I drank a glass of wine and thought I was going to die. Apparently I'm either a lightweight, the wine was poisoned by one of my family members or it was actually the babies' formula and I was too drunk to notice. Either way, shoving three rolls in my face seemed to help the situation. But I digress.
My stepdad made it just in time for dinner because he was flying home from Quebec-the fake France of the north-in Canada. Le Québec est la fausse France du Nord.
My stepdad told us that while they were there they met a Furrier-someone who makes fur coats. I told him I believed he should be referred to as a Fuhrer. Josh rolled his eyes and said that was Hitler, which is odd, because I didn't know Hitler made fur coats.
But I was truly appalled that my stepdad went to a Fuhrer because I am a firm believer that animals should not be worn.
They should be eaten. With barbeque sauce. And bacon.
Since we moved in to our new house, Josh said we should not spend money on Mother's or Father's day gifts because of all the extra expenses right now (a.k.a-my insistence that our entire house should be furnished by Pottery Barn and our old furniture should be put in the gutter).
So I gave Josh a framed picture of our kids to put on his desk at work.
I've been to his work and there are some cute little girls there all dressed up in stilettos with their hair perfectly blown out. So while Josh thought this was a sweet picture to put on his desk to remind him of his little loves at home, it was really just insurance to let those bitches know that my man comes with a lot of baggage. So keep on tottering by. I know he has good hair and model-like hands but he also has two babies that look cute in pictures but actually poop everywhere, and when you think you finally have it all you look in the mirror at your own sh*t smeared face and sigh because when you ate it, you totally thought it was chocolate.
Happy Fathers Day, gentlemen.