How the hell did I not know about this?

This appeared on the sidebar of a web page I was on:


I don't know what bothers me more:

That (a) the abuse is so bad that there is a need for this ad, or (b) that there is an entire culture of dancing bears I knew nothing about.

Great. Now I want to see a dancing bear.

I don't think this ad worked AT ALL.

THE THINGY

My daughter got her thingy.

*blank stares*

You know.

Her THINGY.

*blinks and some shoulder shrugs*

UGH.

Her THINGY. THE thingy.

WTF people, do I have to spell it out for you?

The thingy that girls get and it comes once a month…you know…from her toolie.

*aaah*

Yes.

THAT thingy.

*gags


I should probably note at this point that to this day that I have never referred to my kids’ private parts as their actual clinical names and I swear until the day I die my daughter’s V will be called a ‘toolie’ and my son’s P will be called his ‘wiggly’ and that thing that girls get once a month is called a ‘thingy’ as in, “Oh. Did you get your thingy? Dude. Gross.”

I almost feel bad for when they get older and my son’s dirty talk consists of stuff like, “mmm…baby…do you want me to put my wiggly in your toolie?” At which point the poor girl - frozen in fear - just, you know, RUNS.

But if I don’t maintain this semblance of innocence I feel I will die inside so bear with me.


Regardless, I got a wonderful text from my ex-wife one day that simply said:

Ex: “Payt got it.”

Wait. Did I miss something? Was she up for the main part in a play? Was there some trip to the store for some out of stock item that she’d been wanting for a while but I neglected to pay attention because, HELLO, she’s a girl and guys don’t pay attention to girls ESPECIALLY their daughters because girls are incredibly annoying.

?

I had no idea what my ex-wife was talking about.

Me: “Got what.”

Ex: “It.”

Oh.

IT.

THAT it.

Her….

THINGY.

My face went pale. I felt myself getting woozy, my legs getting weak… this couldn't possibly be happening.


Me: “GAH.”

Ex: “You’re going to need to get her supplies for your house.”

SUPPLIES?!

This is now quickly becoming the worst day in history but instead of having a “Never Forget” bumper sticker for it, this one would say “OMG IS THERE ANY WAY TO GET A LOBOTOMY AROUND HERE?!”

Supplies. Like this is some kind of sick art project or that we’re gathering foodstuffs for going hiking on the worst. Trail. Ever.

But I know what ‘supplies’ means:

Pads and vajayjay torpedoes.


Me: “OMG can you just get them? Please? I beg you.”

Ex: “Just go and get some pads. She doesn't need tampons yet. I got her some pads called “Tweens.” That’s all she needs right now.”

*aneurism

Me: “I want to die. Pads? Tweens? Is that a make or model?”

Ex: “Just get some regular ones and some overnight ones.”

THEY MAKE DIFFERENT KINDS DEPENDING ON THE TIME OF DAY?!?!

Me: “OMG…seriously…ARE THERE SIZES?!”

I assumed there are sizes for these things because a tween toolie can’t be the same size as, say, Oprah’s toolie so there HAS to be some difference in these things. I’ve seen a ton of porn and some of these HAVE to be larger than others, right?

Do you get sized for these things? Is there one of those foot-measuring things hanging around in the feminine hygiene aisle except, you know, that measures your V?

*head explodes


Shortly after waking up from this nightmare I realized that it wasn’t actually a nightmare and found myself wandering into Target alone and afraid and confused because I think my ex-wife was pretty much enjoying the fact that I was losing my shit.

It was on or around this time that I ventured down the main aisle. Passing the kids clothing…the greeting cards…the movies…

..my pace slowed. My subconscious mind was kicking in that no man should ever have to do this. I mean, there was that one time I think I had to run and get ‘supplies’ for my ex-wife but I was younger and foolish and IT WASN’T FOR MY DAUGHTER.

Maybe I’ll just go look at the televisions and NO! NO ROD! STAY THE COURSE! Your little girl depends on you!


I turned into THE AISLE.

There I stood. At 5’4” tall I stood between two 7’ high walls of big, poofy packages and multi-colored boxes. I was overwhelmed, like a kid who just had 3 Hershey bars walking into a Chuck E. Cheese for the first time.

