I’m watching a giant chicken harass Elmo.

Something about Elmo’s perpetual perkiness is killing me right now. I want that chicken to eat Elmo. I want that chicken to crunch him like a cracker between his flappy beak.

But, of course, Elmo can’t die. When Count Waffles asked what happened to the Little Mermaid’s Mom and Chicken Little’s Mom…I gave him the Kaiser’s answer, “They are at the spa.” If the wee ones were to actually watch Elmo be crunched into tiny, red pieces I’d have some explaining to do. I suppose I could say the chicken was just making a puzzle out of Elmo to put together later. Or that Elmo was just pretending to be hurt. We’re big on pretending these days. Just this morning I pretending to eat an ice cream made of blocks and cars.

mmmmmmmmmmm yummy plastic wheelie goodness.

But there are days when I just don’t have the energy. I don’t have the energy to come up with fun games. Or smiles when I am asked, for the 50th time, to put a shoe on. Then take it off. Then put it on. Then take it off. Then put it back on. Only to take it off.

Some days, I want to knock the children out with cough syrup, wear big heavy boots so I can’t feel the toys under my feet, drink 3 martinis, do illegal drugs, have wild sex, and forget I’m a Mom. Not because I don’t want to be a Mom. Not because I want the kids to be gone forever. But for just, one, brief moment…I want this job to be temporary, not constant. I want to not be responsible.

Of course, that will never happen. Motherhood is forever. The responsibility is endless and the whining and crying and tugging and needs never stop.

Although I’m really excited at the possibility of hate mail from those last few paragraphs (I’ve gotten some really great ones lately…did you know I was an evil baby killer??) I dare any of you to deny those fleeting thoughts in your own parentbrains.

And while I may dream of drunken debauchery and no responsibility, I’d never actually do it.

Instead, I silently root for the giant chicken to eat Elmo. To tear him limb from fuzzy limb. Then to dance on his head to some old school nasty rock while he downs a fifth. I picture myself partying next to him. We eventually hold a bonfire with the rest of Elmo’s body. Others join us. The chants of ELMO DIES! ELMO DIES! don’t stop even when the cops try and bust up the fun. FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE POLICE! yells the crowd as we throw more booze on the fire and get naked and piss on things.

Or maybe I just need to take my over active imagination to the spa. Not that spa. The real one.

***I’m over at The Huffington Post!

We didn’t even know your name.

You came into our lives, awkwardly dancing next to that long haired guy. You didn’t seem to sing. Or play an instrument. Or do anything but bounce a little.

Who were you? And where did you go?

Maybe Disney realized you looked pretty retarded just standing next to Ralph. Maybe the rest of the world was just as distracted as I was, not paying attention to Ralph’s songs and simply watching you randomly bounce on stage.

But it no longer matters. You are gone. Either taken out of every video digitally or simply removed from the entire filming process.

Are you sad? Are you sitting in some bar with Melanie from PBS Sprout, drinking scotch and damning the mothers of the world to hell?

Do you have some seedy past Disney just discovered? Or were you stricken with some strange disease, rendering you unable to jump and shake next to Ralph?

Should we send get well letters? Or petition Disney for your return?

Not that you did anything. I mean, you just stood next to Ralph. But whatever.

Come back. Ralph is far too boring and you were the comic relief I needed to get me through yet another viewing of “Lemonade.”

“I would tell them that none of that crap is bullshit. That it’s all real. And it’s all the shit I gotta deal with on a regular basis.”- the Kaiser

That’s what the Kaiser gave me, when I asked him to guest post. I could beg and beg and promise blow job after blow job…but he’s just not going to guest post. It pisses me off, because he’d be really good at it too. We could be all Sweet Juniper about it too, and trade posts. But noooooooooooo. He actually just told me to go to bed, because I’ve had a martini and he’s annoyed with my tipsy blabbering.

Blabber…I want everything….blabber…let’s save the world…blabber…I hate republicans…blabber…make me another martini…blabber….

Which leads me to the story of last night, and the hot monkey sex we were about to have when he said I was “…like the Chinese Government.” Apparently I oppressed him in some manner. I think I covered his mouth to shut up his silly jokes because we were laughing too hard to actually have sex.

Does this only happen in my house? It can’t. I know it doesn’t. I have to go to bed now.