Trolling The Parents

We assume that it's fairly evident to anyone reading that Dad likes to fuck with us. Really...he likes to fuck with anyone in general. He's the original troll. But we have our moments of revenge, like this email thread from last week:

Sara: So I went to hot yoga with Margo from work yesterday. Margo almost danced professionally so…that was a bit intimidating. But I did it. And holy mother of god am I hurting today. I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed.

I was, however, able to tuck my fingers under my toes by the end of class. Awesome.

Dad: None of you ever had any flexibility at all. It would be good to work on that.

Lindsay: I think I will start yoga. Probably after el bebe comes.

Dad, the reason we're not very flexible is because we're so muscular. People with lots of muscles have trouble with flexibility. I can still put my palms on the ground though!

Dad: Muscular has nuttin to do with it. That’s not true NFL football players are very flexible.

Lindsay: Did you learn that during all your years as an NFL physical therapist?

 Mom:

Dad: They had a big special on it and all of them work very hard on it. The results were pretty dramatic from an injury standpoint. I know that my flexibility is better than all of you combined. Not a good result for women who should inherently have much better flexibility than any man…

Sara: Maybe it’s because you’re just not much of a man then?

Lindsay: BAZINGA!

While Dad likes to troll, Mom likes to instigate. A few days ago, she sent us all an email in the morning titled “If the Gov’t buys up all the ammunition, can you shoot your gun?” I (Sara) will usually get into what I assume will be a discussion (but always turns into an argument. Hm, unintended arguments over politics...I wonder if anyone else has had this problem?) with Mom any time she sends something over like this. You know, because I’m a brat. And because most of the stuff she sends us is typically about how Obama’s ruining the country and conservatives are being unfairly bullied. Anyways, this particular day I wasn’t in the mood for a mature argument:

Mom: http://www.infowars.com/dhs-purchases-21-6-million-more-rounds-of-ammunition/

(The article’s about how the DHS has started buying tons more ammunition and goes on to speculate that it’s a move to disarm Americans without legislation)

Sara: Wait, are you telling me that the U.S. Government stockpiles more ammunition and weapons than they could ever possibly use and far more than anyone else has?

Mom: I don’t understand how your mind works. The Gov’t hasn’t been buying ammo and all of a sudden they are buying millions of rounds?

Sara: You’re right. They’re obviously trying to disarm every American citizen in an effort to start the 4^th Reich and fascist rule. Obviously.

Mom: The third Reich started because of complacent people like you.

Sara: And I feel just terrible about it. When Obama starts gassing people I will do the honorable thing and shoot myself. Because that’s obviously his game plan.

Mom: I think he wants to be king. And be careful what you put in an e-mail. You could trigger an investigation by Big Sis.*

Sara: Oh of course. Any day now he’s going to seize power and because of the poor complacent idiots like me, there will be no one to stop him. This is how the world ends, not with a bang but with a black guy.

I assume Big Sis is Hillary. What, do you think homegirl and I aren’t already in kahootz? I sell to the government, Mom. Me and Hillary are both crazy liberal bitches. I get to be her pet when she and Obama take over.

Mom: Why did you bring race into this discussion? It is about the content of his character, not the color of his skin. 

Sara: Because it was funnier that way.

Because I’m mocking you, mother.

Mom: I’m appalled that you think racism is funny.

Sara: I’m appalled that you’re still attempting to have a serious conversation with me.

Mom: I’m appalled that you don’t recognize our country is going to hell in a handbasket.

Sara: A handbasket would burn up long before we got to Hell.

Be serious, mother.

Mom:

Dad: Enough! This is 25 emails to me from you clowns. Leave me off please...

Sara: No. I'm a honey badger, and you know what?



Lindsay: Honey badger don't give a shit. 


Mom:   

Dad: LEAVE ME OFF THIS SHIT!!

Poor Dad. We love him. We really do. But sometimes we just can't resist. 

