By Kristan Tate
Whose idea was it to force siblings to partially care for your offspring? Because siblings are horrible people by definition, so someone totally erred in judgement on that call. If I ever release copies of myself upon the universe, I would actively discourage any sib from taking part in the nurturing process thereof. And I had hoped they would share a similar sentiment, but, apparently, I’m the only smart one of my parents’ spawn, because everybody else in my family seems to think I’m killing it. I’m here to explain why that’s not even remotely true as evidence for committing all of my kin to mental hospitals in an effort to funnel all past proceeds of the family to my personal bank account.
Your honor, exhibit A – It was my parent’s birthday or anniversary or something (I don’t keep track of life, it’s too depressing) and apparently it was the duty of their children to give them a present. And even more apparently, our parents still don’t know what we look like, so the present idea was taking pictures of ourselves. Now, while in the presence of the fam I usually resort to the silent contemplation of things like black holes and tornadoes and such (because arithmetic is much easier than feigning interest in who’s doing the dishes tonight or who needs to write thank you cards to whom or why I should be nicer to people, etc.), I never miss an opportunity to subtly mock a family member. So when my sisters asked what I thought the theme for our picture-present should be, I readily suggested we become real-life muppets.
Let me explain. Sister 1 keeps chocolate underneath her pillow for midnight snacks, so she’s Animal. The largest body part of Sister 2 is her nose, so she’s Gonzo. Sister 3 has a giant melon for a head, so she’s Dr. Honeydew. I lost my eyes in the war and they had to be surgically replaced with that of a deer’s (which, incidentally, died in a car accident), so I’m Kermit. But that’s all good and fun because my sisters, if they ever figured out the inspiration for my muppets idea, could defend themselves with words and such. My 5-year-old niece, however, doesn’t even know how to spell the word “comedian,” so what I did to her was inexcusable. See, she REALLY likes the color pink (because she’s not actually a human being; she’s a cardboard-cutout of a 5-year-old girl), and, even more importantly, she REALLY likes bacon (more emphasis is put on “fat” than on “baby” when our family decides to gossip). So honestly, I’m asking you, who better to be Miss Piggy?
In my defense, she’s killing it.
Still not convinced? Please direct your attention to exhibit B – So… here’s the thing. I don’t like babysitting. I don’t like babies, period, but that’s a topic for another time. Right now, all you need to know is that in order to get through a babysit, a certain amount of danger needs to be involved. I’m saying it’s only natural than when you give a 16-year-old male effective custody of a 5-year-old niece for an hour or so, someone’s going to turn the Swiffers in the closet into bow-staffs and attempt to turn someone else into Hit-Girl.
Not Pictured: My Niece. Because she’s a wuss.
As you can imagine, like every time I pulled this stunt, she’d end up in tears, and I’d end up trying to decide where the training went wrong (HINT: the minute my sister decided I was fit to watch her child for any amount of time).
Now, because the comedy gods decided that three was the magic number for my article today, here’s Exhibit C – If your 5-year-old asks you where babies come from and you answer, “Ask your uncle, Kristan,” you’re a bad person. But if Uncle Kristan actually starts telling your 5-year-old the answer, especially if he does so with graphs and symbols (all of which I hope have since been burned [no I’m not going to show them because I’m not insane]), you need to question the wisdom of having a child. Clearly the climate in which you live isn’t conducive to rearing and probably even human life on the whole. Please, get out while you can.
Also please stop having children. I’m clearly not ready for them.