Holy F*ck, When Did Monkey Bars Get So Hard?

I don’t know who decided to – or how they even did – increase the difficulty level of monkey bars, but holy fuck are those things hard. I got four bars into showing my 4 year old how much “fun” they are before I collapsed to the ground, clutching at my (probably) torn lat muscle.

Monkey bars are hard enough to find these days with all these pussyfart playgrounds making a play at safety. I already have to go to the bad part of town to find a rusted over set. And even those have been retrofitted somehow to operate at maximum difficulty. We can’t get kids the school supplies we need, but we have enough tax dollars update the monkey bars at “Gang Hangout Park?”

I’m just trying to play with my kids. I don’t need to be injured if some cracked-out street urchin decides my wallet is keeping his money warm. They need to make them like they did when I was a kid. Easy. Low impact. Unpainted metal. Cold in the winter. Blistering in the summer. But still, easy enough that you get bored before you get tired. Make those kinds of monkey bars again.

I never thought I’d say this but, hats off to those ISIS guys crushing their playground training. We all laughed at the leaked terrorist training videos. Haha. Their soldiers play recess. But none of us went to the park to give it a spin. None of us.

I get that I’m getting older. I’m probably not gonna do a four minute mile any time soon. But I don’t need to be shamed by “Big Monkey Bar” when it comes to playing with my kids. They didn’t have to change the design to make them all hard. These new play grounds are all designed for like The Rock or some shit. No wonder all the kids are fat. Probably so “Big Pharma” can pump them full of diabetes pills. Those “Bigs” are all in cahoots. I’ll have Alex Jones look into it.

I want my kids to have the same monkey bar fun I had. Gliding over the ground, skipping bars, leg wrestling, doing swinging backflips into the sand, pushing the nerds off. Fun stuff. Not training for American Ninja Warrior.

Speaking of sand. Where the fuck is the sand? Who decided woods chips and shredded up tires are better for the kids? I never ate sand as a kid, but I can’t turn my back for 30 seconds to crack open a cold one without my little one shoving half those “safer” recycled tire bits in his mouth. That little shit – I love him to death, but – it’s like anything but the $25 Sophie giraffe chew toy is what he wants to grind on. I don’t think we need to worry about a college savings account for that one. We probably just need a bail fund.

These new, impossibly hard, monkey bars have gotta go back to what they were when I was a kid so I can show my kids what a badass I am on a set of bars. Frankly, I don’t know why they ever changed them AND, I don’t know how my 6 year just flies across them like nothing! She’s a beast!

I Wish My Parents Would Die So I Could Become Batman

Sure dead parents would be a cool icebreaker to pick up chicks. And yeah, with dead parents you can kind of get away with pretty much whatever. But I don’t want my parents to die just so I can host high school keg parties and blow their life insurance payouts on a Tesla and paintball. I want them to die so that I can become Batman.

I just started my Junior year in high school and I’m not getting any younger. Bruce Wayne’s parents died when he was like in elementary school. He developed an addiction to justice in his formative years. The same years I developed an addiction to video games. He had years on me in his crime fighting education. What am I gonna do if some supervillain decides to poison the Rancho Cucamonga water supply with a mind control substance? Throw my Xbox at him? Come on!

I need my parents to get t-boned by a drunk driver or stabbed by a meth addict or blown up in a terrorist attack or whatever atrocity will spark my passion for vengeance. Because right now all I have a passion for are memes. And the police commissioner doesn’t make a Bat signal for the best meme creator. You don’t get shit for memes. No matter how dank.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t love my parents or whatever. They’re cool. They let me borrow the van and stuff. But I’m not going to be able to chase down the Joker’s henchmen in a Chrysler Pacifica.

I just feel that what Batman did for Gotham City, I could do for San Bernardino County and my parents’ beating hearts are standing in the way.  I’m not being selfish. I wanna be Batman so I can save cities and stuff. The way I see it, I need these things to happen to fulfill my destiny.

  1. I need my parents to die. Superheroes don’t have parents. Spiderman. Superman. Deadpool. Parents are great for telling you to prepare for college. They’re kinda light on the superhero encouragement.
  2. Work on my cardio. You gotta be able to last in a melee encounter. And if I’m always being told to take out the trash or clean my room or go outside and play ball or whatever, when am I gonna have time to run?
  3. Get a butler. He can take out the trash and clean my room while I Google kung fu videos and really step up my fighting game.
  4. Get a Batsuit. I can’t fight crime rocking Supreme. My shirts are too lit to risk getting blood on.

