I yam what I yam

I yam what I yam

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Everyone on earth has a role.

A doctor's role is to save lives.

A policeman's role is to keep people safe.

A lawyer's role is to wait for all the other people to screw up their roles, and then sue them.

And then there's my role.

Like doctors, policemen, lawyers and hookers, my role on earth is also clearly defined. 

There's no question who I am or what it is that I do.

My role…is to be my family's bitch.

I'm my kid's bitch. I'm my wife's bitch. And if I had a dog, I'd be my dog's bitch.

I'm here to serve no other purpose than to be the whipping boy for anyone who lives in my house who's not me.

As the Strauss family bitch, I do what I'm told, when I'm told to do it. 

I have no spine. No voice. And no opinion. I never complain. I'm in complete and total agreement with whatever anyone else in the house says. And I don't ever talk back. Ever. 

Occasionally I may have my own thoughts, but they never leave my head. Because bitches don't think. Bitches simply react to the people who treat them like the bitches they are.

The bottom line is, everyone needs to have a bitch in their life. And for my family, that bitch is me.

Journey with me, if you will. Witness the glory that comes with being the Strauss family bitch.

I hope you enjoy the ride. God knows I do.

Saturday, 12:30 PM.

The thing is, there's much joy in being a parent.

Then your kids are born and all that joy goes away.

Last Saturday afternoon, for example, I took my lovely children out while my wife ran some errands. 

Here were the first words out of my kid's mouths:

"Dad, can we go to lunch at Burger King?"

Here were the second through one-billionth words out of their mouths:

"Dad, can we go to lunch at Burger King? Dad, can we go to lunch at Burger King? Dad, can we go to lunch at Burger King? Dad, can we go to lunch at Burger King?" 

A show of hands, everybody…who wants lunch at Burger King? 

Driving there, I was almost positive that their lunch wishes had nothing to do with small rectangles of breaded chicken, and everything to do with the kid's meal toys that they saw on the Burger King commercial.

Am I right, lovely children?

And so, when we got to the King, I got the kids seated and I ordered their meals.

I brought their bags over to the table. I got their chicken ready. I got their french fries all set. I put straws in their drinks. I poured their ketchup.

Then I handed them their plastic bags with their kid's meal toys.

They both looked through their plastic bags. And they dropped them on the table.

"What's wrong, lovely children," I asked?

"We both got the X-Men Nighthcrawler guy," they said. "We've already got that guy. We want another guy. Or we're not eating."

Then they stared at me.

At this point, I realized that I could've taken one of two paths:

I could've caved in, walked up to the counter and ask for two different toys. Or I could've stood my ground and told them they were acting like brats and that this was the only toy they were going to get and they'd better eat or they were going to get punished. Big time.

For me, the decision was an easy one.

As I stood at the counter holding the two plastic X-Men Nightcrawler guys, the 14 year-old at the register asked if I needed help.

"Yeah," I said, "my, um, kids, already have this Nightcrawler guy. Do you have any other guys?"

Friends, in parenting circles, this is what's known as the FFTTB. 

The Fast Food Toy Take Back. It's the ultimate humiliation for any adult with even an ounce of self-esteem.

The thing is, though, being a bitch, I have no self-esteem. Yet even I was embarrassed for myself.

I mean, it's bad enough that you're sitting in Burger King and the only way you can get your kids to eat is to bribe them with a toy. 

Let alone having to listen to them whine that the toy they got with their meal isn't good enough of a toy, and they want you to get them another one. 

Let alone you have to ask some pimply-faced punk to save your ass by digging through a pile of plastic guys in the back and asking at the top of his lungs, "How about the Toad guy, mister? Do they both have the Toad guy, mister? Is this toy OK for your kids, mister?"

I dunno, kid. Here, let me borrow your bullhorn and ask them. 

"Attention all human beings within a five-mile radius of this restaurant. Could you please look at me? Thank you. I'm currently making an ass out myself by asking for a different toy for my kids because my kids are brats and I have no spine and it's much easier for me to ask for a new toy than it is for me to exert any type of discipline."

"Also, attention Strauss children: do you have the Toad guy?"

They shook their heads no.

By now, I had created a major traffic jam at the front counter. And the manager had to open another register because there were six people behind me. Two of whom I knew. 

One of them asked, "Hey, where are the kids?"