*We think she actually means Big Brother. Another example of Mom's ability to fuck up common terms and English in general. (Sara: No, she means Janet Napolitano, Secretary of Homeland Security. That's why her picture is there. Duh)

Here's some weird shit Dad has said lately

We've got nothing. I mean, there are funny things all the time, but we've gotten kind of sucky at writing everything down. So, here's some weird shit we've said lately (mostly Dad) and a mix-up by Jesse that could have gone horribly wrong for him if Lindsay wasn't so totally awesome.

Email thread from last week.

Lindsay: I don't know what kind of bus karma I have, but I always seem  to get stuck in front of or next to someone with a disgusting cough who lacks the decency to cover their mouth. Yuck.

Mom: That sucks.  I sometimes had to sit next to a guy who didn’t wear underwear and wouldn’t zip his fly.

Lindsay:  Ew, Mom. When and where was this?

Mom:  When I first moved to Seattle, I lived in Colombia City right off Rainier Ave.  The bus stop was in front of my apartment, so I took the bus to and from work every day.  The bus ride was fine until we got to 3^rd and Pine and the “free” zone.  I always tried to sit with someone that I thought was going to continue to ride and then I was safe.  If I picked wrong and they got off at the Post Office, then I was screwed.

Dad: Sorry, it was me…

Sara: This. This right fucking here. I’m dying.

Mom: That is disgusting!!  

Dad: But very funny...

Sara: One night I was riding home late, and sat up front. This one bum who, for whatever reason, I have run into several times over the last few years, was sitting near me (he’s fairly recognizable. Black. Dreds. In a wheelchair with one leg. Very nice, albeit crazy dude). He started talking to me and soon his other bum friends joined in and after a few minutes we were all laughing and chatting.

Then I realized that all of the normal people were sitting in the back looking terrified while this little white girl and 4 big black homeless men laughed their faces off in the front. I get along better with bums than I do normal people. 

Lindsay: Were you high?

Sara: It was pretty HIGHlarious


Remember a couple months ago when Sara got her words mixed up and called Lindsay a rapist when she meant to say racist? Well, Jesse took a page out of Sara's book the other day. Lindsay was getting ready to take a shower and they were joking around. Jesse sometimes will call Lindsay a "scamp" when they're being playful. I don't know what it means either, but it's an endearing name. Instead, Jesse got his words mixed up and said, while giving her a pat on the butt:

"Now get in there ya little skank."

He didn't catch his mix-up until Lindsay turned around asked incredulously:
"Did you really just call your pregnant wife a skank?"  

See what I mean? That could have ended really badly for him.

Although while Jesse mixes up his words intentionally, Dad prefers to go straight for male suicide. Sara overheard him say this to his inside sales rep, Celeste, at work the other day...

Dad: Celeste, when are you going to jump on the stick and start making some babies? 

Celeste: Shut up, Brock!

Dad: And I mean that literally. 

Or there was this one he pulled at dinner:

Sara: I work out in the morning now and it's turning me into a morning person. Put that on the list of things I never thought I'd say seriously. 

Dad: Yeah, I noticed. Look at how skinny you are! Lindsay...not so much.

Lindsay: Because I'm fucking pregnant, dad. I'm supposed to have a jolly round belly. 

Dad: Sure, if that's your excuse. 

Also, Lindsay has been asked about her "birth plan" a few times. For those inquiring minds, yes, she does have a very specific, well thought-out birth plan. Ready?
It's called "EVERYBODY GETS OUT ALIVE."

Happy Fucking New Year!

For the holidays Sara’s tiny little studio apartment played host to seven different people for different amounts of time and various reasons. It was a bit hectic to say the least. Mom and Dad’s house seemed small with seven people, so I’m sure you can imagine how claustrophobic a 500 sq. ft. studio where the only door is to the bathroom can be. At any rate, now I have my apartment back to myself and all of my friends are going back to school or leaving on world adventures…and…*sniff*…I promise I’m not crying it’s just allergies GOSH!

