I declare a moratorium on Momsters. Neh, open season is a more permanent solution. You know them, those mommytards that are hopelessly delusional and seriously believe the world is revolving around them – and the rest of us are their live and too annoyed to laugh audience. They generally can be spotted in a bigger than Godzilla SUV or a gold trimmed Town & Country. Coincidentally, they can not spot you because their hair, phone, bouncing screaming evil devil spawn mini-morons and catching up on an episode of Real Housetards of Wherever have distracted them from the speeding kama-fucking-kazi traffic around them and their ability to pay attention to someone other than themselves. Uh-oh, Kittens, get ready for some serious ass hurt because I am so ready to taze a bitch next time I see her in the grocery store yapping up a shit storm and ruining my wine and cheese sampling. Or trying to go all Mad Max on my truck because she was drinking/eating/slapping a brat/updating her FaceBook while driving. There is no mercy here in WTFville for momsters. None.
They’ve been in my life in one form or another for roughly eighteen years or as long as I have been a Mommy. When The Girl was little I didn’t notice them enough to be annoyed. They blipped my radar but in an amusing- I- hope -I- never- act- like- that sort of way. Then she started to play soccer, go to gymnastics and join the softball team in high school. Oh holy hell did I ever almost lose my grip on reality. Aside from the constant competing for Queen Bee Momster status in the booster club and snack rotation, to which I loathed participating in but had to so The Girl wouldn’t get put on the fun blacklist, there is the constant bragging about their perfect kid(s), their perfect homes and Martha Stewart ninja skills. I hate to be the one to deliver this message to any current or up and coming Moms but there is no such thing as perfect. Not one kid is perfect and that’s what makes them incredibly entertaining and fun to hang around. Perfect is a lie that hangs around with Santa and the Easter Bunny… every one has heard about them yet no one has actually seen them.
By the way, stop acting like the game/play/recital is about you. It is not. It is about them trying to make you proud and no matter how horribly wrong said event goes you need to clap, cheer and tell that kid how awesome he/she is. You know what Momster? If you want some glory and a gold star, go join a whatever team for self loathing I have to relive my childhood manic pathetic women. I bet they will totally love your team snack contributions and blow the obligatory smoke up your ass. As for me, please be warned, should I ever happen to hear you berating your poor kid in public again because they didn’t score and YOU are embarrassed – be prepared to get pimp checked by yours truly. I am so going to give you a reason to have to surgically remove your puckered butthole out of your throat and your kid is going to fist bump me in gratitude. M’kay?
Lastly, I would like to ask that when you are in the grocery store please just shop. Don’t be the turd that’s clogging up the shopper rotation in the aisles. Seriously, I can not stand it when a self-absorbed momster is yammering away with her tardpack and no one (me) can’t get to the bacon. This happened to me the other day. I had my coffee, my list and I was set to shop and not be annoyed. But no, a flotella of douche canoes had dropped anchor in the lunch meat aisle. I have no idea what the bitches were talking about but they were oblivious to me and the other four (FOUR!!!) shoppers who were staring holes into their heads and trying to make them spontaneously combust. We all stood there staring at them and getting more pissed by the nano second. Eyes starting meeting and four silent “I’m too much of a pussy to say anything” were floated into the air like an obnoxious beer fart that no one wanted to claim. Fine, I will say something because it’s cold in the meat aisle and all I want is some thick cut bacon and silence.
“Sorry, we’re in your way!” Followed by giggles.
So I stare because I spoke so they would move- not stay put.
Bitches move. Like a total of five feet. Three of us get by only to be log jammed again. So I again say, “EXCUSE MEEE!”
“I guess we’re always in your way!” one replied in a fuck off we’re talking about crazy monkey sex with the gardener and this is the only time I get to brag to the Bunko Girls tone.
Um, uh oh.
“Yes, you are always in all of our way because while we are trying to shop you all are having social fucking hour in the deli aisle and seem to be oblivious that this is a public super market and not your very own rude lady private club”.
Flotilla drifts to the baby aisle, which is fine because I stay way clear of that area anyway, and we can all resume shopping without the Momster noise. No one says thank you as they quickly scatter and go to any aisle except the one I am in. Which is fantastic because all I wanted was silence to begin with. Chickens.