Dear Little Assholes:

I know it must be really hard to be eight and twelve-year-old girls today. So hard, in fact, that you find it necessary to be little assholes. I know you had the best of manipulative intentions when you screamed “I hate you” to my daughter who is definitely not an asshole. She was the one that wrote the nice letter after you and your asshole sister bombarded her with three of your own demanding that if she didn’t let you in our house then you could no longer be “friends.”

Which forced me to be a grown up and spell out M-A-N-I-P-U-L-A-T-I-O-N and then define it to a soon-to-be ten-year-old. That definition amounted to: when a person tries to make you feel bad in order to get what they want. 

Then, Dear Little Assholes, the family gathered around your three letters and chanted our girl on as she ripped up your words, threw them in the air and rolled around in your stupid assholery — reclaiming how awesome she just so happens to be.

That’s the kinda stuff we do in this house. If your parents could step away from being stereotypes for one goddamn minute and put the joint down, maybe we wouldn’t need to have self-esteem rallies every-other-day. It’s one thing to toke, but it’s another to raise the kind of Little Assholes that drop psychological warfare on unsuspecting nice kids who count kittens, stuffed animals and Monster High dolls as their three favorite things in the world followed only by Grandmom and painting hearts on canvas.

The porn you left on my child’s iPod Touch was fucking awesome too, Little Assholes.

This isn’t so much a girl thing, but I do have to give pause to the simple fact no boy has ever wounded my kid so deep that we had to bring out theatrics in order to make it to bedtime. Yes, the boys played chicken in the road with cars and their rooms were a mess, but they are a far simpler breed. Even when it involves potential death.

Little Assholes, you’re going to have to work hard to overcome your shitty lot. I mean, hell, I work hard and it’s gotten me just about nowhere and I’m not even an asshole, I’m a cynical bastard. The two are different although they appear similar.  Cynicism means I do have the capacity for optimism, I just rarely choose to deploy that parachute. Being an asshole means you’ll probably end up with everything and hate it. As a cynical bastard, you generally hate everything and love it.

See how that works.

So, Dear Little Assholes, we’re full up on crazy in this nuthouse. You can keep knocking, but we’ll never answer.