Lindsay and Jesse stayed in Auburn for New Year's Eve (where apparently fireworks are legal in their neighbor hood OR the police don't give a shit - either way it's awesome). They went out to dinner where Lindsay got crazy after a couple non-alcoholic beers. The main reason they stayed in the South End is because they got Lego Batman 2 for their Xbox for Christmas. Seriously, you guys. It's awesome.

For New Year's Eve, Sara and her little entourage (at that point in time Hoff, Connor, Kelly, and Luke) decided to go home to the parentals’ place for a party instead of going out in the city and throwing all of their money away on being cold/crowded/generally immersed in chaos. It was quiet, but there was enough ridiculousness to keep everyone happy and entertained.

Like when Luke tried to light a bottle rocket out of his hands, didn’t let go, and deafened his left ear when it blew the fuck up right next to his goddamn face.

Hang on. I’m still trying to stop laughing about it.

…

Whoo. Okay. I’m back.

So at one point, Connor was helping prepare a party game for later. It’s the one where you put a famous name on your back and other people give you hints until you guess who it is. You know, the one they played in Inglourious Basterds before Michael Fassbender and friends shot the everloving shit out of all the drunken Nazis/themselves? Anyways, Connor was suggesting some other celebrities that could possibly be used in the game.

Connor: George Clooney…Lady Gaga…Olivia Newton John…

Dad: Is Olivia Newton John big in the gay community?*

Hoff: You mean ONJ? If you don’t know ONJ, then you’re a bad gay.

Dad: Really? So she’s big like Cher?

Connor: Oh not at all. No one’s bigger with the gays than Cher.

* All of my dude friends present were gay. This was relevant, Dad wasn’t just randomly speculating.

Later, after I had begun taking notes for this very blog you see in front of you, Natasha (who had stopped by to wish us all a Happy New Year) wrote about her contribution in very curvy handwriting, which Dad then attempted to read…

Natasha: “Natasha would like to be included in the blog but has nothing relevant to say about anything. Narwhal. Bloop. Dr. Who. Angels. Wristwatch. Matt Damon. – That is all.”

Dad: What the hell kind of pornographic shit is this? “Natasha got laid by some big butt…”

At one point Dad was trying to remember the name of a song that was playing…and failing miserably. Mom gave him a confidence boost to help jog his memory:

Mom: You have a memory like a frog’s dick. It’s really good, but REALLY short.

I have no fucking clue what that means. All I know is that someone needs to keep Mom away from frogs.

After the New Year hit and Mom and Dad’s friends went home, we decided to teach them both how to play King’s Cup. We changed a few of the rules (such as 5 fingers. Like hell I’m playing the game where you list all of the ridiculously inappropriate things you’ve done with my parents), but kept the important ones, like making a rule. My rule was that you had to say some form of “fuck” in every sentence. Here’s a sampling of some of the resulting conversations:

Dad: Are you going to pick up a fucking card?

Sara: Hoff, why the fuck are you so fucking ridiculous all of the fucking time?

Hoff: Why are you such a fucking bitch?

Connor: Fuck you bitches.

Mom: I hate all of you.

Sara: Mom you need to fucking say fuck.

Mom: Fine. I hate all of you whores FUCK!

Luke: I can’t fucking handle this shit.

Connor: (whispered in Mom’s ear when a seven was drawn, meaning you need to point your finger to the ceiling and yell “heaven!” before the last person) Put your fucking hand in the fucking air.

Dad: (after flicking his lighter open for no goddamn reason whatsoever) Don’t stop! Believing! Fucking Journey was the SHIT!

Kelly: Happy fucking New Year!

Indeed, Kelly. From the Bowyers to you, happy fucking New Year! May you stick to all of your resolutions and, when that doesn’t work, have a fantastic 2013!

A Very Appley Christmas Eve

On Christmas Eve, we stuffed ourselves with lobster and booze while Lindsay watched everyone drinking their beer/wine longingly. Mom wore a Christmas sweater while Jesse and Dad forgot about the zipper on their pants after about their 2nd trip to pee. They button, they just forget to zip. After dinner, we decided to play a game of Apples to Apples, which is generally not a disappointing game at the Bowyer household. Apples to Apples, for those who may not be familiar with it, is a game where one person draws a card with an adjective on it, and everyone else has to submit a person, place, or thing (Sara: I believe the word you're thinking of is "noun") they think best matches the adjective, and then the person who drew the card decides.

