Welcome to the DLF Cafe

You do realize that they're walking your legs towards the Green Dragon all the time, don't you? Keep wearing those trousers and soon enough you'll be interested in nothing but beer, pipeweed, and rankings of the worst birthday gifts.
 
My trousers can't eat or drink. So they don't care where they go. Actually, they're too lazy to attempt to direct me. Where trousers are concerned, that's not a bad quality.
 
My trousers are made from plants, which have eaten and drunk the sun. Try to beat that. Birthday cake doesn't come close.
 
*glares* You need to take more responsibility for your own chest of drawers. Just saying.
 
WS needs to take more responsibility for his own everything! And I don't want to prepare any more lunchboxes for him! *throws lunchbox in the sink and rushes out of the room, crying dramatically*
 
So write a list instead of crying. You claim to like lists, so writing one will probably also improve your overall well-being.
 
I do like lists, but I also try not to do anything you tell me to...

Lists win.

10 Reasons The Emotional Strain of Preparing Lunchboxes for WS Is Getting Too Much

1. If he opens it and sees just one item he doesn't like (e.g. carrots), he will throw the whole thing on the kitchen floor and throw a tantrum, also on the kitchen floor.
2. The state of my kitchen floor
3. If I put only things in it which he likes, he would weigh 15 stone (is that a lot? I have no experience with American measures) and suffer from aggressive Diabetes.
4. Having to compete with the other kids' parents' lunchboxes all the time.
5. Not knowing if he trades the food for other things at school, such as sweets, or drugs.
6. The clip is kind of loose and I always worry everything will spill in his backpack and on those insanely expensive textbooks teaching him things he will never need in life.
7. His father has told him like a hundred anecdotes about how his own mother's lunchboxes were the best and saved people's lives, etc.
8. It's the only way I know of for communicating love to him.
9. He wanted the Disney Cars lunchbox and I put my foot down and got him a generic blue one because I wanted him to build character. I still see his tear-filled eyes looking up at me everytime I look at the lunchbox.
10. It might be a Horcrux. You never know.

... When did I become WS's mother? Well, I suppose I can't get out of it now.

BEDTIME KIDDO!
 
For the record, Americans weigh things in pounds and ounces. No stones that I know of, except the ones some of us have been throwing at the police lately....

Wait. You're WS's adopted mother? Doesn't he have to agree to this?
 
No! I adopted him. I guess if I'm fine with it and Youth Welfare Services are fine with it, who cares what WS thinks? He should be happy I'm not selling his hooves as delicacies on the black market. Though that would be great for making him behave.

MF: If you haven't checked all those tests for me by tomorrow morning, I will sell your hooves on the black market!

WS: *glances at tests* * almost faints when he sees the amount of egregious spelling errors* Both hooves?

MF: Yes both hooves!!

WS: Fine then.
 
That's definitely abuse. Pretty sure Youth Welfare Services will not be fine with it. And I highly doubt that carefully explaining to them that you could be impaling him instead, so they should be grateful, will improve their opinion of you.
 
Then I'd suggest you...








*puts on sunglasses*






hoof it out of here.

Errrm... hoof it out of here.





Get it? Hoof? It's funny, right? Right?


*crickets*


*crickets*


*crickets*


*crickets*


*crickets*


*crickets*


*more crickets*


*exceedingly more crickets*


*infinite crickets*







Does anyone appreciate me?
 
I do, yes! I didn't appreciate your long leave of absence, but there's just the twinkle of a chance you were doing something useful- No, probably not. You were probably perfecting the art of stealing Christmas decorations from the mall. Oh, Sopes. Grandma is very disappointed.
 
Pretty sure that properly bereaved grandsons don't post about their grandmother's death-by-reindeer with Mr. Green in the title line.
 
Back
Top