Somebody's Jealous: Pregnant and Still Out Clubbingtoddler-times
I’m going to sound like a prude here, but I just don’t get MomLogic’s “Childless Bitch” column. I know, I know, she’s supposed to be sassy and make us parents walk outside of our little lives and laugh at ourselves.
It would be a heckuva lot easier to laugh if she was actually funny. Take CB’s (because she never actually owns up to her real name) rant this week on pregnant women who dare show their face inside a club:
Says CB: There’s not a lot of room in the club already, and due to the circumference of your gut, three hot guys that I could be taking home with me tonight are waiting outside.
Translation: Fat chicks need not apply. Clubs are for pretty people, m’kay?
What She Forgot: If she’s pregnant, the chances she’s vying for those hot guys’ attention is a lot slimmer than the other three skinny bitches who couldn’t get in (you know, because of that big ol’ belly that took up soooo much room?). Be glad she’s there – she just upped your chances of getting someone to notice your bitch ass.
Says CB: Pregnant women don’t drink, which means they are no fun. You’re not fooling anyone ordering a Diet Coke and putting it in a cocktail glass. It actually looks worse because, who knows, you may actually be drinking it with rum — which means you shouldn’t even be reproducing in the first place.
Translation: Sober chicks need not apply. If you actually want to drive home tonight without wrapping yourself around a telephone pole, don’t sit near me.
What She Forgot: There’s a whole world out there of people who have a good time without alcohol. If you can’t fathom it, you might want to check in with them – they generally meet in church basements, no last names required.
Says CB: I’ve heard playing music to your unborn child stimulates brain activity, but what exactly can 50 Cent, Lil Wayne, and T.I. teach your child? 50 Cent wasn’t referring to the candy bar at your upcoming shower when he said, “I take you to the candy shop/I’ll let you lick the lollipop.” It’s time to go back to Mozart for Babies.
Translation: I don’t care that you have a master’s degree. Sperm met egg, and it is now categorically impossible for you to form your own musical tastes or opinions. You no longer have the right to prefer hip hop when you work out, jazz for a nice soothing bath.
What She Forgot: iPods and earbuds. ‘Nuff said.
Says CB: All that jumping around can’t be good for your fetus. I’m afraid one more booty shake will let loose your bloody show. And liquids on the dance floor have got to be some sort of club violation.
Translation: I couldn’t pass biology class, and hence believe that pregnant = ready to pop, and I’m firmly of the mind that if you dare move, the child will dislodge itself from your uterus and go shooting out across the floor.
What She Forgot: Human Anatomy, 101. It takes the average woman nine months to cook a baby. And most of us actually have to get up, walk around and “jiggle” a little. P.S. If it would just shoot out, that would make our lives so much easier.
CB is supposed to be a silly rant about parenting from an outside eye. Instead it reads like a whiny rant against fat women, alcoholics and anyone else who dares get in between her and the party. We’re just glad she doesn’t have a kid.