At our house, it's pretty typical for the most offensive card to win. For example, one year the adjective was "boisterous," and the card that won was "Helen Keller." Who played that fantastic card, you ask? Grandma, of course. She's also come up with pairs like "Alfred Hitchcock" for "cuddly" and "Adolf Hitler" for "charming."

Throughout the entire game, after the winning card was picked and everyone had to draw a new card, Dad would say, "Oh! I've got the perfect card!" Or, "I needed this one for the last round!" Basically every single new card he picked up was a "perfect" match for the previous round.
Dad also took to justifying every single card that was submitted as a match for the adjective card, even if it wasn't his card.

Adjective: Old
Two of the submitted cards were "Saturn" and "Flipper."
Dad: Saturn's old!
(It wasn't his card)
Jesse: Flipper. I don't think anyone understood Flipper.

Adjective: Naive
One of the submitted cards was "shark"
Dad: Dude! Sharks are totally naive.
Lindsay: Dad, sharks are prehistoric, highly-skilled killing machines that also happen to be masters of evolution.
Dad: Totally! They're so naive that they just kill indiscriminately. They naively want to kill everything. They're naive in the fact that they think they have to kill anything they see.
(It wasn't his card)
Sara: I say we throw you to the sharks and test out that ridiculous hypothesis.


Adjective: Charistmatic
Dad: Where's the Brock card?
One of the submitted cards was "pond scum"
Dad: Pond scum is SUPER charismatic!
Another card gets picked.
Dad: You should have picked mine!
Lindsay: What was it?
Dad: I don't remember

Adjective: Creative
One of the submitted cards was "Canadians"
Dad: Canadians are super creative! They're the most creative people on Earth!
(Not his card)

At one point, someone submitted the card "nuclear power plants" and Dad picked up the card and said "nuclear power pants...what are those?"

Adjective: Bright
Someone selected "chorus girls"
Lindsay: "Slutty" would work!
Sara (almost high fives Lindsay then stops):...We were chorus girls
Lindsay: I know!
Sara: ...<high fives Lindsay anyways>

Adjective: Annoying
Mom: Where's the Brock card?

Lindsay had brought some cookies from the bakery on the bottom floor of her building where she works for dessert. There were more than enough cookies for everyone, but she had to spend every spare second fighting Mom off because she was sitting next to Lindsay and kept trying to sneak pieces of her cookie instead of, you know, just getting her own.

Lindsay: Mom! Get your own fucking cookie!
Mom: No. Quit being a bitch and just give me like, half.
Lindsay: Fuck off! Get your own cookie and break it in half!
Mom: Is there a bitchy card? Because Lindsay should get that one. Let's hope your baby is more like Jesse.

It's also worth noting that in situations like this, Jesse willingly throws Lindsay under the bus if it means he gets praised or shown favoritism over her.

At the end of the game, everyone began to split up. Sara started texting someone furiously, Dad went to find some war show on TV so he could fall asleep in his chair and then wake up and go "Hey, I'm watching that!" when you try to change the channel, and Jesse and Mom grabbed more booze.

Grandma: Well, I'm going up
(To her house)
Lindsay: What? That's it?
Grandma: Yah. Dinner's over. Game's over. Is someone going to do card tricks? Dance? Sing?
Lindsay: Sara, invite some of your gay boyfriends over and play some Cher so they can sing and dance to entertain Grandma.
Sara: <death glare>

Virtual Dinner With The Bowyers

As many of you now know. Sara, Lindsay, Jesse, and Tucker moved out. We're grown-ups for reals now. Not really.

This has, obviously, significantly decreased the frequency of hilarious everyday conversations we have. However, in recent days, we have taken to emailing each other at once in one single email thread, and not surprisingly, some funny shit has been said/written. Except Jesse. He has a sooper important job being a teacher and he actually has to work at work, so he doesn't have down time to check his email.

