Ode to Cartman.

Good news, nobody!  I’m back!  (Shout out to Professor Farnsworth.)

So, you know how I was talking about excuses a while back?  Okay, well, I was talking about excuses a while back, try to keep up.  No? How dare you.  Well, I’m going to keep typing anyway. Take that.

I have said that the ultimate excuse was I don’t feel like it.  And I was right it is.  But I remember that there is a phrase that is even fresher than I don’t feel like it.  Here it is:

“Screw you guys, I’m going home.” –Eric Cartman

cart

Here’s the deal with that.  At some point in all of our lives, every last one of us has wanted to go home.  Too bad for us, only in childhood has actually saying so been acceptable.  Only as a kid do you get to be so fed up that you can get up, get your crap (ball, jacks, jumprope, rocks, sticks, Idunno, depends on the tax bracket in your childhood home) and, when stuff wasn’t going down that you didn’t like, you were like, “I’m going home.” And you bounced.

At what age did this cease to be okay?  At what age do we stop feeling like it’s okay to get out of a situation we don’t like and decide to go home? No seriously, I’m asking.

For me, never. I will ALWAYS get my ball and go home.  ALWAYS.

Because.

Home is the one place where I know without a shadow of a doubt that the rules won’t change up on me.  I might not LIKE the rules, but they won’t change up on me.  Even going into the teenage years, I know who my kids are and while I might have to tweak things, I know who and what those things are.

And then there’s the “screw you guys” part.  I don’t cuss.  So that’s about as hard of language as you’re going to get out of me.  But it says everything I want to say.  Like, “I’m not about to entertain anymore of your foolishness at all whatsoever. Therefore, associates,  I’m going home.”

It helps that, despite my numerous complaints about my family on this blog, I like being at home. With those same people that I live with.  Some of whom I gave birth to. I like them, kinda.   I really do.  It’s the one place where I can be completely awful and everyone has to deal.  YES, THEY WILL DEAL.  Also, I am awful more often than not.  If someone asks me what I’ve been up to, I say, “Oh, just hanging around being awful.”  For some reason people find that funny. (I am not being funny.  I was actively being awful until I was so rudely interrupted.)

Look, I just think that more of us should feel comfortable saying that we are sick of the B.S. and we are going to home.  To people that love us.  Despite our B.S.

Also, this is for those that don’t think the police don’t be on some B.S. sometimes.  Thought I’d reiterate.

 

 

He-man in 2016. Ooooh, sounds weird.

Hey you guys!  Forgive the incoherence of this entry. But, you guys, you guys, this should be fun.  I have consumed enough champagne for this to be fun.  Why?  I’ll tell you why–and I’m pretty sure this will be a bad idea in the a.m.–because I am going to live blog He-Man.

The Big Man and I have decided to binge watch He-Man on this last night of 2015.  It just seemed appropriate.

I feel like Beastman drinks a lot of PBR.  Like, a LOT.

Does the Sorceress channel Jennifer Tilly? Or is it the  other way around?

Ram-man.  Tee-hee. Sorry, I will never be mature enough to handle that.

Why does this bird-lady have such big breasts?  And not the delicious fried kind.

All the villains on this show speak in the third person at some point. CREEEPY.  Vida doesn’t like  it.

Panthor is better than Battlecat.  There.  I said it.  We shall not speak of Cringer. I hate that cat’s guts. I KNOW it’s the same cat.  Shut up.

pan
YEEEAAHHH!!

 

He-man’s…vest, question mark?

Does that big-bo0bed bird have a navel?  Do birds have navels?  (I actually googled this.  They do not.)

No one sells He-man’s fur speedo-moccasin combo. Just that I’d menion that in case someone wants to get on it.

The Big Man just mentioned Quaaludes.  I’m….I’m not going down that road.

Ram-Man…hee-hee, again.

I might be Evil-Lyn.  Which is good, since I’ve mentioned dating Skeletor.

I don’t care for Man-at-Arms.  There, I said it.

I know Prince Adam is grown, but I feel like someone should have called CPS on Prince Adam’s parents a long time ago.  Like, they can’t even recognize their own kid in a metal vest and moccasins.  Quaaludes?

