Too Sexy for My Parasite

I just got another “Status of the Parasite” email from the creepy BabyStalker website.  Apparently F.T. has webbed hands and feet now.  Gross.  Also?  It’s tail is almost gone.  Double gross.  Lastly?

In his brain, nerve cells are branching out to connect with one another, forming primitive neural pathways.

He's Got Rocco's Forehead

Which I read as, “In a matter of moments, the future overload will establish his psychic connection with the mothership.”  Gross AND terrifying.

Also, I’m relatively confident from that description that the little abomination currently looks like this mythical sea creature.  But with sharper teeth.

Meanwhile, I’m disgusting.  Originally this trip back home was billed as a belated Christmas present to my parents – a solid week of just me without any of my usual attempts to see the ninety-seven high school and college friends that still live in the general area.  But Mom has decided this trip doesn’t count.  Because its more of a present for Rocco to have me gone.

She made this observation yesterday while we were wandering the aisles of Hobby Lobby (or Modge Podge Lodge or Glue Stew or whatever the name of that craft store was).  It was immediately preceded by the exclamation, “Sweet Holy Jesus did that smell come out of you?”

Pregnancy = Raw, Primal Sex Appeal

As a side note, I thought I’d let you know that I decided that if my colon was going to sing a duet in a Broadway musical, it would be this song.

Back in an air-tight minivan, Mom spent the next two hours during our drive back to Virgina, acknowledging each time she emitted a “lady fart” and pointing out that none of us had lost consciousness nor leapt from the moving vehicle rather than experience another second of toxic fumes.  And that Rocco owed her big time.

So today, be glad I’ll be making the nine hour drive back to New Jersey all by my lonesome in my own personal transportation bubble rather than causing some sort of TSA and CDC joint taskforce formation.  And cross your fingers that F.T. doesn’t reach a clawed hand out of my hooch and strangle the doctor during my vagina-analyzing appointment tomorrow.

Oh one more thing, Veggie is convince this is my kid-to-be.  Obviously it already takes after my mother.


  1. Wait…being with child makes you produce noxious smells? Shit, I better get a pregnancy test STAT. It’s possible I may be about 300 years pregnant!

    For the record, I think your little sea monster is a girl. With a big forehead.

  2. I think I might be pregnant… wait, those are just beer farts. Phew! (literally) And… that video is hi-larious. Safe journeys.

  3. i want to party with your baby girl! she’s got mad hotel-trashing skillz already.

    (dying laughing over here. also want her big yellow earrings!)

  4. HAVE I BEEN LIVING IN A HOLE OR ARE YOU PREGNANT????? How the hell did I not know this, I, a fairly religious follower of The Buggin word? Am I reading this correctly, that this alien baby-monster-bundle-o-joy will be yours?

  5. I bet if you looked real hard you’d see that you have an H.R. Geiger inspired sea monkey swimmer in there. I hate it when they lose their tails, I was hoping for a Merperson during my first pregnancy but alas it was not to be.
    On a positive note your stomach acts as it’s own lap tray in a few months. I could balance a pack of Rolos, a large ginger ale and a pack of saltines all on the expanse of my midsection!

  6. You had better stop calling your zygote an “abomination” or s/he will find out about it someday and get all sensitive and stuff like when kids find out they were “accidents” and start smoking crack. Just sayin.
    P.S. I want that drunk baby to visit my house for a while. Please bring her over. But you drive.

  7. I got in a fight with that kid last weekend. She was trying to move in on my bowl of complimentary pretzels and was also making eyes at my husband, which seemed to flatter him no end. I thought I’d set her straight. I asked her to step outside. Kid throws a mean punch and fights dirty. I told her to keep the pretzels. And the husband. I kind of miss the pretzels.

  8. Are you going to post an ultrasound picture? I swear – I never “got” those things. (Unless you get one of those fancy 3 or 4D whatever shits.) I didn’t.

    “Look there’s your baby! It’s a girl!”

    “How can you tell?”

    “See that little line right there? That’s her vagina.”

    “I can’t even tell if she has arms and you’re pointing out vaginas. That’s just wrong.”

    “She has arms. Right there.”

    “All I see is a bunch of blurry black stuff. …Ohmygod.”

    And that’s how it went down.

    P.S. – I heart your face and stuff.

    1. It’s worse for the boy babies. They’re all like “there’s his penis!” and everyone in the room is squinting and getting real close to the monitor saying “where? I don’t see it. it’s so SMALL. Are you sure it’s not a vagina?”
      Imagine the shame and inadequacies that fetus carries with it.
      What a terrible burden.

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