Here is a smattering of emails from this week.


Sara: Has anyone else realized that we’ve just shifted our conversations from in-person to virtual?

Mom:  That’s because you never visit!

 

Sara: I didn’t come home this last weekend because I had a weepy friend to take care of. Your guilt trip has no effect on me!


Lindsay: I noticed this the other day. Our blog is going to have to become "Emailing with the Bowyers."

Mom: That is a great idea, actually.  Especially with how much Sara complains, you will have tons and tons and tons of stuff.

Sara: I DO NOT COMPLAIN THAT MUCH! You are a terrible mother.
So my building is showing the lotr* trilogy on xmas in the theater. So…sorry about not coming to Xmas in advance…
*For all you non-members of the Dork Patrol, lotr stands for Lord of The Rings. Example 1 of Sara being the President of Dork Patrol. 

Mom:  What are you saying about Xmas?

Lindsay: Sara is going to spend Xmas watching the Lord of The Rings Trilogy showing at her apartments with a bunch of dweebs instead of hanging out with us.

Mom: I was thinking one less lobster to buy. 
*It's Christmas Eve tradition at our house to fly-in Maine lobsters for dinner. 

Lindsay: HAHA! I'll eat Sara's lobster.

Sara: WHAT? This was supposed to be a joke because I thought it was a given that I would come home for xmas! Da fuq, family? I’m having people over for xmas eve morning! Do you want me to come over on xmas eve instead? Or just not at all?

I want a new family.

Lindsay: Mom thought you were saying you weren't coming over Xmas Eve. And she wasn't expecting you to hang out ALL day on Xmas anyways. She didn't get it.  

Sara: YOU DON’T GET IT

And don’t you touch my fuckin’ lobstah

A little while later... 

Lindsay: DUDE DUDE DOOOD. We just witnessed D&D or WoW themed wedding photos being taken outside. So bad. But so awesome. 

Sara: OH MY GAWD THAT’S AWESOME! I’m reading the thread on reddit about people that have actually seen someone object at a wedding.
Did you get any pictures for yourself?

Dad: What are D &D or WoW Weddings?

Lindsay: Dad, D&D stands for Dungeons and Dragons, and WoW stands for World of Warcraft. D&D started out as a magic card game I think, and now it is one of those fantasy online games. World of Warcraft is a fantasy online game. They were both chubby, really frumpy, and dressed like medieval fairies. It was hilarious. 

Sara*: Dad should know what D&D is. And for the record they’re both role-playing games…one that’s dice-based, and one that’s a massive multiplayer online RPG (MMO RPG).

Duh.
*President of the dork patrol, Example 2

The next day, Sara made fun of Lindsay and Jesse for living near all the hillbillies


Mom: The temp has dropped 9 degrees since the AM and is expected to continue to drop as this cold front moves in.  Hopefully, the cold front will keep the precipitation down.  Could be a  non event, but sounds like a fire night to me

Lindsay: We would love to make a fire, but we don't have any firewood. Maybe we'll act like city-slickers and just go buy some wood at the store.

Sara: You can’t monitor the height of the river and then go buy the wood at the store.
Get your shit together. Don’t be a walking contradiction.

Jeez.

Lindsay: Damnit you're right

Dad: Monitor the height of the River? ??

Sara: The Green River. Lindsay’s noticed when it goes up and down like a true hick.

Mom: Sara!  Lindsay is not a hick.  On a better note, I ordered lobsters today.


THEN, Mom made the mistake of making fun of our lack of blog posts

Dad (in response to me informing them I was attending Jesse's staff Xmas party and he STILL hadn't told anyone he worked with that he's having a baby): It would be really hilarious to have someone ask you if your pregnant and say: No, Why do you ask?

Sara: Best idea. You must do it now.

Mom: Only you would think that is funny, Brock

Dad:  On the contrary, Sara thinks it is Hilarious.. 

Mom: Then Sara needs to work on her sense of humor. You spend too much time with your father.

