I need your help today, dear readers. And I don’t mean financially or kidney-wise, so don’t immediately grunt, “Leave me alone, Miss Clinical Strength Deodorant” and click away to some mommy blog that’s giving away a 12-pack of denim diaper pants. No, what I need from you people is far more serious than just a fancy body part or a few crumpled up 20’s.
I need your devious thinking.
Now, I know you’re probably all saying, “But Wendi, you have your own devious thinking. In fact, isn’t your thinking so devious that you once videotaped a brain surgery under false pretenses?” And yes, that is true. And, once again, I offer my apologies to the nameless neurological patient who had the bad luck to end up in my 1990 Portland, Oregon Public Access show “Dr. Bob’s School of Brain Sawin’.” (Believe me, I wish I were kidding about that.)
Anyway, the sad fact is that my current problem is so insurmountable, so daunting, so completely terrifying that I need big time reinforcements. Bad-ass back-up. An army of flying monkeys with keyboards and access to their neighborhood Wi-Fi passwords, if you will. Because this problem of mine can be summed up in four evil words: The Motherf*cking Snail Movie.
I am here to destroy you, Wendi Aarons.
Anyone with a child under 12 is right now nodding their head grimly and saying, “Ah, yes, the motherf*cking snail movie. SWEET BABY JESUS, THE MOTHERF*CKING SNAIL MOVIE.” Those of you without children under 12 are instead saying, “Ah, I knew it. She’s bitching about another kid movie. Jesus, just deal with it, Popcorn Thighs.” And yes, you’re 100% right. My popcorn thighs and I should just deal with it. In fact, what I should do is just give in to my kids’ non-stop requests and take them to see this fun Dreamworks animated movie. But holy hells and holy bells trust me when I say that my delicate North Dakota constitution is not strong enough for this demented animated snail shit. NO MY MAN, IT IS NOT.
My G-rated terror isn’t news to longtime readers of my blog (and FYI, if I ever call you “fans,” please kick me in the lady nads) because I’ve made no secret of my deep-seated hatred of all kid movies. Some of you may even remember my brutal honesty about that dark, scary day years ago when I tried to take my own life with a sharpened Mike & Ike shiv during a matinee showing of Space Chimps. I am not proud of this.
In fact, I sincerely wish I were the type of mother who actually enjoyed burp humor. The type of mother who loves seeing crappy and weak female characters get saved by badly drawn male characters. The type of mother who doesn’t turn to her children after a showing of Despicable Me 2 and say, “Well, at least the fart jokes outnumbered the plot holes this time.” In short, the type of mother who doesn’t tweets things like this:
And people wonder why I’ve never been invited to be one of Disney’s Social Media Moms.
Alas, my DNA and Norwegian Old Man personality ensure that I will never be that type of mom. Therefore, since my boys are begging me to take them to their 5th kid movie in a month a half, and since this particular kid movie is about a damn SNAIL who races or something equally as dumbass, I find myself in a tough, tough spot. Of course I’ve already given them every excuse I can think of to not go to this movie. EVERY excuse. Including, but not limited to:
– Mommy gets hysterical blindness whenever she sees or hears badly written scatological humor and therefore can’t drive and that means we’d have to walk home on the freeway
– Mommy has a new court-mandated ankle bracelet that doesn’t allow her near multi-plexes or fake butter product
– Mommy is deathly afraid of snails because of a French guy she once dated named Guy who did kinky, weird things with them—and
– Mommy feels that the sexual content in this snail racing movie is completely inappropriate for our Christian family values
But because my kids are not morons, none of those excuses have worked. Which is why today I even resorted to trickery with my friend Maria, who unfortunately isn’t a moron, either:
I actually considered her idea of leaving the boys in one screening room while I was enjoying myself in another screening room that didn’t smell like pee and Cheerios, but then I remembered that I’m a raging paranoid. Which means that ten minutes into the movie, I’d imagine the boys leaving the theater and getting into a windowless panel van with some guy who offered them free popcorn refills and a puppy and I’d start to choke on my supertanker of Diet Coke and cold-cock an usher while rushing out to rescue them and then we’d all wind up on the 10 p.m. news with the headline “40-Something Honey Boo Boo Look-a-like Terrorizes Snail Movie.”
So that’s why I need your help.
Please give me any and all excuses as to why I can’t take the boys to see “Turbo.” (Nothing illegal, please, unless you’re a lawyer.) I will try them all out, I promise. And even if they don’t work and I wind up sprawled on the sticky movie theater floor screaming, “No more snail trail jokes! No more snail trail jokes!,” I will still be grateful from the bottom of my little R-rated heart. Thank you.