And that’s it. As soon as my parents kick it, I can get out there and kick some ass. I’m not heartless. I’ll visit their gravesite anytime I need a reminder on why I’ve dedicated my life to fighting crime. I just gotta figure out who’s gonna take care of my little sister when they croak. Do butlers babysit?

Really? This Crazy Lady Gets to Bring Her Service Horse on the Plane For Free, But I Gotta Pay Full Fare For My Emotional Support Wife?

When I read that Southwest Airlines was allowing horses on their planes as support animals, I was like “Hell yeah! Vegas, here I come!” But when I showed up with my Emotional Support Wife in tow and they were like “Where’s her ticket?” I was like “You gotta be kidding.”

Look, I don’t give a shit if you’re afraid to fly. I’m afraid to fly too. All the Budweiser in the world ain’t gonna give me sac enough to sit calmly in a hurtling death tube that sucks in air and farts out clouds at 35,000 feet all thanks to hundreds of gallons of combustible liquid yards away from my ass. I don’t know if I’m gonna land calmly at McCarran or screaming my head off slamming into the side of a mountain. Planes are scary. That’s why they serve alcohol.

I got shit that makes me worry too. What if I die?

Who’s gonna handle the bills? Who’s gonna teach my son to throw a ball? What happens if the water heater goes out? What if I die before I get a chance to clear my Google search history and my daughter finds it first? I don’t want her to remember me like that. She used to sit on my lap.

I get it. I get why we need to bring our animals on the plane. I just don’t get why this crazy bitch gets to bring her goddam horse on the plane for free, but my rock, my security blanket, my service animal – Rebecca – has to pay for a fucking ticket?

She’s got a pink vest. Just like that stupid horse. I even wrote “Do Not Touch” on it so people know the vest is legit.

I bring my Service Wife everywhere else that other service animals go and nobody bats an eye. Nobody says “no wives allowed, sir.” That would be discrimination. Discrimination against me and my mental incapacities. But for some reason these airlines think it’s like, goddam 1998 or something when it comes to Service Wives. You know, back in those intolerant days of airline travel where if you tried to bring a dog, or a horse, or a pig on a plane, you’d be laughed right out of the fucking airport lobby.

It used to be that if you wanted to bring a dog on the plane, you’d have to stow her in the cargo hold. Now they get to sit on your lap and bark at the squeaky wheel on the service cart. My wife can be just as annoying as that dog. She’ll even shit in the aisle if you pay her twenty bucks. She’s a hell of a gal. Your stupid dog rides for free. But my beautiful wife costs money like she’s some goddam piece of checked baggage or some shit.

I wanna fly. I really do. You can’t take those Sunset Station Casino player points with you! But I get nervous when I’m on a plane alone. And when I get nervous I breath real heavy-like. And then I clutch the armrests. Sometimes, I even close my eyes. That’s why it’s nice to have Becky there to calm me down and say “Here honey, have another drink.” If I didn’t have her there to lick my face when I’m scared, I might… be real scared. And that’s not something I should have to deal with for three to four hours of my life. I pay my taxes! Fear is not an option! I need comfort 100% of the time.

That’s why, I don’t think anything is wrong with having an emotional support dog, or horse, or turkey, or python. Whatever gets you through the hell that is sitting there, watching a movie, eating pretzels, on a plane. I just think it’s fucked up that when it comes to my emotional well being, I gotta pay a premium. I thought we were better than that.

These airlines are the true animals.

This Service Horse Rides For Free, But I Gotta Pay Full Price for My Emotional Support Wife?

Hey Wilbur.

When I read that Southwest Airlines was allowing horses on their planes as support animals, I was like “Hell yeah! Vegas, here I come!” But when I showed up with my Emotional Support Wife in tow and they were like “Where’s her ticket?” I was like “You gotta be kidding.”

Look, I don’t give a shit if you’re afraid to fly. I’m afraid to fly too. All the Budweiser in the world ain’t gonna give me sac enough to sit calmly in a hurtling death tube that sucks in air and farts out clouds at 35,000 feet all thanks to hundreds of gallons of combustible liquid yards away from my ass. I don’t know if I’m gonna land calmly at McCarran or screaming my head off slamming into the side of a mountain. Planes are scary. That’s why they serve alcohol.

I got shit that makes me worry too. What if I die?

Who’s gonna handle the bills? Who’s gonna teach my son to throw a ball? What happens if the water heater goes out? What if I die before I get a chance to clear my Google search history and my daughter finds it first? I don’t want her to remember me like that. She used to sit on my lap.

I get it. I get why we need to bring our animals on the plane. I just don’t get why this crazy bitch gets to bring her goddam horse on the plane for free, but my rock, my security blanket, my service animal – Rebecca – has to pay for a fucking ticket?