Sara: False. The blog is hilarious and I make people laugh all the time.

Mom: What blog?  That is yesterday’s news

Sara: Luke and Ila already make fun of me for sounding too much like dad. And don’t get all comfortable just because we’re not updating the blog as often.

Mom:  What blog?

Lindsay: Good joke, Mom. NOT.

Mom: __________ posts way more often than you hammerheads do
*We all know someone who has a blog, a terribly bad/hilarious blog, and we've left the name out to protect the innocent. 

Lindsay: I don't even feel like we need to explain why our blog is so much more awesome than____________'s blog.

Mom:  A blog would have to be written to be awesome.

Sara: Careful now. We could dedicate one to all of the ridiculous things you do.
Like your hair clip. And the hot house.
*If you've been to our house on a weeknight when our Mom is around, then you know what the hair clip is. The hot house is a reference to yet another time when Mom managed to fuck up a simple expression.

Mom:  You are still my daughter.

Sara: That isn’t going to stop us.

Mom:  I think it is you that ought to be careful

Sara: Why? Are you not going to buy me a lobster if we post something comical?

Mom: I have all kinds of cards I could play.  It would be foolish of me to show my hand.

Lindsay: I think Mom basically just declared war on us.

Sara: I think that war is indeed being declared.

Mom: That is below the belt and uncalled for.

Sara: You said last week that you wouldn’t buy me a lobster as a joke! Once again! Joking! THESE ARE ALL JOKES

Dad: I know…. I have to go to the store after work Kathy.

Mom: Why do I care?  I will be at a party

Sara: What did you have for breakfast? Fried eggs and snark?

Lindsay: WAR, mother. 
(Sara: In the original email, this GIF didn't work. I had to find the proper source for it so you all wouldn't be confused at Lindsay's complete lack of technical ability. You're welcome)

   












Mom:




Lindsay: Mom, I just Sparta'd your ass into a pit of darkness. Your crappy clip art tug-of-war is invalid. 
  
Sara: 

Coming Soon: Baby McClelland

Good gravy you people made it difficult to hide this for 3 months. Jesse and I will be welcoming our very own offspring into the world in June. See?

Now you've also seen my ovaries and the inside of my uterus.

Consider this my obligatory "announcement." I've decided that the best way to sum up my experiences for the last 3 months is to make a list that breaks down the joy that is the first trimester.

Sara: Hey, you know what sucks? The Wellesley Effect. A phenomenon where women who live in close quarters experience synchronized menstrual cycles. Specifically, it sucks when only one of you gets pregnant. The other one gets to have ghosted symptoms for a good couple of weeks, regardless of the fact they're not even getting a little alien mutant thing out of it. What in the actual fuck, biology?

