping around the base of the tree, which broke the cord after about 25 spins.

And although the Grinch didn’t exactly have Tourette’s syndrome, she came as close as she wanted to come.

I blame myself.  I took a 12-minute shower. What was I thinking?

Real Men Don’t Need Exterminators

5 Dec
This is EXACTLY how our mouse looked.

This is EXACTLY how our mouse looked.

My yard  is lined with ten pecan trees. Apparently, mice love pecans. My home is also surrounded on three sides by soybean fields, which mice also love.

What happened to mice eating cheese? Were all those episodes of Tom and Jerry based on LIES? What else were you lying about, Jerry????

As I stood on my deck admiring a herd of mice galloping through the soybean field, I noticed one of the mice pointing at me like he was calling me out. I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Hell, my kids leave mouse-appropriate snacks everywhere . . . word was bound to get out.

That night I informed The Dad that the angry mob of mice outside had been heckling me. Since it was obviously only a matter of time before we were overrun by an irate horde of rodents, I did the only sensible thing . . . . I called the exterminator and notified the authorities.

The Dad grunted at me while simultaneously rolling his eyes.

The Dad grunts at me constantly and not in a come-hither way. Grunts are just his natural mode of communication. But the grunt-eye-roll combo translates into, “Real men don’t need exterminators.”

His solution? Glue traps. I detest glue traps. IF, I say IF you actually catch a mouse in one of these contraptions . . . . what the hell are you going to do with a LIVE mouse that is GLUED to a PIECE OF PLASTIC?

The Dad ignored my perfectly logical reasoning and strategically placed glue traps throughout our home.

The next morning as I’m slaving away to cook a breakfast that my children totally take for granted, I hear my two youngest calling for their mother. I rush towards their room only to see my three-year-old son with both feet and one hand stuck to a glue trap. His two-year-old sister, Madeline, also has one hand stuck in the trap and is trying to drag her brother towards me.

Me: Samuel? What are you doing?

Samuel: I stuck.

Madeline: And I save him, Mama.

About that time, a mouse ran by, shot me the bird and told me this was his turf now. That may not have been his exact words but you get the picture.