He-Man’s tan.  Orange is the new Eternia, amirite?

I just interrupted typing this to make sure my husband didn’t put Russell Brand on the TeeVee.  NO RUSSELL BRAND.  I don’t find him offensive, just unfunny.  (The Destroyer just asked, “Dad, what’s Russell Brand?  To which the Big Man replied, “Nothing you want to deal with.”)

I feel like Tila eats a lot of corn.  Without butter and salt. And not in popped form. Who does that?

I’m going to get a fur underwear-moccasin boot-combo IF IT KILLS ME.

And on that note, good night everybody and see you in 2016!  Which for me is in like, 3 hours of a champagne induced haze.  (Champagne so bad it’s actually Cham-pag-in.  Thanks, Zap Branningan.)

The Dating Game. It ain’t happening.

I usually engage in pleasantries and such at the beginning of my entries.  Not today, y’all.  Not today.

Apparently, according to the Destroyer, everyone in his grade except him is dating and our policy has made him a pariah.  (Not true, unlike his mother, the Destroyer is popular.)  I think I’ve touched on the whole middle school dating thing in the past, but I’m much too lazy to go back and look it up, much less link it here.  However, the Big Man and I have decided that no one here dates until they are sixteen. Why?  I’m glad you asked  Or didn’t.  Whatever, this is MY blog. Note: this focuses on the Destroyer because that’s who I just argued with.  I’m sure when I fight with Wondergirl  about this it will be entertainment at its finest. And you’ll get to read all about it.

1.) Responsible dating requires good decision making.  Something the Destroyer has a hard time with.  This is a boy who borrowed $190 Beats headphones from a friend and promptly got them stolen because he left them in his open backpack. Like, immediately. He just now requested that we buy him a steel door for his room.  Because we live on the Starship Enterprise.

2.) It also requires trying to keep a 14-year-old girl happy.  Never, ever, in the history of humanity, has there existed a perpetually happy 14-year-old girl.  Never. (We never think about it, but you know that at one point Michelle Obama threw herself  on her bed and cried because she was the only one who could go to a Marvin Gaye concert. YOU KNOW SHE DID.)  Listen, I was a fourteen year old girl. Which means I was the star of my own tragic soap opera. As are most 14-year-old girls.  I absolutely do not want my son to feel responsible for that. (Also, for future reference, I do not want Wondergirl to inflict that on someone’s son.  Although, to be fair, in her case it absolutely would involve bail.)

stocl
So, I know I use Storm a lot, but sometimes she has like, zero chill. 

 

3.)  This may sound a bit callous, but raising kids is an investment.  I mean, food, gas, sports equipment, and–most of all–time.  If I’m putting all that into my son, I expect to see a return on my investment.  I don’t need some girl turning his head, distracting him, and possibly ruining that.  And, I’m about to be real you guys, if some girl does, she’s going to have to pay me back. Oh, y’all think I’m playing?  I’m dead serious.  I will have my hand out and she will have to run me my coins. To the tune of $75, 000. (Figures are approximate.  But I remain dead serious.)  That’s a lot of overtime at Chick-Fil-A or wherever the kids are working these days.

I don’t know.  I know that a lot of parents feel confident in letting their kids make the choice to date in middle school.  I’m probably taking the easy way out.  Which is what I do.  See the above statement about laziness.

Kid Sensation: Living dangerously

Hey, you guys!  I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie.  The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie.  My initial reaction was, “Of course not.  You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ”  Ignorant, I know.  But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato.  Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened.  One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years.  Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie.  Conclusion:  I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie.  I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans.  I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death.  And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl.  No.  This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together.  Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time.  Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks.  Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire.  However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation.  (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents.  I’m not gonna front though.  It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl.   The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.”  But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

ddbw
All day, every day.

 

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air.  We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA:  Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad.  But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself.  He hates repeating himself even more than I do.  Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border.  Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote:  “Okay, Okay.  Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here.  When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening.  No, maddening isn’t right.  It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red.  I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE!  NOW!”  It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself  from the room.  I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony.  I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out.  Living with Grandma?  No, she lives half a mile from here.  Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever.  He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys.  But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day.  I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask.  I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

Not a whole lot going on over here.

