F*&k you, Dinner. I still hate you.

The original title of my book was, “Fuck you, Dinner. Make Yourself.” I thought it was brilliant. The publisher didn’t agree. I understand. But that doesn’t change the fact that I fucking hate dinner, that I stand by comparing it to herpes, that it’s the fucking bane of my parental existence. Once in a while, some douche decides to email me or send a tweet or Facebook message, asking why I bitch about dinner so much. Here is an ever so brief summary of the content of these messages –

Why do you complain so much about dinner? You are lucky you have food to cook and that you can feed your kids at all. Just learn to cook. It’s not that hard. Stop whining. Why did you have kids if you don’t want to feed them? If my kids complained, I’d starve them. I can’t believe you put up with that shit; I’d never let MY kids speak to me the way yours speak to you. I can't believe you swear in front of you kids. Don’t you know that people are struggling; kids go hungry, blah, blah, blah……

I don’t reply to these messages because A) Don’t tell me what to do and B) I know all this shit and C) Don’t judge me you Judgey Fuckerson Fuckpants and D) Mind you own business, E) SHUT YOUR CAKEHOLE!

Oh, and F) FUCK DINNER.

Most of the people who read my stuff aren’t inclined to take the time to send me a message, even if they don’t agree with what I’m saying, which is nice, and I think makes a lot more sense than being a whiner who can’t mind his/her own beeswax or get a sense of humor. Most of the people who read my stuff agree that dinner is a mocking clown whore of a virus, an un-scratchable itch, a never ending battle, blah, blah, blah….

Why do I keep complaining about dinner, about meals in general? This is why…

Boy What time is dinner?

Me About half an hour.

Boy What’s for dinner?

Me I’m making hamburgers.

Boy Hmmm………

Half an hour later

Me DINNER!

Boy What is this?

Me Ummm….dinner.

Boy Is this what we agreed on?

Me I’m sorry, what? Is this whaaaaat we whaaaaaaaat?

Boy I don’t remember asking for hamburgers for dinner. I don’t mean to sound like a douche, but….

Me I don’t remember asking you what you wanted for dinner. I DO mean to sound like a douche. Until you decide to shop and cook your own fucking dinner, you will eat what I make.

Boy It’s just that you usually ask us what we want for dinner.

Me Yeah, I do. Fair enough, but the hamburger meat needed to be cooked, and besides, you like hamburgers, and I told you we were having fucking hamburgers, and you said, “Hmmmm….” I don’t know why I’m even explaining myself here. I don’t need to explain myself to you.

Boy Yeah, I guess I just wasn't in the mood for a hamburger.

Me Fine. Don’t eat it. 

Boy But I’m hungry.

Me Guess what I'm not in the mood for? Douchey whining. If you are hungry, EAT!

He ate the fucking hamburger.

So, I’d like to take this opportunity to say again, because I feel there really aren’t enough opportunities to express how much I hate this aspect of family life, how much I loathe the dinner bullshit, FUCK YOU, DINNER, and fuck the whining and douche-laced comments about what’s for dinner, and how it’s cooked, and what it tastes like, and how it’s different than last time, and how nobody asked for it, and how they wanted something else, and last of all - fuck all the douches who don’t have a sense of humor about this topic.

P.S. Despite losing the battle for the title of my book, the content remained as filthy and rant-filled as originally submitted, so buy it. Click HERE or go to your nearest Barnes and Noble or Indie bookstore.

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The end.

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