Yeah, here at the Bitchypants house, we roll deep like that. No, seriously, I never fall short of amazement at some of the things I hear in my own home. So, because I currently have nothing better to do at the moment than to slurp down yet another cup of cawfee and talk on here, I’m going to offer you a Bitchypants Family Greates Hits.

Wherein John and I learn something new:

“Dude, I wonder what the official name is of this baby corn-on-the-cob shit?”

Me, typing furiously on Google: “Ummmmm……hmmmmm. It’s real name is…….baby corn. Go figure.”

“That can’t be it!”

Me: “Dude, Google is always right.”

Wherein Evan shows us he can say words for which he most certainly know the meaning:

Mo-om! I wanna go to the Douche Festival!” To which John and I responded by giving each other that look. I immediately snatched the community calendar out of his hands to see what he was seeing.

“Oh. OMG. Evan, it doesn’t say Douche Festival. It says DCCH Festival. Don’t ever say that word again.” In the meantime, John is trying not to split a gut in the throes of his hysterics. “Evan, do you even know what “douche” means?”

“Yuh-hunh”, Evan states. “It means “stupid people.”

(Note: We have got to be sure not to call people DB’s when he is anywhere within ear shot.)

Wherein I am left forever more defending my intelligence:

During a game of Trivial Pursuit-Millenium Edition:

” Who drew record crowds to his execution for the Oklahoma City bombings?” (Or some crap like that.)

Me: “Pffft. The Oklahoma City Bombings??? Hell, I can’t even remember where those took place!”

Wherein John revealed his non-foodie, country-ass side to me:

“Mom, Andrea made this awesome dinner. It’s really a scrambled-egg pie with vegetables and cheese and stuff in it. It’s called kweeee-shay. Ever heard of it?”

Yeah, I made a broccoli and cheese quiche. God love his little redneck heart.

Wherein I reveal my city-girl persona:

(frantically coming in from outside, frightened and out of breath) “OhmyGodohmyGodOhmyGod! I swear those huge ass deer are on the front lawn and they did this hiss/growl combo at me. Do they eat people? Please tell me they don’t eat people!”

John never answered. He was too busy laughing at me, not with me.


These are just a few. If you can imagine, we spew them out by the dozen, proving that we really aren’t very smart. At all. Or that our feet have a never-ending attraction to our mouths. (What is the pural of “mouth”? Because that sure as hell doesn’t sound right.) Really, we’re just a bunch of weirdos who have somehow found each other in a sea of normalcy.




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