1. If you suspect your friend might be pregnant – DON’T ASK FOR THE SAKE OF FUCK. Everyone knows that it's common practice to wait until you’re out of your first trimester to tell everyone because your risk of miscarriage or the baby not having a heartbeat are actually fairly high. It’s, um, awkward to tell everyone you’re pregnant, and then have to tell everyone you’re, uh, not anymore. So if you notice your friend is looking a little bloated, or eating really bland foods, or isn’t drinking beer when she normally would – keep it the fuck to yourself! It’s terrifying when someone asks you in that accusatory tone (like you didn’t do your homework or something), “Are you pregnant?” Holy shit! NO! I’m just REALLY into being the designated driver! Keep. That shit. To yourself.  Stop interrogating me.
2. Trying to keep it a secret is really hard if you’re a booze-hound like me. As soon as I order a water when I’m at the Diamond Knot – EVERYONE AND THEIR MOM WILL KNOW I’M KNOCKED UP.
3. Sore boobs. Oh my god. The sore boobs. They have grown 2 cup sizes, and I have suffered. Walking hurts, putting on a bra hurts, moving hurts, looking at and thinking about them hurts.
4. The fatigue. Here is an example of a typical day - 9am: Why am I so tired? I went to bed at 9pm. That's 12 hours. 2pm: If I don't take a nap, I am going to collapse or puke. 4pm: Wake up from nap, feel slightly rested. And why the fuck did I lay on my stomach because my boobs feel like someone used them as a punching bag while I was alseep. 8pm: Can I go to bed yet? Why do I want to go to bed? 8:45pm: Fuck it, I'm going to sleep. 9am: Wake up and repeat. 
5. There is no such thing as morning sickness. It’s all day sickness. I spent a lot of time asking myself, “Am I hungry or do I want to barf?” Luckily I never got THAT nauseous. I just felt queasy all the time. It’s like being hung-over; only it lasts for 3 months, and you didn't even get to have any fun the night before.
6. Pooping. You would miss it, too.
7. Peeing. I have to every half hour. 
8. That pregnancy “glow?” It’s caused by excess progesterone, which makes your skin produce more natural oils. Another name for my pregnancy glow is acne. People who lie to you about the joys of pregnancy decided to use the misleading word “glow” instead of “you'll look like you're going through puberty again.”
9. My Mayo Clinic book keeps telling me that I’ll occasionally feel “light cramping.” What they really mean I’ll feel are growing pains. I can literally feel my uterus stretching and migrating. It's as weird as it sounds.
10. Bloating. Oh, look at my cute little baby bump! Nope, it’s gas, in and around my uterus. Can I fit into these pants today? Probably not because I had broccoli and cabbage with my dinner last night. Right now, at 13 weeks, it's definitely a baby bump - but still subject to gas extension. Awesome, right?
11. The stuff you're not supposed to eat is ridiculous. - Only one cup of coffee per day. One day, I had a cup of coffee then had a latte later in the afternoon. I know, I'm a monster! -  No deli meat unless you heat it in the microwave until steaming. Gross.  - No smoked or cured meats (smoked salmon, prosciutto, salami, basically anything delicious).  - No soft cheese. I totally ate some brie one night and have put goat cheese in my eggs. Call CPS!  - No more medium rare steaks, make it well done. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to bastardize a beautiful piece of red meat by cooking the pink out of it because ehrmagerd teh baby might not like it!   - No runny egg yolks. What? No fried eggs over-easy? This is offensive and unacceptable. I will NOT be subjected to cooked egg yolks and I WILL have runny egg yolk over my breakfast hash.

So that's it. The first 3 months in all their glory. If you end up having/had a fantastic time during your first trimester, then screw you. 

The Annual Turkey Shoot Letter

Dear Turkey Shoot coaches and parents,

            It is our distinct pleasure to thank you all for registering for this year’s Turkey Shoot soccer tournament! We are very excited to host one of the largest recreational youth soccer tournaments in the state this year, and we hope you are just as excited to take part. We have been in charge of this tournament for a long time (15+ years!) and we have loved being a part of it each and every year. But before the first games start on the 16^th, however, we’d like to call your attention to a few guidelines that will help to keep this tournament running smoothly and efficiently, both this year and in the future.

            You may have noticed during the registration process that your team’s age and gender bracket were missing from the website. That indicates that the bracket is already full and is no longer accepting any more teams’ registrations. That way we can begin scheduling games as quickly as possible. However, many teams signed up for another age or gender bracket instead, thinking that as long as their registration was received, we would schedule accordingly. That is fucking retarded. Seriously. All that does is fuck everything up. We are not goddamn psychics, people. If you sign up your U-15 boys’ team in the U-12 girls’ bracket, we are going to assume that you’re a bunch of 11-year-old girls, because that’s the fucking logical conclusion. Then, when you show up to play a bunch of little girls, we’re going to have you cited for juicing them with steroids until they resemble 14-year-old boys. Then point and laugh at your stupid ass while you walk off the field in shame. Jesus…get your shit together people.

            Don’t bring your dog to the fields. There are no dogs allowed on any of our facilities. We don’t give a single fuck about how well-behaved he is. Leave Fido at home. He’ll be fine for a few hours. Promise.

