“A few years ago an ex-girl of mine
Asked me to keep her name out of my rhymes
So I said this rhyme that I’m about to say
It came from the heart and it went this way:
Go to hell girl, you make me sick!
I hope your new boyfriend gets cancer in his dick
What the fuck makes you think I’d put your name on my record?
Yeah, now I feel a lot better”
–Atmosphere, “Guns and Cigarettes”
I am taking this train wreck back to the OOOOOL SKOOO today, in the spirit in which it was conceived. Two things are important to know: 1) Seattle Federline, Esq,. is engaging in unholy matrimony with his second babymama on Saturday, when he will officially become Someone Else’s Problem. Let us have a moment of silence.
Originally snapped by Squid Rosenberg. Manipplated by Indentured Servants at the Offices of I, Asshole.
Thing two you should know is: refer to title. No, it’s up there. Stop looking at my tits!
Anyway, at breakfast this morning we were all eating eggs and talking about tattoos.
“My dad has a tattoo,” Franny offered. “It’s red and blue.”
“I know,” I said, “but do you know what’s under that tattoo?”
“No. Under? Are you forrealla, Mom?”
“Hells yes, I’m forrealla.”
“What’s under it?”
“My name,” I said.
Franny actually gasped. Apparently she has no recollection of being three. I should have stopped there, but I didn’t.
“You should ask him about that when you see him tomorrow. Before the wedding.”
Perhaps you feel this should be one of those emo posts, where I reflect and lament about life’s changes. No, man. I raise a glass to the woman who MUST keep shit together over there, since I couldn’t work, clean the house, cook, and raise the babies. If her ovaries are that much bigger than mine, then I raise a glass to her. Which I will drink in my quiet house where no such unreasonable demands are made on me.
