RAGING

Sometimes I have to hunt high and low for a blog to review, and other times they are thrust into my face by the course of time and fate. Rarely, very rarely, I get a special kind of blog. It is as if the blog is tasked to me by some far off nameless god of fire and fury.
This is one such blog.
THE MEANEST MOM IN THE WORLD IS THE BIGGEST CUNT IN THE WORLD HOLY SHIT.
One look at what she chose to name her misbegotten spawn should tell you eeeeeeexactly what her story is. Camber? You named your fucking daughter Camber? Camber, your new name is... Kimberly.
Kellen, congratulations, you are now Kevin.
Cortlen you-- actually I can't tell if you're a boy or a girl. You must be a boy, actually. Right. So your new name is... Christopher.
And last, but not least, baby Cameron. Let's see, your new name is Ken. Not Kenny, not Kenneth, Ken.
There now that I've settled that little hiccup, time to review the actual contents of this monstrosity.
Skipping the first entry because it's boring as fuck and not nearly douchey enough. She was having an off day.

My kids got a huge kick out of seeing themselves on t.v. Seeing myself on t.v., however, was just plain weird. Much more comfortable with my Chaucer books I am.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention she has her PhD in Medieval literature from fucking Duke.
Medieval literature? Could you possibly major in anything so useless? Hey, specialize until your major is rendered meaningless, why don't you?

When you publish something on an open domain such as the Internet, you have to accept that some people aren't going to like what you put out there.

While I certainly don't like what you publish, what I specifically don't like is you. That's right, I don't like you.

Where, for example, would I put a 500-word manifesto?

Up your ass, cunt.

Thanx for understanding! You're the bestest!

Holy shit I can feel the blood coursing in my eyes.

My kids LOVE to say "bad" words...without really saying them.

What would you define as a bad word, reader? Personally I would teach my kids that no word is bad as long as you know when and how to use it correctly. For instance, you have manners around mixed company, but around me you can say whatever you think, because after all, is that not how you raise a healthy, inquisitive mind?

"We don't say 'jerk' around here...right?" asked Kellen on the way to Wal-Mart.
I confirmed for the tenth time in two hours that 'jerk' was on our no-no list.

JERK? YOU DON'T LET YOUR FUCKING KIDS SAY "JERK"?
Listen, lady, how would you define, say, me to your kids? "That not very nice man"?

"'Stupid' is also not a nice thing to call someone," added Cortlen.

Some people deserve it, Christopher.

I reminded them that anyone who said any of these things "for real" would earn a free meal at Taco Tim's, an in-house chili pepper bar.

Just thinking about the jar of jalapeños in the refrigerator caused Cortlen to claw at his tongue.

You put pepper on your kids' tongues when they say finger quotes "bad words"?
As I understand it, in civilized, enlightened societies parents might calmly explain to their children why what they did is wrong, them emphatically tell them why it is important not to call someone a fucking retard, but I guess burning them with hot spices is also acceptable.
In a baroque kind of way, of course.

"I am definitely never going to call you a poop face," he said in my direction.

Ha, ha, ha that kid destroyed you in his own little way. High five to Christopher.

Yesterday, I shattered my childrens' lives when I explained why, in the behind-the-scenes video clips from High School Musical, the movie director kept calling Troy Bolton by the strange name of Zac.

Hopefully this conversation went something like "why the fuck are we watching High School Fagical, let us watch Transformers instead."

"His name is TROY BOLTON!" screamed Cortlen at the television set.

After cast members misidentified Troy a few more times, Cortlen unsheathed his plastic He-Man sword. Sensing that my television was about to be stabbed, I turned off the DVD.

Christopher feels the fury of Ares deep in his chest, sort of like I do. Of all her broods, Christopher shows the most promise.

"Transformers are just pretend," I said.

I hoped for a flash of understanding; what I got instead was a stunned look of collective disbelief.

"Transformers are too real!" three kids yelled.

That's right, you show that bint. Don't let her ruin what little fun you have remaining in your lives. Just because it is not literally real does not mean it is not metaphysically real.

We are against stealing at our house. Thanks to a cartoon 10 Commandments DVD, we know that God and the ancient Israelites are against it too.

Oh well if God and the ancient Israelites, those beacons of enlightened thought, were against it, then I better fucking be against it too.

