Mauve Squirrel Delivers Seven Forks!

It pains me to have to break it to you but honestly, my kids are SO MUCH COOLER than your kids.

..no, I don't wanna hear it. Truthfully. I don't. There is no way that your kids could possibly be cooler than my kids. It would be both retarded and terribly sad of you to try and compete by telling me sad, lame little tales of purportedly 'kewl' things your kids have done. Seriously. Unless your kid is Stephen Hawking.

...please don't tell me you actually BOUGHT that wheelchair routine.

1. My daughter has a degree. A non-traditional degree. My daughter is a fricken' STRUCTURAL ENGINEER.
A FRICKEN' one.
I must also point out that she is COOL engineer. She does NOT eat with her mouth open or pick her nose in public. Neither does she collect boogers in a pill bottle or wipe earwax in a big streak on the bathroom wall. No. She is the Dana Scully of engineers....gorgeous, bitchy, mean to parasitic aliens, and MUCH smarter than your daughter.
How cool of an engineer, you ask in a high, piping little whimper?

They used to PAY HER TO SET SHIT ON FIRE.

Now all right. Just stop. Drop what you're doing, now, and stop. Fall down on your knees and thank whatever God you own that you have LIVED TO WITNESS THE EXTRAORDINARY COOLNESS OF MY DAUGHTER.

Do they pay your sad, tepid little daughter to set shit on fire?
They do not. They pay her to sew buttholes on Care Bears.

My daughter knows how to THINK.
FURTHERMORE, my daughter knows pretty much everything about contemporary world politics. More, in fact, than Condoleeza Rice; plus she has a better jawline and would not be caught dead in no stinkin' Dior knockoff pink boucle' jacket. My daughter could kick her ass. In fact my daughter SHOULD kick her ass. My daughter, basically, could straighten the fuck out of this country, square away the national budget AND hand-sew a Log Cabin quilt at the same time.

...the Holy Infant of Prague agrees: "That SSA is A-OK!
incidentally this thing really is full of Chambourd."

In fact-and this has become a problem in recent months-Martha Stewart calls my daughter up and begs her for crafting advice.
Sometimes, Martha cries. It is tragic.

This is because my daughter has great taste. AWESOME taste. The editors of Dwell magazine duck down and hide when my daughter drives past because they know that her taste is so well respected that she could huck like half a melted vanilla ice cream cone at them or like a part of a burger with mustard hanging out and maybe a pickle? And drive away and the cops wouldn't do anything to her.
If I need a second opinion? I go to her. I say "What is this ol bullshit type of situation going on ?" and she give it to me STRAIGHT UP.

...my daughter is cooler than THIS DOG. and this dog, my friends, has an AFRO.

This is an informed woman. You want to know some stuff? Forget it. She knows it already.
Give up. Go home. Go ask your daughter 'Why can't you be more like the SSA? I am so ashamed to know you. No I will not make you a peanut butter sandwich."

You see, my daughter is not merely a gorgeous, international super-smart person, she can also COOK some food. Hell yes. She can just go in the kitchen and as soon as that stove goes on, pilots abandon DEA helicopters to parachute down and eat dinner at her house. Astronauts abandon their missions and drop out the sky for a sanwidge. All the time this happens.

Meanwhile your cut rate ol' daughter is looking at the jar of peanut butter and the table knife and back at the peanut butter and her lower lip is beginning to tremble.

Too many moving parts.


2. My son is SO MUCH COOLER than your so-called sons which are make the laughing so much my face!! HA I say toward your sons!

The dude apprenticed at Full Sail.
Please try and understand. The man is a brewmaster. He knows about HOPS. He makes beer. In fact he just whups up a batch of beer WHENEVER HE FEELS LIKE IT. Just for something to do. Good beer. Rockin' ass beer.

...this is what YOUR son drinks. they put an umbrella in it for him.

Your son cannot make beer. Your son cannot make Koolaid. He doesn't even know the words to the Koolaid song.*

My son has a degree.
My son has a degree in AGRICULTURE.
HE GARDENS FOR A LIVING.
That's right friends and neighbors. He actually scammed a paying job with benefits GROWING PLANTS.
Oh my God! How can you stand the humiliation of living on the same planet as this man, knowing that your progeny are so inferior? Here is how it is. And this will be difficult but pull on your big kid uns and deal with it, because it's like this:

He could have been paid to make beer, or paid to garden.

Please. The coolness is blinding me here. Frost is forming. This is like minus 40-below coolness here.
God it must suck to be you.

Does your son grow stuff? Pfft. Moss under his balls, maybe.

...this is what YOUR son wore last Halloween. he told people he was a radio telescope.

Yes, I'm afraid YOUR SON is a dork.
Feel my pity. *snoooork* Waves and waves of extreme pity rolling your way like the vast moon-driven breakers on a tempestuous berg-strewn arctic sea full of narwhals with big pointy things sticking up out of their heads going 'Woooooo' like they do.
Thats right.

As if this were not extreme liquid nitrogenlike coolness enow, my son was a RODEO RIDER. Mercy yes. Testify: He subdued WILD IRRITABLE ANIMALS in a WESTERN SETTING is what I am trying to convey to you here, motherfucker.
Oh yes.
Yes.
Cows FEAR MY SON.

Cows taunt your son.

Your son carries a big paper bag in his car so that whenever he has to go by some cows he can put it over his head so that he does not have to endure their cruel mockery. You ever wondered about that big paper sack he carries in his Gremlin? Now you know.

...this is the wallpaper on your sons computer. do you know why? because cows hacked your sons computer. and now he can't get it to go away.

You really have to ask yourself why you even bothered to procreate. Lotta wasted effort, wasn't it. And now you have nothing to show for it but some stained sheets, crushing debt and a broken heart.

My DNA has prevailed.
FUCK YES!
Look on my kids, ye mighty, and despair.






__________________________________
* " Oh yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah-"
...thats it. those are the lyrics. thats how the Koolaid song goes.
you see how incredibly sad and lame your son is? return him and get your money back; and if the fly problem in your home ramps back up use it to buy a frog. don't even bother to give it a name.