She’s got a pink vest. Just like that stupid horse. I even wrote “Do Not Touch” on it so people know the vest is legit.

I bring my Service Wife everywhere else that other service animals go and nobody bats an eye. Nobody says “no wives allowed, sir.” That would be discrimination. Discrimination against me and my mental incapacities. But for some reason these airlines think it’s like, goddam 1998 or something when it comes to Service Wives. You know, back in those intolerant days of airline travel where if you tried to bring a dog, or a horse, or a pig on a plane, you’d be laughed right out of the fucking airport lobby.

It used to be that if you wanted to bring a dog on the plane, you’d have to stow her in the cargo hold. Now they get to sit on your lap and bark at the squeaky wheel on the service cart. My wife can be just as annoying as that dog. She’ll even shit in the aisle if you pay her twenty bucks. She’s a hell of a gal. Your stupid dog rides for free. But my beautiful wife costs money like she’s some goddam piece of checked baggage or some shit.

I wanna fly. I really do. You can’t take those Sunset Station Casino player points with you! But I get nervous when I’m on a plane alone. And when I get nervous I breath real heavy-like. And then I clutch the armrests. Sometimes, I even close my eyes. That’s why it’s nice to have Becky there to calm me down and say “Here honey, have another drink.” If I didn’t have her there to lick my face when I’m scared, I might… be real scared. And that’s not something I should have to deal with for three to four hours of my life. I pay my taxes! Fear is not an option! I need comfort 100% of the time.

That’s why, I don’t think anything is wrong with having an emotional support dog, or horse, or turkey, or python. Whatever gets you through the hell that is sitting there, watching a movie, eating pretzels, on a plane. I just think it’s fucked up that when it comes to my emotional well being, I gotta pay a premium. I thought we were better than that.

These airlines are the true animals.



We Can Never Be Equals As Long As My Husband Refuses to Breastfeed

Don’t get me wrong. My husband puts in a LOT of effort. When it’s convenient to him. He’ll change diapers. Cook meals. Help with the cleaning, but for some reason, in today’s modern age, he refuses to step in and breastfeed.

I’ve read the stories. If a Bruce can become a Caitlyn seemingly overnight. Why can’t my Adam become a Melody six times a day, every four hours? Gender is fluid, but our responsibility to this child is concrete. He needs to eat. And I need to sleep.

I feel like we carry equal weight otherwise. We both bring in money. We both change diapers. We both take care of the house. But he draws the line at breastfeeding. Anytime I ask for help he gets frustrated and seethes “I can’t.”

Oh really? “Can’t?” Or “won’t?” He hasn’t even tried.

I have puffy, cauliflowered, plumes of former areolae thanks to my husband making ME the sole breastfeeder. Our little man just tears away at what used to be my fall back plan – perfect nipples. But now? I don’t know. If our idyllic life takes a turn for the worst, I guess I”ll have to drive Uber or some shit. And nobody cares what the Uber driver’s nipples look like.

His only form of compromise is to offer me a nipple guard. Really?? We might as well poison our baby with a rubber bottle nipple. Is it so wrong that I want our son to have the same bond with his dad that he has with his mom? The bond two people can only experience by sharing a common nipple? And maybe, just MAYBE, I can finish the bottle of wine some nights because my husband has stepped up and filled his half of the parenting contract?

Every two hours I am either feeding a milk vampire – who I love and would die for and means the entire world to me – or I am pumping in a broom closet somewhere at work. Just once, it would be nice to come home and see my husband with his breasts in the pump. I mean, it would probably clog the machine. He refuses to even shave his chest. Apparently chest hair is more important than solidarity with his wife.

I treasure every moment with my son. EVERY moment. Except the ones I regret having a child. Because HOLY SHIT! My nipples are shredded! I hope with every fiber of my being that my son doesn’t end up like his father – refusing to help his wife breastfeed. I hope our little Bruce becomes a Caitlyn so he can relate.

I’ve tried everything to get my husband to help split some of this responsibility. I’ve rolled my eyes at him when he’s asked how I’m feeling. I’ve woken him up for no reason when I get up at 3am to feed. I’ve yelled at him. But nothing works. I guess I just married one of those guys. His idea of pump and dump is to masturbate. 

I just want what’s best for my baby and I’ve experienced no closer bond with my baby than when I breastfeed him. I wish my husband would want to experience the same feeling. But he won’t even try! What if something happens to me??? They say in today’s modern world, a woman really can have it all, but I don’t know. Not as long as men still refuse to breastfeed.

Yours Truly,

Angry Mom