Jenky Teeth to the Rescue

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaack. What can I say? I can’t resist the urge to drop excessive amounts of f-bombs (that’s FUCK for those of you keeping score) and flag the adult content of this blog to the extreme. Plus, who am I to deny my faithful fans? I figured I would bring this badboy back once I got knocked up again and had Fetus II, or Bun The Sequel, to blog about. We’re not quite there yet, but I’m sure I can provide some entertainment before I get all crazy hormonal again. So, here goes nothin… Why is it that nearly every time I arrive at the gym I have to shit? I literally pull into the parking lot and my large intestine is done cookin. This may not seem like a problem, except that I can’t shit in public restrooms. I’m convinced that this is my lazy, fat ass’s way of keeping me from burning calories because inevitably, I am going to decide that I absolutely can’t run with a turtle head, or that my stride will be so awkward that everyone will know I’m trying to hold in a huge shit. Tonight I toughed it out for 27 very long minutes (not exceeding 6 mph, I tried 6.5….it was a NO GO). I would have gone longer except that the daycare came to get me to report an injury. I did not waste any time getting off that treadmill. Not so much out of concern for my offspring, but more so because I literally could. Not. Go. On. I get to the daycare to find my sad looking child with a puffy, bloody lip. What happened, you ask? My brilliant two and a half year old tried to bite into a plastic bagel and busted his lip with his jenky teeth. And he has the nerve to yell “RUN, MAMA!” when we get outside. Not happening, kid. God bless your jenky teeth.