File Under: Quit Torturing Me and Kill Me Now

Momservation: Please put me out of my misery if Adam Sandler officially becomes the gold standard of movie comedy.

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My son turns 14 this week.

As much as that really makes me feel like my love affair with Leif Garret in the 70’s was a long, long, loooong time ago now and that I want to punch the person who’s hit the fast forward button on my life—there are some comforts still to be found in this milestone.

Mainly, that this boy who is morphing into a young man right before my eyes still considers Mom his best girl. That he would rather celebrate his birthday playing dodge ball on a giant trampoline with his guy friends than go in search of romance at the school dance. That he is still just a silly, energetic, playful Labrador/boy who will impulsively tackle his sister trying to get her to play with him. And that the too-cool, girl-obsessed, aloof teenager has yet to surface as he randomly erupts with shouts across the house of “Adios pelota!” or “Water-mah-lawn!” (watermelon), and “Jerry!” Don’t ask—there is no context which makes it even more random.

I adore this kid who first made me a mother fourteen years ago Thursday, suddenly making me realize that love had been holding out on me with a whole another transcendent level.

That is…until the boy starts singing for the millionth time:

What does the fox say? Ring ding ding ding dingeringeding!

Please! Please no! I'm begging!

Please! Please no! I’m begging!

Then I want to pull his underwear up over his head in an atomic wedgie until it covers his mouth and shuts him up.

I HATE that song. I hate it like Miley Cyrus hates wearing clothes and keeping her tongue in her mouth. I hate it like a Kardashian hates a camera to not be rolling on them.

The fact that my kids love it, and apparently every other kid and immature adult on the planet, making the inane, ridiculous, and harmoniously awful song and its accompanying absurd video the latest pop culture phenomenon— once again highlights the sad state of our collective cultural standards. (Adam Sandler movies, people? Really?)

Every time I hear someone sing out, “What does the fox say?” I die a little bit inside. It’s not even fun-catchy like Gangnam Style was. It’s obnoxiously-irritating catchy like a bad cold from the airline passenger next to you who sneezes without covering their mouth.

This song gets filed in my Quit Torturing Me and Just Kill Me Now file.

While we’re there, let’s take a peek at what else is filed in it:

  • Caillou. That whiny, bratty, bald-headed four year old (why? Alopecia? Hare Krisha? Unfortunate follicle genes?) who is like crack to PBS watching preschoolers. My kids are supposed to be learning from this spoiled brat? All they learned is that Mommy will do anything to get them to watch something else.
  • Dance Moms. A belittling, egocentric, dance teacher who must have eaten her best dance days and a bunch of back-stabbing, hungry for attention, living-through-their-kids stage moms undermining promising talent in an unhealthy environment. There’re some college kids getting seriously hammered somewhere playing drink every time you hear Abby screech and yell.
  • Jon and Kate Plus 8. An early annoying entry in reality TV’s watching a slow train-wreck—was anyone really surprised that opening up your life to public consumption ended in divorce? I would’ve had more kids if I really wanted to hear incessant whining, crying, bickering, fighting, screeching, bossy kids and adults.
  • Adam Sandler. He is the pied-piper of immature, inappropriate, and flat out stupid humor to prepubescent boys everywhere (and inner prepubescent men). He’s had a lucrative movie career, but he’d be even richer if we pooled all our resources to get him to stop making movies.
  • The Kardashians and Real Housewives. Why do we keep giving a sh** about everything these spotlight seeking, plastic surgeon supporting, self-absorbed, invented pseudo-celebrities are doing? If we paid half as much attention and became as emotionally invested into what our politicians were doing maybe Americans wouldn’t look so pathetic and embarrassing to the rest of the world right now.
  • Maroon 5. I don’t even think you can get away from this group on a country western radio station. It’s not that their music is bad—it’s that I’m being given no other choice. I think I once had a Maroon 5 song playing on all six of my programmed channels in my car. It’s like being tickled until you can’t breathe and you’re begging the tickler to stop but they just won’t.  Please, Adam Levine and your nasally high-pitched voice, please stop and let me breathe.
  •  MTV’s 16 and Pregnant and Teen Mom. This reality TV masquerading as a do-gooder show about illustrating the hardships of teenage pregnancy instead makes celebrities of poor role models and glorifies bad decision making. Like the Kardashians and Real Housewives these girls get splashed on the cover of gossip magazines, their every move scrutinized and celebrated, feeding impressionable young girls the message that doing anything (stupid) to get noticed will make you famous.
  • 19 Kids and Counting (was 17 Kids and Counting). My God, when will the Duggars stop?! God may not be giving you the STOP sign, but I think he’s definitely giving you the YOU MISINTERPRETED MY MESSAGE sign. And just because you think He wants you to over-populate your little corner of the earth and create kids who end up raising kids, doesn’t mean He wants you to put it on television. And please, Michelle Duggar, if you’re not going to use birth control, please join us in the 21st century and at least use a straight iron.

Okay, it’s time to close that file before I do something stupid like sign up for a reality TV show.

Happy birthday, Logan. I love you. But if you sing that song one more time I’m going to pin you down and make you listen to Achy Breaky Heart ‘til you beg for mercy.

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