I pointed to the table. He saw they had their food. He saw they had their drinks. He saw they had ketchup.

He knew why I was standing there.

That's correct, Mr. Asshole, sir. I'm in the middle of the FFTTB. 

He tried to look away. But I knew he was laughing inside.

I hope you get an X-Men Nightcrawler guy, I thought.

I headed back to the table, head hung low. 

"Let us have our guys," they pleaded.

"Not until you start eating," I said, firmly holding my ground.

"Give us our guys or we're not eating," they insisted.

At this point, I realized that I could've taken one of two different paths:

I could've caved in and opened the toys and given them their way. Or I could've told them that I was in charge, it was time to eat and they were going to get their toys when I said they were going to get their toys.

For me, the decision was an easy one.

"Hey, look at this guys!" I said. "Check out how his body turns! Here, why don't you try?"

I think my kids love their bitch. 

I bet if you asked them, they'd say he's the best bitch they've got.

Tuesday, 7:15 PM.

So I was at the store with my wife and she wanted to try on a coat. 

Naturally, I wondered what was wrong with the coat she was wearing at the time she wanted to try on another coat, but I kept it to myself. 

At any rate, my wife grabbed the coat she wanted to try on and said to me, "Here, hold this."

No, it wasn't her other coat.

Not, it wasn't her scarf.

No, it wasn't her left breast.

It was her purse. She handed me her purse.

And while she didn't say, "Here. Hold this, bitch," bitch was clearly implied. At least to me. And to everyone who walked by and saw me holding her purse.

KID: Mommy, what's that guy doing?

MOM: He's holding a purse, son.

KID: Is he a bitch, mommy?

My instincts told me to grab the purse by the top of the handle to look more manly. But when I did that, the purse was dangling by my side.

What I was thinking at that exact moment:

"I'm holding my wife's purse and it's dangling by my side."

What it looked like I was thinking at that exact moment:

"My god! Will you just look at those DKNY dresses? They're smashing!"

Then I tried to squeeze the handles together in a more masculine way, as if I was choking the handles. Or my wife. But it felt awkward, like I was trying to overcompensate for the fact that I was holding a purse in the middle of a department store.

Only because I was trying to overcompensate for the fact that I was holding a purse in the middle of a department store.

Then I grabbed the bottom of the purse and held it out like I was balancing it on one hand. 

Jesus Christ, I thought, what in the hell does she have in here? Nobody ever told me that I needed to have strong wrists to be a bitch.

Frankly, I thought the only time a man needed strong wrists was if he was a professional bowler. Or he was married for a long time.

So then I tried other positions:

*I grabbed the top of the purse. 

*I let one handle dangle. 

*I held the handles by the base where they're attached to the purse. 

*I held it with both hands.

What I was thinking:

"I can't believe I have to hold this purse."

What it looked like I was thinking:

"Hurry up, girlfriend. There's a sale on control top pantyhose!"

The thing is, I tried to do everything and anything I could to maintain my dignity. Eventually, though, I came to two conclusions:

I have no dignity. And there is no right way for a man to hold his wife's purse. 

In fact, the only thing good about holding your wife's purse is that your wife doesn't have easy access to your credit cards. 

Of course for me, that ended when she said, "Gimme back my purse."

Then, an amazing thing happened. My wife asked me if I liked the coat she tried on. 

Omigod! She asked me? She actually asked the bitch for an opinion!

"It's alright," I stammered, not really sure what to say. "I mean, I'm not too crazy about the color. And the style isn't really that flattering on you. And it just doesn't seem very practical in this kind of weather. But it's OK."

"Y'know, you're right," she said. "Hey, I bet some black boots would be perfect with this, don't you think? Let me pay for the coat, then we can head over to the shoe department."

"Excellent," I said.

"Hold my purse while I put my coat back on," she said.

"Excellent," said the Bitch.

I mean, I said.

When we got home, I thought about telling everyone in my family how sick I was of being treated this way. 

How tired I was of being bossed around by the entire household. 

How fed up I was with being the Strauss bitch. 

But then the kids said they needed some candy. And my wife wanted me to take the clothes out of the dryer and fold them.

At this point, I realized that I could've take one of two different paths:

I could've either…ah, screw it.

I've gotta go. 

"M&Ms or Skittles, kids?"

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