by Theresa Edwards
Here's the truth about children (not that you'd know it from the influx of First Parent to Ever Have Had a Baby types populating your news feed with tastefully curated pictures of their children's toilet leavings): They suck.
Even the FPTHHAB types know this, it's why they hint at functional alcoholism with their tastefully curated pictures of sweaty wine glasses held in their sweaty palms as they attempt to drink themselves into oblivion.
But you probably know this best because a) your kids are garbage, and because b) you are yourself someone's garbage kid. We can't eat our offspring, but we can spend all of the money they're hoping we'll leave them, and the best way to do this is multiple detours to seedy auction sites peddling seedy latch hook kits along the dark road to our inevitable deaths. Here we go:
1. This bear
Ease your way into latch hook connoisseurship with this vaguely racist teddy bear that hates you. The bear doesn't hate you as much as your little Michaela, who reminds you of this often as she retreats to the room full of shit you bought her before slamming the door in your face. But hanging this little fucker in the kitchen while you help Michaela fill out her FAFSA will remind you of how awful she is, long after she blessedly fucks off to college finally.
2. These bells
It's said that bells have a language all their own. These particular ones sing: BING BONG BING BONG YOU'RE A TRAGIC DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME RAUL BONG BING BONG.
Every old lady needs a murderclown, and this one is a great start, especially if one day you want to leave the latch hook game and start a shrine of grotesque clowns on a dusty chiffarobe in a dim-as-shit room full of plastic-wrapped furniture and toys that you won't let your grandkids play with out of spite.
Yeah, I know you want to play with the toys, Caydenn. Tell your mom that if she wanted her kids to have fun here, she wouldn't have let her mother-in-law hold you first when you were born.
Oh, look! A latch hook puppet! And it looks like a penis! Hang this up in the powder room for when your son Andre comes home, and he'll have months of material for his blog; a digital tome so full of hate for you that the boner it's giving Freud from beyond the grave is causing a tectonic shift that can be felt from Andre's shitty Venice Beach walkup you still pay the renter's insurance on.
5. Basket full of kittens
Now we're getting somewhere. Pairs very nicely with implying early-onset dementia every time your sweet Renee calls up to bitch about her new job in Miami. When she asks you if you have time to source florists for her wedding to that little dickwhistle she's thinking of marrying because, "really mom, what else are you going to do at home all day?" start calling her by your dead twin's name or shrieking vulgarities at her.
6. Le tigre
You really don't even need to hate kids to have this bad boy hanging in your kitchen collecting scrapple grease.
7. This dipshit owl
Hoo! Hoo! Hoo do we have here? Surprise! It's Jeremy, the lovable fuck-up whose jaundiced entrance into the world marked the end of your dancing career! He will love hanging this up in his cubicle when they finally let him out on work release, little scamp.
8. Those majestic AF orcas
Rename these three orcas Anton, Kesha, and Quentin, and talk to them instead of their namesakes, because those ungrateful little shits are apparently too busy putting high-grade yay up their cute little button noses in Oaxacala with what was going to be your down payment on that cottage you've always wanted to buy. Oh, the joys of parenthood!
9. The Last Supper
The only thing that freaks your kids out more than spending their ever-dwindling inheritance on old people crap is finding religion late in life. They only ever come home so they can patronize you, so put an end to that shit with some old-school religion. Really fucking old-school. Like, insist-on-taking-your-barely-Episcopalian-kids-to-six-hour-Latin-mass-before-you-let-them-eat-Thanksgiving-dinner old.
10. One goddamn cent
This one is the one you buy last. 'Hook this bitch, then tuck it into a manila envelope and give it to your lawyer, and then once you're finally dead, your executor can pull this out when it's time to read your will and say, "To my darling children, I leave this discolored bit of yarn fluff pushing up through plastic mesh and implore you to all go ahead and suck it."
Man, they're going to be sooo pissed.