Is "Taco Punch" Hyphenated? Or, The One Where I'm a Bad Example

In addition to the usual Lyme issues-fatigue, memory loss, visual dysfunction (read: blurry as fuck), excessive sweating, and general fucked-up-ness-I seem to have also begun losing my ability to write as well as before.

I still have the ability to navigate the they’re/their/there issue, although I will admit I have to think about it more than usual.  But simple words are becoming difficult for me-I have a hard time with choose/chose now.  I may forget how to spell a simple word. I am becoming confused by the affect/effect conundrum.  And, I don’t even want to look this shit up, because my comprehension is going, as well.  So, no big trips to IKEA soon, for fear I will create a primitive torture device, rather than the 471-EZ-step EXCANDUT bookcase with deep espresso-mayo-taco finish. 

All this, and the minuscule filter I used to have seems to be disappearing faster than a keg of Coors at a Midwest family reunion. To top it off, it seems the screening for running a group of Girl Scouts doesn’t quite scratch the surface of personality flaws.  Not only do they encourage me to lead these girls, but these same government officials allow me to volunteer at my kids’ school, AND run a successful child care center.  The Department of Justice must not look into these matters very seriously. 

Speaking of tacos, I fear that my inability to provide a wholesome environment for children is also slipping through my fingers, much like dollar-store lube.

Da-wha-ha? You might say. 

Well, I *might* have given a frightened future Middle Schooler some less-than-stellar advice.  I know, right?  Hard to believe.

Here’s the setting:

A bunch of us bad influences were camping with a bunch of people who should have known better.  The people that should have known better brought their kids (including me, allegedly).  One of these kids may have talked about being slightly nervous about starting Middle School with a whole new group of friends.  We all tried our very best to help offering keen tidbits of advice.  We are awesome like that.  For instance:

Someone with bad judgment: Act crazy.  Talk to yourself, so no one will fuck with you.

Some other moron in the group: Stick to yourself.  Find a friend, hide in lockers if you need to.

(Possibly) me: Find the biggest ugliest bitch there, walk right up to her, and give her a giant taco punch. That way, they will know you are not to be fucked with.

She might have asked what that meant. Or, the school system in her state is better than the one in California, and she knew what a taco punch was.  Incidentally, should taco punch be hyphenated? Taco-punch.  I don’t know what the hyphenation rules are. 

Later when I got home from the trip, I had a family member call me.  This was our conversation:

Her: You are sooo bad.

Me: Yeah.

Her: Umm, my kid wants to know what a cock ring is.  Are you sure you should have her on your Facebook?

Me: No, not really.  I may need to address that, I had a similar conversation with another relative just last week. Do you want me to un-friend her?

Her: No, it’s fine; as long as the cock ring stuff is over.

Me: I can’t promise that. 

Her: …………

See?  Unfit. 

The week prior I had another relative remind me that her oldest was my friend.  I think it’s time to un-friend these fine upstanding (for now) citizens before they choose to follow in my horrifically inappropriate footsteps.

What do you think? Should I limit membership to the Awesome Aimee Fan Club to those that are already tainted by societal perversion? Or should these fine young women and men get to benefit from all my amazing years of experience.  And warnings.  And horrifyingly inappropriate stories….

Coprophiliacs of the World, Unite!

Can we finally, as a nation, come together on a controversial topic, once and for all?

Poo.  It is NOT a toy.  Despite what Mattel and Goliath will have you believe:

Doggie Doo is a game where you jam a dough-y like substance into the pooch's mouth.  At some point, it comes out the other end.  It's Hungry Hungry Hippo, for coprophiliacs*.  My question is, is the scooper the winner? Does it also sneak through the house at night, eating dirty panties? I would rather buy my daughter a drum set.

Barbie, sacred maker of all that is achievable, realistic, and not misogynistic AT ALL,  gave us Tanner the pooping dog a few years back.  You fed it suspiciously poo-like pellets, and then it shat out poo-like pellets.  Apparently, the poo-like pellets looked A LOT like chocolate Tic Tacs, because little kids across the country were eating the damned things (future coprophiliacs?) and they had magnets in them, to help them "travel through Tanner's inner workings".  Magnets = lead.  Lead is no bueno in the world of edible toys.  After all, lead paint gave us things like Vanilla Ice, The Sonny and Cher Show, and the parents of the Jersey Shore Cast.  This case?  Rested.