Hey, you guys!  I missed you, did you miss me?  Awww, stop it, you’re making me blush.  Oh, I thought you were talking to me.  Well, I will just have to pretend.

Football season is done vampiring our lives. (If vampiring isn’t a word, it should be.)Now we release the Kraken: wrestling season.  I don’t know how Mama Prime does it with two of them. Maybe she’s sedated and if so, she really should share.  Hints, Mama Prime.  Hints.

Speaking of the Primes, a while ago, Omega happened to mention that he gave a kid a ticket for jaywalking while he was doing safety patrol.  We all thought that was a cute way for the school to teach kids how to safely cross the street.  Papa Prime then asks Omega, “So, what, they give you guys little papers or something to give out?”

Omega says, “Nope.  I made them myself.”

Just to be clear:  This ten-year-old kid made a bunch of tickets at home to give out while he has on a yellow vest and holding an orange flag to enforce Safety Patrol Justice.  And the offending jaywalker was in kindergarten.  Omega is out here putting the fear in these kids.  It’s about to get real in these streets crosswalks. I told Mama Prime he’s going to be the Chief of Police.  Which is good for when he marries Wondergirl. He can help her with any problems that arise.  And by “problems” I mean “remains of her enemies and people who happened to offend her”.

They're gonna be like this.  Except Storm is a villain and her hair is mad curly.  Also, the Big Man wouldn't let her wear this.
They’re gonna be like this. Except Storm is a villain and her hair is mad curly. Also, the Big Man wouldn’t let her wear this.

Oh, and we got a German Shepherd puppy.  I guess the fam felt like I needed someone to talk to during the day.  And clean up after. And boss around. Correction–someone else to clean up after and boss around.  Cause that’s my idea of a good time.  Anyway, his name is Jack and so far he’s been the easiest member of my family to housebreak.  He’s sleeping next to me right now due to his exhaustion from fighting with a pot.  It was pretty intense.

Anyway, I just wanted to chat for a sec.  Now, I’ve got to take the dog out.

Random Round-Up

He you guys!  So I was not feeling well this week.   You know, cause I sent the kids back to that petri dish they call school. Also I have been writing for other folks, and again I am too shy to share. I just straight up told Mama Prime I would direct her to my work and when I got home I cried because I don’t want her to know how awful my work really is.  Yes, I said shy.  Why are you surprised?  Oh, because I am a butthead loudmouth on here?  Yeah, well.

Anywhoo.  Pop question:  When everyone in the house is sick, who do you tend to first?  A) Your oldest, B) the middle child who never gets enough attention, or C) the baby because he’s the baby?  Haha, trick question—the answer is D) the Big Man.  Because he is pathetic.  Or pitiful.  I can’t decide. Pathetiful? Yes.  YES.  No one copyright this until I feel like it.

Now.  To my random thoughts.

I told the Destroyer that if he goes to a school dance, and a girl he’s dancing with dances anything like I do, he should call me immediately and get away from her as fast as he can.  If a girl can booty roll and shake the way I could (and, *ahem* still can) I don’t want him anywhere NEAR her.  #parentalhypocrisy

I finally gave away my hope jeans.  You know those jeans you hold onto hoping you’ll lose weight back into them?  Yeah, well I lost hope.  Also, they are now out of style. I wish you well in your Goodwill endeavors, hope jeans.

The Destroyer, my son, who came from my own body, didn’t know how to spell Vegeta.  Or Super Saiyan.  I have failed him spectacularly. Don’t call CPS.

Yeah, Vegeta. That's how I felt, too.
Yeah, Vegeta. That’s how I felt, too.

Remember how I said Skeletor was undateable?  Well, I follow him on Twitter and he seems cool.  Danzing  is still undateable, though.

My grandma’s in town!  This is awesome because she’s awesome.

I live in Vancouver, Washington.  I thought it was cloudy today, but I think I’m wrong.  I think it may be the haze of smug coming across the river from Portland.  Yes, smug.

