Zenestex
4Apr/12Off

Adventures in Baby Birthing

awww

Until today, I’ve never felt compelled to write a disclaimer on a Zenestex post. It’s not that any of the language in this post is uncharted territory for my site. It’s not. But my fear is that poor, innocent, unsuspecting, expectant mothers will find this article on a search engine while seeking pregnancy advice. It’s here. And it’s good. But if you do not share our sense of humor, you’re gonna be an unhappy reader. And neither of us want that. If foul language, frank discussion about pregancy, and roughly 30 synonyms for women’s no-no parts will offend you, then STOP. DO NOT CONTINUE READING. Click that button on the upper left that points BACK. I’m only warning you once.

Good. Now, if you’re still reading and you get offended, then you’re just a dick who wants to be offended. Don’t be a dick.

See that? Two layers of Unsuspecting Googler Wards.

I met Layla this past fall when Li brought her into town for a visit. I’m absolutely not a baby person. In fact, I have an unnatural fear of babies. After two years, we’re totally cool. Until then, I’m always afraid I’ll drop them and break them like some invaluable piece of heirloom china. Even more than that, I’m terrified by their every move. They’re like little ostriches that ooze liquids from every orifice and just look for creepy ways to crawl into your personal space and yank on your facial features.

On Li’s visit, I developed an instant connection with Layla, which I definitely never anticipated. I had this bizarre urge. I wanted to hold her. Me? Holding a baby?! Cats and dogs living together! Mass hysteria! Don’t get me wrong, I’m still hopelessly awkward with Layla, but the difference is that I really don’t care. More than love her, I actually like her. Which is why I insisted on being Layla’s Little Uncle Bobby (my dad is Thee Uncle Bobby).

Here’s Li’s journey from when she found out she was preggerz through her climactic final battle between the forces of birthing and pooing.

23Apr/0920

Editing 101 for the TPT

It has come to my attention that our beloved Zenestex.com has been infiltrated by the ignorant. Recently, one of our writers, Ligia, was verbally assaulted by a reader known only as "Glen." Not only was her article trashed, but her family, boyfriend, and career were also scrutinized. Although Ligia chose to not say anything in regards to this matter (due to a pending investigation), I, Sho Nuff, protector of all things Zenestex.com, will gladly take care of this situation.

After careful review of Ligia's article, Stankonya, and the imbecilic comment left for display, I have determined that this intrusive statement of opinion is absolute Trailer Park Trash (TPT). This article is devoted to you, TPT. Please click on the following song below and have it playing in the background while reading the rest of this article.

31Mar/0912

Stankonya!

Everyone rants from time to time about the everyday bullshit that is just nail-bitingly irritating. I, however, have managed to add a creative bitchy flair to the everyday rant—seeing as how my life is an ongoing rant. I feel like I have a force-field of ignorant energy that draws everything useless and time-consuming my way. In my efforts to avoid everything useless, I have curve balls thrown at me as if life is a steroid injected 5th grade bully throwing a dodgeball at a hefty-sized kid in a too-tight menudo shirt. Oh what humor this bully has, to pick on a defenseless porker with nowhere to hide. That, my friends, is the freaking story of my life. Without any further delay, I present to you my first rant on the Zenestex.com: Stankonya.


Wondering what a menudo shirt is? Now you know!

Let's start from the beginning. I am a Realtor and began my career with a certain company (that shall remain nameless). I was being harassed on a daily basis by a group of ladies (I like to call them “heifers on speed”). The bullying was ruff. To tell you the truth, I kinda thought they were after flower pot (you know my snatch). So, despite everything that I stand for, I sucked it up, cleared out my office, and joined another company. Kudos to them for employing festive people (meaning myself, naturally). Gracias for the lovely spacious office I have, too. Yes! No more freaking cubicle and an actual office with a door that I can shut, too. I spent hours just opening and shutting it (amazing what little things will entertain me). SCORE! The bathroom is conveniently located right next to my office. This is almost too perfect. Work is great! Almost a personal bathroom, my own office, no stalking heifers—I feel like a new woman!

But then tragedy struck (dramatic background music... Dun Dun Duunnnn)! A foul stench attacked my nostrils ninja-style and I couldn't get its kung fu death grip to let go. There was no escaping it. It was an unfamiliar odor. A mixture of smells, if you will. It was like my own personal bubble had been infiltrated with the toxic odors of rotting placenta and cabbage; infused with the unforgettable potent smell of the ever so popular 1985 Charlie perfume (conveniently found in all the finest drug stores or dollar trees in your area)! Yes, YES! In case you haven't already figured this out, I'll go ahead and write in all caps for you, so you can understand my discomfort: I SHARE THE SAME VENTS AS THE BATHROOM! That's right! My beloved large office is the f'n stinky office!

The vent in my office (left). The connected vent in the bathroom (right).

This is how I realized it: Friday afternoon I had my office door shut and was diligently working on the computer. When out of nowhere it sounded like there was someone benching 500lbs and kinda squealing with an occasional balloon slowly letting out air. It was then that I realized I needed to put on my Sherlock Holmes Thinking Hat? and investigate, double O' siete style. I slowly walk out of my office and, low and behold, the bathroom door was locked. I crept around the corner and hid behind a cubical. Swinging the bathroom door open comes this ginormous, beastly, manly looking woman (She-Ra on steroids, if you can even fathom that thought), almost running out the bathroom, with the stench of Charlie and afterbirth chasing her.

I was mortified! But it was too late. Hot garbage (the stench) had already secretly sunk its death claws into my poor nostrils. There was no escaping it! It was like I was playing hide and seek with a ghost—it would always find me. I was cornered by my worst nightmare, Stankonya. What was I to do? Fight an invisible beast with Lysol and mask the funk? I had to get some much needed paperwork done. I couldn't leave! So, I did the unthinkable!


HAHA!!! I'm a freaking genius!

Needless to say, I think the H.G.(Hot Garbage) made my nose hairs fall out!

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