I'm not against poo.  I am pro-poo, I really am.  It unclogs the pipes, helps you drop a few pounds.  And if you're Sky King, it gives you a good 30-45 minutes of "Quiet Time" a few times a week.  Which I don't get, but that's another post.  What I am against, is the need to for companies to make pooing into a creative play experience. 

I'm all for pranks.  There's nothing like dropping a fake turd or vomit pile on the ground, and watching the hilarity that ensues.  But that should be the end of poo play. 

These games and toys do NOT embody the reality of poo.  Yellow dough-like goo that smells like plastic?  Not.  Brown plastic pellets that magnetically stick to the pooper scooper?  Not likely.  The reality of poo is much worse.  Much, much worse.

When your sweet little babies are first born, they expel a nasty black stickiness that attaches like tar to their babybits.  It takes remarkable violence to remove it.  And it just goes downhill from there.  Breastfed babies expel green frothy slime that can have the force of Mentos in a diet Coke.  Formula produces giant foul-smelling man-like poo. And for the next 2 and a half years, we wipe wipe wipe, several times each day.  Unless you are fortunate enough to have a child that is perpetually constipated, which will only leave them writhing in pain between bowel movements.  So in that case, you are actually PRAYING FOR SHIT TO HAPPEN. 

Which is all run-of-the-mill. 

There's babies that get into their diapers before a change, using what they find to paint the walls.  There's plenty of excrement flying in the prison system, and not just from mouths. Then, there's major Poo-Tastrophies.

Princess was involved in a Major Poo-Tastrophy.  I was involved, as well.  And it has left vivid stains on my brain.

Back in the days when Sky King was leaving us each morning to run a business and spending weekends managing a Flight School about 3 hours away, I was able to stay home with the kiddos.  Monkey Boy was working his way through a year of Kindergarten, and Princess was giving me glimpses of what I had to look forward to for years to come.  She was keeping me on my toes even at 9 months.

Being a Child Development Professional, I had everything I needed to keep my children safe, including a system of gates.  Princess was a busy busy girl, and Monkey Boy was not very diligent with keeping baby-proof.  He had Legos and action figures, teeny bits of this and that.  And babies?  Love to put shit in their mouths.  Little did I know how literal that phrase would become.

The first problem was, Monkey Boy was not a fan of flushing.  He had issues with loud sounds-helicopters, vacuums, movie theaters, toilets. The sound was loud, and he could not simultaneously hold both ears covered while engaging the flush mechanism.  So he skipped it.

Luckily, I had a gate in the bathroom doorway:

Unluckily, MB would sometimes forget to close the gate.  I would sometimes find Princess playing in the toilet.  Eeeew. 

One day, I came around the corner to find Princess in the hallway, playing with something. She had been quiet, which is Momspeak for Up-to-no-good. She was speaking Up-to-no-good fluently.  The closer I got, it looked like she had been into some candy-she was holding something, it was smeared all over the carpet and bathroom, and she had it all over her face.  Because she was eating it.

The "eating it" factor made me think it was chocolate. 

But it wasn't.  It was poo.

Which became my third call in 3 years to Poison Control, after I cleaned her, the carpet, the walls, the bathroom.  All while fighting my gag reflex.

Me: Umm, yes.  My baby girl ate some poo, and I need to know what to do.
Poison Control Dude: It's fairly common for babies to get into their diapers, there shouldn't be a concern, but you'll wa....
Me: It wasn't her poo.
PCD: What???  Who's poo was it?
Me: Her brother's.
PCD: Are they blood relatives living in the same home?
Me:.....yes.....why?
PCD: This means they likely have the same bacteria in their guts, so there is less of a chance of getting e coli.
Me:  :::alarmed:::  E coli?????
PCD:  Yes.  Just watch her for fever, or any unusual behavior.

Because eating poo?  Apparently not unusual behavior.

For the next 24 hours, she had the nastiest diapers I have ever experienced in my life.  And I have worked with children since I was 18. She pooed a total of 11 times.  Re-pooed, I should say.  And the smell may have peeled the paint off the walls.



Now, I have a great story to tell on Prom Night.  Maybe it will keep the boys from kissing her?


*Just in case my readership is not nearly as pervy as I think, Coprophilia is the scientific name for a poop fetish.  Yes, I had to Google it.