Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

No time for maths

666

Friends that already had three children informed me that having three children was little different to having two. I say friends, they are now my sworn enemies because they are utter lying bugger-tards.  What a bunch of arse. Machiavellian. Bad Math.

Don’t be swayed by them.  They lie to make your life as bad as theirs.  Ours. They are part of a Faustian pact. They have sold their souls in the slim hope that through the expanse of time that lay ahead, living with three snotty, ungrateful, bank account drainers, a ray of hope may interject and set them free. Even if that ray emits from the anus of the altogether untoward

If you are thinking of moving from two mouths to three, just stop right there. STOP.  Do NOT move a muscle. Put your trousers back on, button up your knickers and back out of the room, because here’s the real sticky people….

Having a third child is a bit like taking your life and sticking up an angry hurricane’s bum hole. Jamming it right up the eye of the storm. Say hi to Dorothy. Trust me on this m’kay?

In one foul fell swoop, the chaos of your existence that was two, instantaneously becomes but a walk in the park, as you set sail on three.

THREE.  What in GOD’S NAME are you thinking?!

In fact, I’d like to revise my position after reading that back. Two was not a walk in the park. Two was a gorgeous lay down in the park. A lay down in the park with someone sexy  and out of your league rubbing your shoulders, whilst your wife queues for the ice-creams. Lower, lower. That’s the spot baby.

GOD DAMN two was good.

Three my fiends is NOT the magic number. Three is half of six, which is one third of the mark of the devil.  So fractionally speaking, I am bunking with Beelzebub. I acknowledge the maths in that equation may be about as sound as unblocking the waist disposal with your John Thomas, but I DON’T HAVE THE TIME FOR MATHS, I HAVE THREE CHILDREN.

Currently, two of them are fighting over an i-Pad and screaming but a foot from my head, whilst another, but moments ago, projectile vomited all over his own face AND my clean knees.  I in-turn, have been sitting here for about 10 minutes shouting for somebody to come and wipe down my knees (which you could argue makes me number four). But to no avail!

My wife has either left me, is hiding upstairs, or has her head in the oven?

Actually, she may have gone out? I don’t pay attention.  Holy heck?  Am I in charge?!  Toni?  TONI?!

This is chaos.  I can’t survive this.

Yesterday morning as I carried number three downstairs, after getting ready for work, the little shitbox emptied his gizzards all over my freshly ironed shirt and tie-pinned tie.  I was FURIOUS. What kind of off-spring disrespects his Sire so? Three strikes and you are adopted mister!

As I wiped my wife’s regurgitated boob juice from his blinking eye sockets, with my soaking shirt plastered to my chest, I reprimanded him accordingly.  He just gurgled. Mini-nobhead.

My wife seemed to find it really rather funny that I had to iron another shirt at 7 O’clock in the morning, at least that’s what the divorce papers will say. I swear she hankers for divorce….Strange woman…..And thus I attuned my attention to reprimanding HER.

I pointed out the time, how busy I was, what an important day I had, and how I REFUSED to go to work covered in second hand breast milk; and other such spluttered nonsense typical of the unhinged.

There, that told her.

And with nothing short of a dramatic flourish to finish,  I yanked off my tie to remove my puke soaked shirt. All manly and watnot. Dominating the kitchen. Chicks dig that kind of thing right?

Unfortunately for me (and my dwindling self respect) my tie pin held fast, and as I pulled both East and West, my tie shot violently upwards, and NOT dramatically left-and-right-and-OFF as intended.

BUGGER IT TO HELL.

I was going for a lassoo-esque, whip-crack-away, magician’s assistant kind of number, but instead ended up all elbows and shoulders hoicked up to my ears.  The upwards trajectory pulled out my shirt tails and revealed my soft under belly. I looked like a human concertina, all scrunched up and angry, and covered in sick. It’s hard to come back from THAT let me tell you!  It’s the exit equivalent of walking into the pantry and slamming the door behind you.

I MEANT TO COME IN HERE….I’M NOT COMING OUT…….. ARE YOU STILL THERE?…HELLO?.….Can you phone work for me please?

As I turned on my heels and headed for the iron like a tangled puppet, I knew I was, yet again, leaving my wife with the impression that I was beyond nobhead.  Nobhead was SO last year.  I have reinvented nobhead so fully and with such dedication that frankly I am aghast I have not yet received my MBE? For services to complete and utter dick-headery. Frankly I feel under valued by The State.

Just WHAT has a guy to do to get some respek?

 © 2015 Man in his pyjamas. All rights reserved.  www.maninhispyjamas.com

4 Thoughts on “No time for maths

  1. Katherine Brown on March 7, 2015 at 20:47 said:

    As a mother of three I feel your pain. I could lie to you and say it gets easier but you just get used to the level of chaos your life has become and love every minute of it. Enjoy. Xxx

  2. johanna on March 16, 2015 at 18:30 said:

    it’s easier than four – hang out with us and feel happy

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