Hey kid! Your Flying Michael J. Fox Impression Is Underwhelming At Best

Yeah. I saw it. Great. Amazing.

What?! Yes, I'm watching...Jeez. I said it was great.

No. You know what? No more. Come here. It's your fifth birthday, right?

What? Seventh. Really? You're seven?

Okay, okay. You're seven. That just makes this gift all the more important. Listen, I've decided to give you the gift of truth. In my years as your mommy's friend, I have shielded you from the truth on various occasions. There are things that most people never reveal to children. I've decided to pull no punches.

First of all, your swimming jumps are less than impressive. And by, "less than impressive," I mean that you look like a jackass. Please stop asking me to watch. Just fucking stop. I spent the last hour counting how many times you yelled, "Watch, watch!" Thirty-eight, my boy, which is just unacceptably ridiculous. Why do you feel that a dead sprint into the swimming pool requires my undivided attention? Jesus, I just want to get through one fucking page of this book! It's not like you are doing anything impressive - it's the same herky-jerky bullshit every time. Have you ever heard of going in head first? At this point, anything other than your flying Michael J. Fox impression would be a relief.

What would your reaction be if I endlessly called out for you to watch me run in an uncoordinated manner at the pool, pinching my nose closed and pumping my other fist like I was a drum major on crystal meth. Sticking your arm out as you awkwardly hurdle yourself into a swimming pool does not qualify as a "sweet dive." I know I said it was, but I was lying. No more.

It would be like me making you watch every single time I bit into a hamburger! Eating a hamburger actually has a higher difficulty level than your assaults on the deep end and my pride.

"Hey, watch! This one has hickory-smoked bacon on it. Watch, I'm going to open my mouth real wide, shove the burger in my mouth, and bite up and down for a few moments. Hey... watch, I'm going to do it again. And again. And again. And again."

You know what the worst part is? It's not the mind numbing void of creativity, skill, and shame. It's watching you prance and leap with an almost total lack of athletic talent.

Secondly, you aren't fooling anyone with that tee shirt. If anything it just accentuates the size and depth of your massive belly button. Every person here knows you are fat. All that giant, wrinkled Sponge Bob shirt clinging to your oversized torso is doing is letting them know you still watch that ridiculous kid's cartoon too. I know you're only seven years old, but you were too old for it a minute ago when I thought you were only five, too.

What do you think people say when they see you? "Wow, that kid has a really thick shirt on." Well, they don't. They say, "Look at the tits on that kid."  Listen, if you're going to continue to eat only fast food and fish sticks, you've gotta embrace being the fat kid. Develop an obnoxiously loud laugh, start making self-deprecating jokes, and be super friendly. You should be doing cannonballs and soaking the cute girl's towel. Look on the bright side, though... fat kids are harder to kidnap.

Now, here's twenty bucks. Fuck off and let me read my book.