Reproduction = bad idea
Exhausting day at work. Long, frustrating commute home to the picket-fenced suburban domicile. The standard-issue working mom trudges in the door, slips off her Nine West mid-heeled pumps, and slumps into a celadon microsuede Pottery Barn chair with a huge, chest-heaving sigh.
The inevitable thumpita-thumpita of little feet in absurdly expensive sweatshop-made sneakers ensues.
"Mommy, Mommy! Guess what! I know what I want for my birthday, and it only costs five hunnert dollars!"
Mommy's head lolls resignedly toward the sound of her offspring's voice, one eyebrow raised in Spock-like incredulity.
"Five hundred dollars, huh? That's pretty pricey, [insert pretentious suburban child name of your choice here]. What is it that you want? And hello, by the way."
"I want the Ghostface Killah Doll, Mommy!"
Mommy sits up, face now screwed into an expression of extreme bewilderment, bordering on horror. Her child stares up at her, eyes gleaming with anticipation, mouth dangling open, not quite drooling.
"What the hell? You want me spend five hundred dollars on a Wu-Tang action figure? Is that what you're telling me?"
"WU-TANG MOMMY, WU-TANG! You can get it on the internet!" The child is jumping up and down gleefully now. "You said the h-word, Mommy."
Inside, she wonders in alarm where and when she went so profoundly wrong. How is it that her child became familiar with Wu-Tang? Her thoughts begin to drift back...back to the booze-soaked, carefree days of her single life, when the then-beloved Wu-Tang Clan provided background music for endless bar crawls and a blurry succession of one night stands...
Mommy jerks herself back to reality with a decisive shake of her dyed-blonde head.
"You know that you're turning six, right? No. Not a chance. Absolutely not."
The jumping abruptly ceases and is immediately replaced by wide-eyed lip-quivering.
"But MOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMY...I want the Ghostface Killah doll!"
"Not happening, kiddo."
"But MOMMY! The child's voice has taken on the familiar wheedling whine of attempted persuasion/coercion. "He says real cool stuff!"
Mommy pauses, momentarily gripped by morbid curiousity.
"Yeah? Like what?"
A glimmer of hope crosses the child's face. There is no hesitation.
"'Yo bitch, I fucked your friend ya you stank ho!'"
Mommy, needless to say, finds herself incapable of speech.
"Daddy already said I could have it!"
Thank you, Popbitch, both for the link, and for the added incentive to buy condoms. Lots and lots of condoms.