Today is my daughter’s third birthday. I’m not going to write a touching, heartfelt ode to her creation and growth to this point on my blog for “the internet” to see. It’s dumb when dumbass mommybots do it and it’s even dumber when dumbass pussy fathers do it. If I want to get warm and fuzzy about my daughter I’ll do it for her and in a way she can understand my feelings for her. It’s not the business of “the internet” and I don’t need to illustrate for it that I appreciate the (supposed) joy of parenthood like parental braggarts do. Memo to mommybots and pussy dads: You’re supposed to be good parents and give a shit about your kids. Stop patting yourself on the back for doing what’s expected of you.

However, days like this does make a man reflect. For instance, I was in the O.R. for the wife’s c-section three years ago today. I was fascinated by the work the doctor was doing and was craning my neck to look into the blood and guts after the baby was yanked out. The highlight was seeing the wife’s uterus resting on her sternum while the OB was in there taking inventory and dusting out the cobwebs or whatever she was doing.

Knowing how much I enjoyed seeing a person sliced open with her guts hanging out (not to mention how much fun it was to scrape roasted Iraqis off the insides of T-62s back in the day), I can’t figure out why I can’t make it 5 seconds into 2 Girls 1 Cup without bailing on it.

Someone once said to me, “if you like me you should like my shit.” I guess I just don’t like those two girls.