An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

We Adults Are Such Assholes

I don't know if you've spent much time around children but, if you have, chances are you've lied to them. I'm also willing to bet hard-earned eyelids on the fact that you don't feel bad about it, either.

Why? Do you not have a conscience? Is your heart made of formica or polystyrene?

Probably. And, statistically speaking, you most likely have some form of herpes, too-- but that's okay. I don't mind. You're always welcomed here. You sick, sick little monkeyhumper, you.

Most people who aren't parents or teachers don't know that it's actually okay to lie to children. Well, that's a misapprehension that needs to be corrected posthaste, and, if it needs to be corrected on My Masonic Apron, then so be it.

Lying to children has many benefits, gentle readers, and it should be known that lying to children does not just benefit them, it will also enhance your life in ways you never thought possible.

The best lie you can possibly tell to a child is,

"Everything will be okay."

Now, as adults who have been face-fucked repeatedly by the angry, sweaty dick of the world, we know that this isn't true, but this knowledge should never, ever prevent us from propagating this statement to children with whom we come into contact. This lie is very handy as it is both all-encompassing and nebulous at the same time. No matter what a child is mindlessly fretting about, and endlessly prattling on about while obsessively rubbing a blankie or their own braces, you can pull out "Everything will be okay" and the child, unless undergoing deep psychoanalysis, will most likely shut the fuck up which, of course, is the desired effect.


"She budged in front of me in line."

"I'm scared of being confused for Kim Jong-Il from the back when I wear my tan Osh-Kosh overalls."

"Are you going to die, Mommy?"

"Why does that man in the overcoat stare at me while his pockets tremble?"

"What if I throw up on Grammaw's face when she kisses me?"

"What happened to my teddy's dickie-doo?"

"Does Daddy drink exclusively because of me?"

"Sometimes, when I go to the bathroom, I pretend I'm on a game-show."

The response to all of these pathetic, typical childhood whinings?

"Everything will be okay."

You must, must, must remember to use the word "okay." Because, really, what does the word "okay" mean? Not resulting in a death involving battery acid, epileptic chimpanzees and poisoned apple butter? Not spending twelve years in Catholic School? Not being breathed on by some guy named Melvin wearing a mold-colored sweater-vest? I mean, "okay" is just that-- it's okay. It's not fine, or not bad, or even "meh." It's just okay, and that's all kids need to know about the future.

And, really, it's almost not even a lie. Because, for most kids who have internet access and a debit card by the time they're sixteen, life will be okay. It won't be great, or even good, but it will be okay. Most of them will at least feel or will have gotten felt up before they get to college, most of them will also have broken a bone and/or have been called "retarded" by a peer or a teacher by that time, too, so it all balances out.

My mother always told me that everything was going to be okay. And, really, now that I'm thirty, it turns out that it was part lie, part truth. I own a house, I have a job, a wife, two dogs, a Volvo, and 182 followers, plus-or-minus. The other side of that spectrum is that I frequently experience shortness-of-breath, panic attacks, keeping up with the nosehair situation is almost like a part-time job, and sexual intercourse sometimes lasts about as long as a silent film from the early 1900s.

In short: life is, well, okay.

Another good lie to tell children is, "Wow, that's really interesting!" when they finally get done reciting some enervating anecdote to you. We all know it's bullshit-- really, what could a 10-year-old say to us that would be even mildly interesting? This is why 10-year-olds don't have blogs-- but I feel that this lie is the least you can do to reward a child for actually consescending to talk to you.

Most kids don't feel it's worth their time to communicate with anyone over the age of 22, and, by and large, they're right. I feel the same way.

Present company excluded, of course. Kisses.

An excellent and potentially life-saving lie to lay on kids is, "Those glasses look great on you!" While the aesthetic properties and proportions of children's eyewear have improved by leaps and bounds in the last thirty years, children will always look like fucking morons and social outcasts when they wear glasses. This is an unalterable fact. Nevertheless, if we do not encourage children to wear their medically-prescribed prescription eyewear, we run the risk of some hapless, farsighted child getting eviscerated while trying to feed a dog treat to a steroid-abusing Bavarian midget.

And I know you wouldn't want such devastation on that darling little conscience of yours.


  1. Now, as adults who have been face-fucked repeatedly by the angry, sweaty dick of the world...

    That's pretty much perfect. You should probably copyright that.

  2. If/When I have children, I will just have them read your blog or at the very least, give them a daily dose of your bon mots.

    That way they can be smart and already illusioned, and not have to go through the disillusioned process.

    And I'll laugh because they'll be the kids taunting the other kids about there not being a Santa Claus/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy/meaning to life.

    Will send all therapy bills your way, though.

  3. My mom used to tell me I looked "cute" in my glasses. What a bitch.

  4. i teach little kids, and i lie to them all day

    "wow! today is your aunt's birthday! that is SO cool!"

    (it's not)

    "ouchie! yes, that IS a big boo boo. It must hurt!"

    (it's a three week old scab the size of a poppy seed)

    "that was CLOSE! good job!"

    (pointed to green instead of red. it was not close)

    lying to kids is fine. they probably know we're doing it, though.

    kids are a lot smarter than grown ups, most of the time.

  5. I don't know... I have 2 and I don't lie to them. When they fall and hurt themselves, I turn to them and tell them they will be fine before they get married (no lie there.) They are 3 and 2 but I find the crazy stories they tell me interesting, because how do they actually come up with this shit. I don't lie, I killed the bug, I ate the last cupcake... I think they deal better with reality because if you make everything seem like roses than how will they deal with reality in the future.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!