SO MUCH. JUST…So. Much.


My eyes scanned for, what did she say? I checked back through my texts - a lot of which were from my ex at the end saying “Hello? Are you there?” because I had apparently been in a catatonic state for 12 hours.

“Tweens.”

My eyes quickly scanned. Tweens…Tweens…Tweens..OMFG I CANNOT FIND ‘TWEENS’ pads and will SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?!

A woman walks into the aisle and I glance at her with a ‘help me’ puppy-dog stare but, seriously, what am I going to ask her? “Hi..my little girl got her..you know..and I need to get her these things..I guess..and will you do me a favor (*hands her my car key*) and just slice my jugular open with this? Thanks.”

At this point I felt like James Franco in “127 Hours” where I’m stuck under that boulder and know deep down that I’m really on my own here and NO ONE is helping me find “Tweens” maxi-pads for my daughter’s thingy and I would seriously consider cutting my arm off at this point if God would just make her thingy hold off for another, like, 7 years or something when she can shop for this shit herself.


That’s when I spot the “Tweens.”

The LAST BOX of “Tweens.”

I quickly grab the last box of "Tweens" like I’m Gollum grabbing that damn ring and actually really wish it was that ring because I would totally put it on and become invisible right now.


Tweens down, I look for the ‘overnights.’ Sadly, only 2 makes of these things appear to be ‘overnight pads’ and based on the size of the soft packaging they are actually made for use on the overnight periods of African Elephants. I’m guessing these things inside the package are about a foot long and could probably be used as floatation devices in some emergency situations.

I spin around and stare at the opposite wall. SO MANY PADS. Nope..no overnights over there. Wait..wings? Do I get wings?!

Me: “Okay. One box of Tweens. The overnights though. They look huge. Wings? Do I get wings?!”

Ex: “No. No wings.”

I look again and the only overnights they have have wings. I jumped the gun on the ‘wings’ question. Awfuck. Now what. Ex said ‘no wings’ but all the overnights are winged. I feel like I’m shopping for a parrot. Well, shit. She’s gonna have to get wings. I wish I had wings because I’d fly right the Hell out of here. I’m beginning to get dizzy. This is probably because I’ve now been standing in this aisle for 3 hours and am in need of sustenance.

I grab a package of overnights, tuck it under my arm with the Tweens, grab a Harley Davidson magazine just to even everything out and head to the checkout.

DONE.

I went home, cleared out a drawer in the bathroom, put all my girl’s “supplies” in it, closed it and ran away to the other end of the house.

Then I read my Harley magazine and found a new seat that I wanted for my bike because the padding on mine is a little thin.

Padding.

Pad.

Ugh.

I wish I had 2 boys.

Wrapping Up the Week - January 22, 2012

Just in case you missed another fun-filled week on Mental Poo...
My Posts from this Week:

Some insight on what you have to deal with if you're my girlfriend.

She accepts condolence letters, FYI.

Dear guy on Facebook: umm...WHAT?

************************

Moments in MENTAL POO History:


************************

A year ago this week on 'Mental Poo':


You know what I found making this post? It's impossible to make Mario Lopez ugly.

Trust me. I TRIED.

And then I was sick so I went to Google and, well, that was a mistake.

..and then I played "Blokus."

Kind of.

************************

Two Years Ago this week on Mental Poo':


Then I drew some 'Family Circus' cartoons for you. NSFW..probably.

Then I made a video about what it must be like to be Jesus and hearing people curse your name all the time.

So going to Hell.

************************

Three Years Ago this week on 'Mental Poo


A kind of PSA announcement about Internet privacy and what happens if you have a password based on an adult sex item.

The more you know.

Ugh. The day I had to go COMMANDO.

*********************
Four Years Ago this week on Mental Poo


This is about the day I had to drop off my post-vasectomy sperm sample.

Good times. Good times.

*********************

Some funny stuff that's not mine that I read this week:

Short..and sweet...and one effing funny picture.

************************
There you go, folks.

Some new shit, some old shit.

That should keep you busy.

See you on Monday.

Moog out.