While we all understand (at least we do now) that stuffing a die cast Lightening McQueen car up one's shirt and walking out of Toys 'R Us with it is wrong, we're still working on not filling our water cups with soda at Burger King.

Might ye mean "Lightning McQueen" car, Captain Phonics? That's okay, you are a doctor (as in sentence doctor, not a real medical doctor) in Medieval literature, which was before standardized spelling, so you might be forgiven.

"I couldn't find the water spout, so I filled up my cup with Coke instead," explained Kellen.

We gotta pay for that shit, bro.

When Camber returned to the table, her cup was covered with a lid.
"I got water," she said as she took a big sip. Orange liquid filled the straw.

Don't fucking lie to me, Kimberly.

At least Cortlen was honest.

"I didn't want water, so I got Sprite," he said.

I still chuckle whenever I see the name "Cortlen".

You would have thought I was a suspect on America's Most Wanted the way that my kids looked at me when I ordered them to pour their stolen beverages down the drain.

"We just stole a little bit," whined Camber as she slouched to the drink dispenser and poured out her cup, which was mostly ice.

When something as simple as a soda becomes a conflict with your kids, it says to me maybe you're not being a very empathetic parent. When I, person who makes sport out of being ruthelessly cruel to others on the internet, says you might have an empathy problem, you are, in a word, FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED. Also what would disturb me more than the stealing, which really to be fair they might not fully appreciate as stealing ("couldn't find water so we grabbed soda" might make sense when you're six) it's the lying.

Lying, to me, says these children are not comfortable with telling you the truth, because you're such a standoffish cunt.

At Costco the other day, you would have thought I was Ma Duggar by the way that people looked at me and my brood.

Even she calls it a brood. Lady, you fucked up. Time to stop blogging about it and act.

"You sure have your hands full."
My cup indeed runneth over.

To go back to my reference to Ares, if the Bible had been written about Ares that line would have been something like "My cup runneth over... WITH THE BLOOD OF MINE ENEMIES." Ares kicks ass.

I flashed the man a sultry grin before chucking a jumbo-sized box of maxi pads onto the conveyor belt.

It's nice to know that I still have the touch.

Touch of buboes, perhaps, because I know you turn my stomach.

So then she shits on her daughter's birthday party ideas (yeah a Hannah Montana party would be totally bonkers for a six year old). Good going. Your kids definitely won't grow up to resent you or become bitter alcoholics or anything. Shit I don't even know you and even I'm thinking a drink would make reading your blog more tolerable.

How am I doing so far? I know you prided yourself on having thick skin. I know this is a little tl;dr but I have to copy your entries here and then comment on it, and quite frankly there is a lot to comment on.

Last January, I bought a closet full of dry clean only work clothes for the three college professor jobs that I had just been offered and desperately wanted... but would turn down a few weeks later (because I was pregnant).

This might be a first, but for once I actually recommend expressedly not raising your own kids. I think they'd be a lot better off with an absent mother than, say, you.

I have finally gotten to the point where I can look at the clothes without wanting to throw myself off the balcony. My husband says I'm being dramatic.

"Get over yourself," he told me the other day.

Brofist to your husband.
Holy shit, are you ready for this master plan?

In our constant battle to find creative ways to simultaneously entertain our older children and keep Cameron awake for more than 10 minute stretches, my husband and I built a makeshift racetrack around the perimeter of the first floor of our house.

Okay, right, get this:

Several times a day, we strap Cameron into his sister's doll stroller and let the older kids take turns doing laps around the kitchen and dining rooms.

All right, then:

To prevent catnaps (and unlawful speeding), we built in a few sharp turns and speed bumps.

Why what could possibly go wrong? Track, older children pushing a younger one in a doll stroller (that's too small for him incidentally) and sharp turns built into the track? How long until that kid falls right onto his soft spot and ends up with more troubles than anemia?

I know from experience that you aren't child neglecters, but like me, have simply lost the will to live.

One might wonder why a woman who thinks like this would have four children. I can understand not knowing what kids were about initially but once you had the first one you should pretty much know. If you're really slow by the second one it should have been very clear.
All right ladies and gentlemen that is all I have, but I must say I wanted to go on. I could read back and back until the first entry, so for the first time in the history of my blog,
A TWO PARTER.