I was late taking Kid Sensation to school the other day.  He was up in his room playing so quietly I forgot he was there.  You guys, he was being so nice and quiet that I was validated as a parent.  I mean, if I can forget you exist, you’re a pretty good kid, right? Please don’t call CPS.

I want to have a cooking show.  But I can’t because I wouldn’t know how to cook without being interrupted. Or having to break up a fight. Or getting into a fight.  Or putting out a small fire.

On second thought, my cooking show might be pretty good.  Will you guys watch it?

SHALLOW. Like son like mother.

Again, I admit I’m a terrible person.  It’s kind of my running theme.  And I’m passing it on to the next generation.  Thank me later.

So I was talking to The Destroyer about a girl he likes.  Liked.  Here’s the deal:  I try to instill in my children that looks aren’t everything.  I try to tell them that what makes a person special is on the inside.  Stay with me here.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hey, whatever happened to ____?”  (At this stage, I’m not trying to remember their names.)

He shrugs.  “She’s not my type.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug.  So, I think, she’s tore up.

“Destroyer, everything can’t be looks.  I mean, is she smart? Funny? Interesting?”

“She’s smart.  I just don’t like her, mom.  Leave it alone.” I wasn’t about to leave it alone.  Me?  Nerd extraordinaire? Raise a shallow kid?  Not gonna happen.  If he can’t see inner beauty, then he’s the same as all those shallow jerks that I went to school with.  You know, the ones who couldn’t see my inner beauty.

“Listen, there’s a such thing as inner beauty.  I mean—wait.  Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.  Oh, my. WOOF. Jaysus. My goodness, Destroyer. Did—did you know what she looked like?”

“I was trying to tell you.”

“Okay.  Duck.  I’ll peel outta here before she knows you’re here.”

Don’t get mad, you guys.  I really do want my son to be with a woman of substance.  I just don’t want her to be tore-up ugly.  And I don’t mean like a big nose or overweight or a limp.  I mean looking like a Garbage Pail Kid.

Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee
Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee

And I know there are parents out there who wouldn’t want their son- or daughter-in-law to be fat like me.  I’ve decided not to be mad about that.  (Especially since I know that my mother-in-law wanted her son to marry a pretty, petite, blonde.  Which is the polar opposite of me and I decided not to be mad about that.  Especially since I make the Big Man very happy. Also, I’m sexy-fat.  So there’s that.)

The thing is, men get to be shallow about ALL KINDS OF THINGS. Like if a woman has hammer toes.  So, I feel like I get to be shallow about some things.  And this is one of them.  I get to think that my smart, beautiful son is out of a particular girl’s league.

I happened to marry an attractive man.  And I know that they’re my kids, but my kids are pretty darn good looking.  And I would like to have good looking grandchildren.

I don’t worry about this too much with Wondergirl.  She already has criteria in place for the man she wants to meet in 2026.  (That’s the year she has projected, not me.) She actually said, “He has to be reasonably handsome.  Not way fine, cause I’m not trying to fight over him. ” (This is a lie.  She wants any excuse to fight.) “And rich,” she added. “He has to be rich.”  Of course he does.  How else would she fund her world-dictatorship campaign? (Omega Prime, I’m looking at you, kid.)

Look, I guess it boils down to this:  If a dad can tell his son to date hot chicks, so can a mom.  Also, I hope that she’s kinda dumb. That way, I can trick her into telling the truth about what her and my son have been up to.

Oh, and then, THEN, another girl had the nerve to tell the Destroyer that she didn’t want to talk to him because some kids said that his mother is crazy.  WHAT?!?  Only SOME kids think I’m crazy?  Well, I must be losing my touch.

These are My Confessions. Better than Usher’s.

Hey, y’all!  It has been a rough week, what with the first day of school and all.  Trying to get these people together so they can get and education and get up out my house is rough, is what I’m saying.