            If for some reason Lindsay, our beloved tournament director, has decided to make an exception such as…say…opening up registration especially for your team to sign up late because of extenuating circumstances, don’t forget to do it. And if she opens it up a second time…don’t forget to do it then, either. Or the third time. Or even the fourth. And if you have gotten to this point, don’t leave an apologetic voice mail blaming the World Series for your Alzheimer’s symptoms. We’re running a soccer tournament. At least blame the MLS playoffs or something we can relate to. Not something boring like baseball. And you should probably bribe us with beer or something too. Happy tournament officials make a happy tournament.

            Our tournament headquarters are in a trailer behind Kasch field 3 (and now it sounds like we're some sketchy dude with FREE CANDY plastered across his van...we assure you we're not). The trailer is there to house our hardworking administrators, field marshals, and referees. If you would like to report your score directly to headquarters, you may. But that had better be the only reason you open the door of our trailer to let all of the heat out. We don’t want to hear you complain about one of our hard-working, highly trained, and overworked referees. We don’t want to hear all about how the other team is totally a select team (I don’t understand where the fuck this comes from. There’s a conspiracy among select teams to ruin the tournaments of rec players? The Joker’s coaching a select team and just wants to watch Turkey Shoot burn? Seriously. Think before you open your food-hole and vomit words all over our goddamn trailer). We don’t want to hear you complain about your early game. Twenty other teams had to play that morning and they’re not whining like spoiled little brats. Don’t ask if you can have some food. You can’t. Get in, give us your score, compliment the tournament or us (yes, we accept compliments as bribes for more time in the heated trailer. Deal with it), and get the fuck out.

            Seriously, if you bring your mangy mutt to the fields we’re going to dognap it and turn it into a goddamn muff. Well…maybe not. But we’re going to boo you and throw dog shit at you. See how we turned that one around? Don’t fuck with us.

            If you park in an area that is coned off as a no parking area, don’t get your panties in a bunch if our referee assigner Victoria calls you a douchebag. You are one. Deal with it.

            We are always a bit saddened when we have to address this point, but it always seems to be necessary…for the love of God, don’t say something racist to the kids on the other team. You are a parent and a role model for fuck’s sake. What in the actual fuck is so wrong with your brain that you think this is okay? They’re fucking kids, you sick fuck! Be the bigger person, literally and figuratively, and leave your idiotic bigotry at home. We have no need for it.

          We are also generally saddened by grown men who harass 13-year-old referees. Are you fucking kidding me? You're a big man, telling that 13-year-old off. The real reason your team lost the game is not because your referee let the other team push you. For fuck's sake, are you coaching a team of nancys? Soccer is a contact sport, and the reason your team lost is because they have a coach who's more interested in bitching and moaning about how everything is SO unfair - instead of sacking up and actually coaching. They somehow think Lindsay (who is all-knowing and all-powerful during this weekend - basically a demi-god) won't find out. They also think Lindsay won't rip them a new asshole in front of their entire team, citing examples XYZ as to why you're an ass-hat, and then she tells you to get the fuck out of her face - and you DO it, because all you really are is a little bitch. Seriously though, this has happened a few times, and it was as awesome and entertaining to watch as it sounds.

            The tournament’s rules are not the same as seasonal play. Please read your rulebook and note the differences. That's um, why we distribute rule books. If a rule is not to your liking, such as 5 players a side for U-8 games instead of the seasonal 4, shut the fuck up about it. This isn’t the fucking World Cup. We are not attempting to revolutionize the entire game of soccer in order to ruin your child’s youth. We are trying to run a fun and efficient tournament for the community. Before you complain about something as miniscule as this, ask yourself this question: “Is my 7-year-old going to worry more about an extra player on the field, or what mud puddle she’s going to jump into next?” Perspective, people. Get some.

            DO. NOT. BRING. YOUR. DOG. TO. THE. FIELD. YOU. FUCKING. TWAT.

            If you simply pay attention to these guidelines, we should have a fun-filled, smooth, and exciting tournament in a few weeks’ time. We hope you have as much fun participating in the tournament as we have running it. Thank you and we look forward to seeing you all very soon!