***********************

Little Debbie Wants My Ding Don

Please note that I wrote this post before my friend, Kristin, got shitcanned here at work.

Carry on.


My friend, Kristin, and I have too much time on our hands.

Well...I also have a little bit of toilet paper stuck there...but that's because of my chronic masturbation.

Yet another episode of "Sick Instant Messages with Kristin and Rod."

Enjoy.

*******************
midgetmanofsteel: I wanna go home.

Kristin: i think i'm going to leave early

midgetmanofsteel: I need to start really playing Lotto..this working shit is for the birds.

Kristin: no shit. i hate it

midgetmanofsteel: not that I'm actually working or anything...every so often...like, once every three hours..I might do something.

midgetmanofsteel: other than that...it's pretty much just drinking coffee and going to the bathroom.

midgetmanofsteel: I may send you a picture message next time I'm in there.

Kristin: that's cool. i got really lazy here lately.

****************

(editor's note: I just noticed she wrote 'that's cool' after I told her I'd send her a picture of my stool. WTF?!)

****************

Kristin: i lost motivation

midgetmanofsteel: maybe you can look for motivation under my desk.

*****************

(editor's note: To my girlfriend: Honey...that's just a joke)

(editor's second note: Kristin, ignore 'just a joke' note above..I'm dead serious)


*****************

Kristin: i don't know if you noticed but some of the people in charge are like ding dongs

midgetmanofsteel: ding dongs? they're round and chocolaty with a cream filling?

Kristin: not that good


midgetmanofsteel: you said ding dongs

midgetmanofsteel: personally, I'd prefer a ding dong over a twinkie

OMG OMG OMG I FUCKING HATE TWINKIES

Sorry. Tangent.

Kristin: not ring dings

midgetmanofsteel: wtf is a ding dong, then?

midgetmanofsteel: are ding dongs the things that look like small black penises?

Kristin: devil dogs

Kristin: those are the penis shaped ones


midgetmanofsteel: no...not what I'm thinking...

Kristin: funny bones

midgetmanofsteel: I know what a devil dog is...remember...I was a giant fat shit of a kid.

midgetmanofsteel: you're screwing me up now


Kristin: oh...do you remember star crunches?

midgetmanofsteel: little debbie

Kristin: y

midgetmanofsteel: she wanted my fat ass.

Kristin: i loved her

midgetmanofsteel: you were all lesbo for little debbie?

Kristin: no. i just liked her shit.

midgetmanofsteel: dude. that's even worse

midgetmanofsteel: two girls, one cup..cake.

Kristin: lol


Kristin: her food

midgetmanofsteel: HO HO's

midgetmanofsteel: what about these?

Kristin: oh yeah..those are good

midgetmanofsteel: actually..they look more like turds than black penises


Kristin: what about the choc covered wafer things

Kristin: i can't remember what those were called

midgetmanofsteel: not sure...I think they were called, 'choco wafer things'

Kristin: ah...they were called "wafers"

midgetmanofsteel: wow...creative

Kristin: did you know the little debbie twinkie was called a "golden creme"

midgetmanofsteel: sounds hot.

Kristin: i thought so

Kristin: if you squeeze it hard enough the cream will shoot out

midgetmanofsteel: Hey, Little Debbie...want my golden cream?

midgetmanofsteel: it's gold because I have an infection.

****************

Um...

I don't really have an infection.

Ding dong.

Ricky Ricardo Must Move Up the Gal Flex. ZEET!

If you follow me on Twitter, you might have seen this:



A lot of my friends on Facebook are you, my loyal readers who are also sprinkled in with a few actual friends and maybe one or two people I owe money to who keep hacking my damn account.

I accept PayPal, in case you're interested in donating.

One day I got a message from someone on Facebook.

I have no idea who this person is - I assumed a fan/reader/stalker but the message was..

THIS:


Um.

Okay.

So I responded. And thus began our long history of what-is-going-on-here-because-I-have-no-clue where messages would just appear randomly and, obviously, typed by a monkey:





Seriously, Ricardo, if my penis DID reach back that far I'd be home zeeting right now.

I probably would have zooted, like, twice yesterday alone.

Cuz I'm a gwaan bad man. Obviously.