Glitter Bitches!

Glitter is evil.

A year after the wife and I moved into our first home she invited a former roommate to visit.

A day later we’re throwing a neighborhood bash in her honor. Beers are flowing. The grill is smoking with orgasmic fumes of cooked dead animal flesh.

I’m hanging out in a chair, laughing, trying to be funny, and enjoying many a beverage.

That’s when it happened.

I look up to see the wife’s former roommate standing before me, unnaturally interested in the rambling mess spewing from my distorted lips.

Then a pause.

Then, she screams “glitter bitches!!!!” as she unleashes two handfuls of glitter all over every inch of my person.

Head to toe, in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth, contaminating my beverage….everywhere….glitter.

It was absolutely brilliant. The fact she even waited more than 24 hours upon her arrival to pull this award-winning prank made it even that much more respectable.

Since then, I’ve had an undying hatred for glitter.

Almost three years later we moved after two ankle biters graced our presence. Upon opening a couple boxes we still found glitter.

Fast forward to the X-mas holidays of 2011….

I finish volunteering in the boy’s 3^rd-grade classroom holiday party and take a slow jaunt down to the daughter’s 1^st-grade class to see if the wife needs help wrangling the little bastards around Ole Saint Nick projects.

When I walk in the classroom my sights lock immediately on a gaggle of desks jammed together in a U-shape. Kids on one side. One lonely, helpless woman on the other.

And in-between…glitter hell.

The kids’ activity was to turn a cup upside down, cover it in glue, throw glitter on it, and BAM!!! an ornament guaranteed to hit every household trashcan the second it’s pulled from the book bag.

Everything around me blurred as I watched on the kid taking handfuls of glitter and dumping it on the kids head next to him. Another was putting handfuls in his pockets. Next to him a girl sneezed, wiped her hands across her face leaving a fantastic handlebar mustache of glitter.

Volunteers throughout were completely ignoring this one table, hurriedly making themselves look busy as glitter overtook the station like a sand storm.

It was absolute and total hell on earth.

Being the jackasses the wife and I are, we jumped in to help as best we could. And glitter has re-entered our lives yet again.

Bad things happen in threes, or so they say. The third time glitter overtakes my life, it better damn well be in the form of dollar bills, strippers, or Goldschlager.

Do they even make that shit anymore?

I'm Having Visions!

I got a glimpse of what life could possibly be like with kids who actually do things around the house.

I was making hamburgers for the family to shove down their throats when I thought, “I should totally ask the boy if he wants to learn how to grill.”

Seeing as every dude is born with the small molecule called “if it involves a flame and eatable flesh count me in,” I figured the boy would answer with a resounding “yes!”

“YES!!” he yelled! I was right.

As I stood there watching him flip the burgers, astonished that he’d managed to not combust into a screaming pile of flames, a small beam of hope crept through my body causing a smile to appear across my face.

Visions of me coming home from work to find the daughter folding her clean laundry as the boy puts the finishing touches on my filet mignon replaced outdated visions taking up space in my head. Visions of strippers saying “no silly, you don’t need to pay us, these dances are on the house,” left my brain to make room for my expanding perfect children scenario.

My smile got larger as I imagined sitting on my lawn chair drinking an ice cold beer as the boy mowed the lawn while the daughter watered the plants.

Next thing I knew my children were suddenly wearing delightfully clean and proper clothes. The boy in his blue trousers and sporty ironed shirt was asking, “Father? Would you like another beer?”

My overly helpful daughter clad in a stunning full-length sundress bursts from the door announcing, “no need, I have already fetched one for him. Here you are father!!”

And that’s when I notice my perfectly prim helpful children were speaking with English accents.

Blood was flowing through my body like a young teenager sneaking a peek at his mother’s friend’s cleavage.

I had convinced myself in a matter of 1.5 minutes that by simply supervising my son’s first attempt at grilling hamburgers I was altering time and setting into motion the very events that would turn my children…PERFECT!

I was a freakin’ genius and I had to tell someone immediately!!

Grabbing my beer I flew open the back door, found my loving wife, and quickly explained the awesomeness that was the perfect children formula I just created.

Her response?

“So where is your perfect son right now Mr. Genius?”

“OH SHIT! The grill!!” I screamed running to the backyard hoping I didn’t see my vision of brilliance literally going up in flames.

I didn’t.

Instead I found the boy catching fire flies while our delicious dinner transformed into hard, black, round weapons of mass destruction.

“Grayson?! What happened to dinner dude?”

The boy stopped, thought for a second, then said, “But you like to cook daddy.”

It was at that moment that I finally realized that I’m a total idiot and that I will forever be stuck serving my precious little children.

But, at least I still had my stripper vision.