“Check out my ratest brog.”
That’s how I would say that sentence if I were Asian. Thank god I’m not. The other day in Forever 21, I brought a few items back to the dressing room to try on and convince myself not to buy. While exiting the fitting room, I observed two Asian girls taking turns coming in and out of their fitting room with the clothing items they were trying on, taking pictures of each other in each outfit on a digital camera. I stared. Really I gawked. What is it with Asians and taking pictures at inappropriate times? It’s like they think they’re always on vacation. Asians always act like they’re in Disney World, whether they’re at Costco or Hardee’s.
Speaking of Disney World, I recently discovered that people are now able to actually live inside the theme park itself—-literally build their home in between Space Mountain and the Mad Tea Party. I would rather wake up to the stench of Sioux City every day than the pungency of heavily-buttered popcorn and melting cotton candy and stinky sweating children who aren’t old enough to wear deodorant yet. Living inside of Disney World is a farce. Who would ever want to do this, besides ridiculously wealthy pedophiles like Lawrence Taylor and the late Michael Jackson? You know that if Jacko were still creeping on this earth, he would scoop up one of those houses so fast.
The presence of children alone is enough to repulse me to this idea, let alone the fact that I would constantly feel like I was on a mushroom trip day in and day out watching Mickey Mouse and Peter Pan hopscotching down the sidewalk shooting fireworks and carrying balloons every minute of every day. Ugh. Kids. Since I’ve gotten married, the next obvious “go to” question for acquaintances is, “So when are we going to see some little Switzers?” They say this while motioning a large pregnant belly, or rubbing mine like it’s Aladdin’s lamp.
“Never,” I reply with disgust. “I would literally rather die in a fire than have a child.”
People are always taken aback by this answer. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I add “right now” at the end of that sentence to soften the blow a bit. Maybe the other person would think of me as less of a child-loathing sociopath if they thought my negative attitude toward parenthood was just temporary. Having a child would suck. I am far too selfish about my body, money, time, and freedom to ever procreate. I’m thinking about getting my tubes tied. I mean, that kind of surgery can be done over a lunch break nowadays. A kid would be such a burden in my life right now. They’re so sticky, and they vocalize far too often. Being pregnant would blow, period. Volunteering to gain 50 pounds and be more swollen than Macauly Culkin’s face after his bee-sting attack in My Girl (presumeably) is not something I am interested in doing. Ever.
If I ever grew a heart and decided one day that me being a parent isn’t such a blasphemous idea, I guess I could adopt. I’d have to adopt a child of a sweet ethnicity though, like an Indian or a Brazilian baby. Definitely not a black child. Don’t get me wrong, black kids are probably some of the cuter kids out there. The problem is that black babies are like kittens. They’re cute when they’re little, but then they grow up and start wearing South Pole and selling cocaine.
Well, I think I’ve said enough to put me on someone else’s hit list for one post. See you next time, folks.
“When did you get your boobs?”
“What?! I didn’t get boobs!”
“Come on. When did you get them?”
“I didn’t, I swear!”
“What size are they?”