Jul 192013
 

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That time Henry accidently tried to order euthanasia through a window instead of lemonade.

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I think this was when Henry was looking up the number for a suicide hotline.

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Chooch, eating ice cream and not yet having his temporal lobe fisted by sun rays.

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I wanted to see what Henry saw through his glasses. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the black and white landscape of sadness factories, frowns billowing in toxic tufts from smokestacks, like I imagined it would be, so who knows why he’s always frowning.

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I made Laura “try her hand” at a fake cow udder, only to learn that she lived on a dairy farm for awhile, so take THAT, Erin R. Kelly.

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And then right after that, Chooch duped her into going on his favorite thing in all of Carnival Land—the stupid obstacle course for kids thing. Except that Laura didn’t realize it would entail crawling and climbing, culminating in an awkward slide back to adulthood.

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“Laura, what will you do now that you’ve conquered the Under the Sea Adventure?”

“I’m going to buy NEW KNEECAPS!”

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I too lug around full-sized cartons of iced coffee with me when I know I’m going to be braising beneath the sun at the county fair.

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PLEASE TELL ME HER STUPID WRISTBAND SAYS YOLO. I know, you’re right. Of course it does. She probably got it off that high school kid who fucks her for beer.

Her eyebrow piercing looked like a disgusting skin growth, btw.

Sometime during the Marvelous Mutts show (shelter dogs catching frisbees is one of the few things that will make me unironically say “AWWWWW!” along with everyone else like we’re the Full House studio audience), we realized that—holy fuck—our kid is like REALLY SUPER HOT. Henry was forcing water into Chooch’s mouth, but Chooch kept rejecting it because he enjoys being miserable and making us RUE THE DAY. By the time the show was over, he was in full-blown meltdown (almost literally, really) mode and it was, how do you say REALLY FUCKING EMBARRASSING in parent-tongue?

He hurled his water bottle for no reason, I mean fucking plow-drived that shit into the ground. And I’m pretty sure he kicked Henry at one point too, which is like the last thing you want to do to Henry when he is the only one who brought a wallet.

“He needs to eat,” I kept assuring Henry, who was hissing, “I’M TAKING THE SON OF A BITCH HOME.” I mean, yes, I wanted to throttle Chooch’s sweaty neck too, but I also DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE THE FAIR. Like, not at all!! I’m sure none of this was awkward or annoying for Laura and Mike.

I was trying to coax Chooch to pick something to eat when some girls inside one of the food trailers chimed in and took my side, which only pissed him off more. One of them even offered to let him stick his head in a bucket of ice but Chooch stomped off angrily. I kind of wanted to stick my head in the bucket, but I had to run off after my child before he Hulked out of his clothing and started smashing faces.

Hunger + Heat Stroke + 7-Year-Old Child = the perfect storm of Sybil-esque emotions. Newsflash to non-parents and new parents alike: KIDS DO NOT GIVE A SHIT WHO’S AROUND. There’s no modesty here. If they feel like cuttin’ a bitch, then bitch gon’ get cut. They don’t care if “people are looking!” In fact, most of these little assholes thrive on that! YES, WATCH US PROVE THAT OUR PARENTS HAVE NO AUTHORITY!

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About to tell you to fuck yourself in 18 different languages right before auditioning for Lead Fucker-Child in the Village of the Damned remake.

Somehow, I managed to talk Chooch into eating roasted corn on the cob, of all things. I found a table where we could sit and get pelted by blistering UV rays while Chooch gnawed angrily on his mood-stabilizing corn-rod, Laura and Mike pretended to not think they were in the presence of a royal dick-child, I tried not to cry the tears of a failing parent, and Henry wandered off to supposedly get me food but I half-expected to find our car missing from the parking lot. Meanwhile, Chooch realized how close he was sitting to me so he got up and moved to a table where he could sit alone, which, believe me, I didn’t mind. Until he turned around and started sobbing—no really, it was a full-blown, red-faced cryfest—about how I told everyone he cried on a ride two weeks prior at Canobie.

Wow. I’ll accept those Parent of the Year nominations any day now.

So, I sat there and ate my crabby patty (irony, you devil, you) (and yes, this means Henry actually came back!) while letting Chooch blow off more steam by crying about how terrible I am. Henry even begrudgingly bought him a strawberry smoothie (not out of love, but more out of hospital trip prevention) and that seemed to give him just enough sustenance to turn off the Dick Switch. Crisis (and truncated fair trip) averted! I even managed to get Henry to buy me a cute little owl purse, which means he wasn’t really as angry as he wanted everyone to believe. God, he tries to be so hardcore.

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And then the storm clouds came rolling in. Thanks, Chooch.

  2 Responses to “Big Butler Fair, Part 2: Where Psychologists Line Up To Do a Case Study on Chooch”

  1. I assumed that coffee lady’s eyebrow piercing WAS a disgusting skin growth before you even said anything.

    I just want to say I’m thankful my kid has not yet had one of these meltdowns in public. I got lucky, I think.

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