Anyhoo, LeFou, I’m afraid I’ve been thinking (a dangerous pastime, I know).  I am always sharing my random thoughts with you guys, but ever the crazy stuff I think about on a regular basis. So here are my confessions:

  1. Wondergirl is in middle school. MIDDLE SCHOOL, you guys. So I cried when I dropped her off on the first day. I dropped the Destroyer off at the same time, but whatever.
  2. I read the Huffington Post unironically. I am ashamed.
  3. I used to laugh at my mother and now I am her. Kind of. Again, her house is clean.
  4. I don’t like babies in general. There, I said it.
  5. I secretly wish I could do the splits. I will never do anything to achieve this goal, though. I just wish there was some miracle do-the-splits cream. But I guess that would have to come after the miracle lose-75-pounds cream. Somebody get on this.
  6. I think the Beygency is real. And out to get me. (It is real. It’s called the Beyhive and one time I said I thought Beyonce was dumb. Long story short, Beyoncé slander should be one of the reasons to go into witness protection.)
  7. I got yelled at one time for referring to Bridget Moynahan as Tome Brady’s baby mama. Instead of saying “his son’s mother”. Apparently I was being disrespectful to someone who bores the mess out of me on three different channels in syndication. As if once a week isn’t enough. I get mad about it to this day. And she is his baby mama.
  8. I get angry because I’m not Serena Williams. I also get angry because I’m not Venus. Or active.
  9. I often think to myself, “If I were 5’7”, none of this would have happened.”
  10. My husband’s never seen the original Star Wars trilogy. I am ashamed.
  11. I think Ina Garten is trying to make me look bad. No one else. Just me.
  12. So, the Destroyer went to the Prime house for a sleepover with Optimus. I fear that he got a taste of real mothering and is way disappointed in the mom-hand he was dealt. Of course he won’t tell me. But I still suspect. Not that this is an incentive for me to be a better mom in any way. Like I said, the hand he was dealt
  13. I broke every light in my parent’s house trying to kill flies. True story. ( I HATE flies.) I regret nothing.

    Killin em softly. With shattering glass.
    Killin em softly. With shattering glass.
  14. Sometimes I make Kid Sensation look at me just because he has such pretty eyes. They look a little like anime.
  15. Rocky V is on my TV right now. And I’m kinda watching it. I am ashamed. It is so terrible I think I just got botulism.
  16. The first two seasons of Spongebob Squarepants changed my life.
  17. The Big Man is capable of farts that wake me up out of REM sleep. Okay, so I guess that might be his secret, but I needed to tell someone.
  18. I wear five-inch heels on a regular basis. And I walk extremely well in them. And then I am a cripple for like, three hours after I take them off.
  19. I refuse, you hear me, REFUSE to stop wearing five-inch heels.
  20. You guys, this Rocky movie is soooooo bad. And I’m still watching it. I’m sure the rap in it caused radiation poisoning. Even I remember jamming to at least one of the songs when I was a kid.

I may have more confessions.  Can’t think of any right now, but you KNOW I’ll share when I do.  Too bad for you.

Finally…Omega Prime!

Hey y’all.  So it’s WELL into 2015 and I’m just now getting around to Omega Prime.  Recently, I’ve been seeing a lot of the Prime Family (good times).  Optimus comes over to train for football with The Destroyer, so I get to hang with Mama Prime and Omega.

This kid.  I’m pretty sure he’s like, thirty, but his body still thinks he’s nine.  He is so much his own person it’s frightening.  And I know it’s frightening because I have one of those and she terrifies me.   Because, seriously, what can you do with a kid you can’t brainwash into being the perfect human being you could never be?  Oh well, guess that’s why you have extras.  (Looking at you, Kid Sensation.)

Real talk, Omega Prime makes my day on a regular basis.  He always, ALWAYS checks out the oldest and most obscure books in the library.  Books that say stuff like, “One day people will even have computers in their homes,” and “Negro running back and hero O.J. Simpson”.  And he thoroughly enjoys them without giving one fig what anyone thinks.

He brought this toy out in public:

INAPPROPRIATE.
INAPPROPRIATE.

The other day I asked him if he’s gotten his stuff for school yet.  Now, most kids I know would give me a “not yet” or a “ My mom said we’re going this weekend.” Omega Prime looks me dead in the eye—while sitting right next to his mother, mind you—and says, “Nope.  Nothin’.”  And that was it. End of sentence, end of explanation. Like, “Nope.  My parents obviously don’t care about my education OR the state of my clothing and quite frankly it was a bit classless of you to bring it up.”  Welp, put me in my place, didn’t he? (Also, I happen to know the Primes care quite a bit about education.  Mama Prime is a teacher, for goodness’ sake.  She educates other people’s kids.  On purpose. And her kids don’t look like they wandered in from a hobo camp.  Again, looking at you, Kid Sensation.)

