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My name is Liz. I need direction. I overuse commas. My house is a mess, my hair needs a trim and I have no marketable skills: It’s fun here, you’ll see!

Got a question, comment, proposal of marriage? Great! Email me at liz@theproductivecough.com

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Got a question, comment, proposal of marriage? Great! Email me at liz@theproductivecough.com

Show Your Love

June 16th, 2010

Punching Spree

This morning I had the misfortune of tuning into the TLC reality series “Toddlers and Tiaras.” If you’ve never watched this show, I think you had probably better. Not for your own good, but just so that you know what’s out there in the world. However, if you’re not planning on ever watching it after my glowing review thusfar, please allow me to break it on down for y’all.

Stage moms, Southern style. Little girls, 5 years old and under, spray tans, crazy Dolly Parton hair, sequined bikinis. Ballroom B at the airport Hilton. Age-appropriate dance music. Fierce, fierce competition. In a word: Glerv. Like, totally.

After watching for several minutes, all I could think was “I must procreate.”

But not for the reason you’d think.

You see, if I had a daughter of my own I could get backstage at one of these pageants and then, finally, punch the daylights out of everybody. “Stop taking money from these people, you jerks!” I’d yell at the pageant directors as I socked them in their kidneys. “Re-bleach your child’s skin and put her in some dungarees, for Lord’s sake!” I’d holler at each mom I elbowed in the side. And then I’d turn on the dads.

The dads are the worst part. Forgive me, but I was always under the impression that a girl’s father is supposed to provide her with a strong male role model. You know, show up at piano recitals, teach her how to change a tire (or shoot a possum, if necessary), and make sure she doesn’t date cretins. The basics. Pageant Dads are not this kind of man. From what I saw, they all seem to be either too afraid of their wives, or too stupid, to acknowledge that their four year-olds are dressed like exotic dancers. Not only do they allow this behavior, they encourage it. Wearing t-shirts studded with rhinestones that spell our their child’s name, and hooting, “Shake your bootie, sweetheart!” during the swimsuit competition? That’s grounds for a poundin’, says I.

So to review: I’m going to reproduce, use my offspring to grant me backstage access to one of these Lil’ Miss Already Ruined pageants, and then really let ’em all have it. Or, I guess I just won’t watch the show any more.

4 comments to Punching Spree

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