A friend of mine has a thirteen year old daughter. Given my lifestyle, line of work and zip code it’s a miracle that I know anyone who has children. Unbelievably, I do actually know half a dozen or so people who have responsibly chosen fulfill the biological imperative.

But anyway, this friend of mine, K, works as a bartender a couple of shifts a week for a little extra cash. The bar happens to be my hooch troth where I stop by to drown my post shift stress. When K finishes for the night, she usually hangs out for a drink or two before returning to domesticity.

Whenever we hang out, the conversation typically revolves around the horrors of raising a thirteen year old bitch (it’s important to note there is nothing atypical about her daughter’s behavior. She’s just a normal thirteen year old; hence a selfish ungrateful monster). I have no idea why I enjoy these conversations as much as I do. Perhaps it’s nostalgia for the days when I was a thirteen year old monster, when the police, on more than one occasion, brought me home at three in the morning on the stolen bicycle. Ah, the memories. Or maybe it’s the validation that I feel knowing I’ll never have to deal with that crap.

Last night we were hanging out and I asked her how the little bitch was.

“Oh” she said, “we had a huge fight this morning. She came downstairs wearing pants so thin, I could see her bright blue panties with white stars. I pointed them out to her, thinking I was doing her a favor and saving herself from being humiliated at school, and she got mad at me! Not even to mention she’s on her period right now. I told her that her thick canvas pants were a better choice and she blew up at me?!”

“Yeah” I said, “I’m sure she would love to know you’re talking with me about this.”

“Ha. Yeah right. Could you imagine? ‘Honey, I was talking to the guys at the bar last night, and they agreed with me. They thought the canvas slacks were the way to go too!’”

Think about it. It would be the perfect way to deal with the situation. The thirteen year olds heart would literally explode from the embarrassment, her dead face would careen right into her bowls of Wheaties, and K wouldn’t have to deal with any of the crap involved with raising a thirteen year old daughter.

Oh, dear dear K, let us both hope your daughter doesn’t read blogs.

This would be the part where K would interject “Did I mention her boobs? They’re HUGE! She certainly didn’t get those from me.”

I’ve received several inquiries about about the pile of filth that I promised to post this week as payment for donating in some way to the tsunami fund. It’s coming, I promise. Unfortunately, it will be a little late. You have to understand, this is the filthiest true story I know. I’ve been holding on to it for a couple of years for a special occasion. It’s so perfect and beautiful a story of human error and gut wrenching consequences that it would feel wrong to squander it on a sloppily written post. It needs special care and nurturing before I unfurl it on the world.