I’m pretty sure Omega’s mission in life is to make sure Optimus knows exactly what he thinks of everything he does and says.  While I know he looks up to his big brother, I have to admit: I’ve never seen anyone shake their head at one person so much.

He knows how to raise his eyebrows with impeccable comedic timing, like a freaking Marx brother.  And I doubt he even knows he’s doing it.

He said, and I quote, “They hate us cause they ain’t us.”  And meant it.

So, I’ve done what any parent would do.  I’ve conspired with Mama Prime to have Omega  marry Wondergirl.  That way I’ll have in-laws I like, gorgeous grandchildren, and get to benefit from their complete world domination.  I fully expect them to send their respective mothers on luxury cruises wearing lots of diamonds.  It’s the least they could do.

Undateable. No, not me. I’m pretty great.

Hey folks!  Not much going on here, which is why I jump on the interwebs to look at other people’s lives and judge them.  (Don’t judge me.)  I had a single friend over, and we talked about those people, but we talked about ourselves, as well.  She made me very glad I will never have to date again.  “But Vida,” you ask, “What if something happens to the Big Man?”  Nope.  Not even then.  I am never letting anyone else do this love thing to me again.  Never.

Since I never have to date again, I get to make fun of the whole scene.  Aw, come on.  It’ll be fun.  It’s a list of guys I would never date. FUN, I said.

Skeletor:  One thing Skeletor’s got in his favor is that he’s pretty ripped for a skeleton.  Seriously, check out the quads on this guy.  Also, he’s a homeowner and I like his house.  And even though I’m not really a cat person, I feel like Panthor and I would get along okay. He also has this wicked bad chair made of bones and such.  Which goes perfectly with the theme in my house of whatever-the-Destroyer-hasn’t wrecked-yet chic.

I don’t think that I would like his friends though, Beastman looks like he smells and sheds and I’m pretty sure Evil-Lyn would always be trying to break us up.  Then there’s his obsession with ruling Eternia which means we’d always be dealing with He-Man, who’s smug and insufferable and makes his cat wear a helmet.  Oh, and he has no face, soooo…no kissing.  Deal-breaker.

I could work with this.
I could work with this.

Danzig:  Welp, he’s famous.  He can sing.  Everyone in America and probably Mexico knows the words to “Mother”. (Probably through karaoke, but still.)  Maybe Canada, too, but I doubt it.  He can get into a confrontation for you pretty much anywhere and he’ll totally win.  Or get knocked out.  Oh, and Misfits T-shirts are cool.  Best of all, he was on Aqua Teen Hunger Force as himself.

But his name’s Glenn.  GLENN.  Name the last Glenn you liked.  Or who wasn’t an undercover, if not overt, douchebag.  I’ll wait.  Nope, time’s up and you couldn’t think of one.  Also, who gets punched in the face and tells people they “allowed” said puncher to do the punching?  Someone named Glenn, that’s who.  Guaranteed, if you went on a date with Danzig and then you decided it didn’t work, he’d tell everyone he “allowed” you to say he was a tool.  And who does that? And why, for the love of Batman, won’t he get a haircut and stop dying it Sharpie black?

Wolverine:  He’s good looking.  He’s got great hair.  He has superhuman healing abilities so then only I would have to have health insurance. Since I’m not a mutant, I’m not sure if we could both live at the Xavier Institute, but if we could that would be awesome.

Especially considering that, X-Men stuff aside, I’m pretty sure Wolverine is perpetually unemployed. I know he was a lumberjack in the movie, but that doesn’t count.  Also, he has anger issues that directly correspond with adamantium claws appearing from his knuckles.  That concerns me.  Oh, and he’s like one inch taller than I am, and I am extremely heightist.  And he’s Canadian, so he doesn’tknow the words to “Mother”.

Who did I leave out?  Don’t say Prince.