The other night, my husband and I were watching Louie, the FX comedy show starring funny man Louis C.K.  If you haven’t seen it, you should. (And also, where have you been this decade?)

Anyway, we were watching Louie, specifically an episode where Louie is stuck babysitting some other woman’s pre-teen kid, Never, because she has to work on getting her “vagina removed before Easter.”  (See?  Like I said — a must watch.)

Not only does the woman inform Louie she never says no to Never, she also informs him not to feed Never anything with carbon in it, something that perplexes Louie to the max.  The only thing the kid will eat?  A bowl of raw ground beef, but not before he shoves Louie’s rug out the apartment window and shits in the bathtub.

All this got my husband and me thinking: What the fuck are we going to do when our sons start bringing kids like this home?

Other people are weird enough.  But their kids?  Their kids are the weirdest.

Me: “Oh my God, what are we going to do when they bring this kid home and he shits in our tub?   I mean, it’s only a matter of time.”

Husband: “What are we going to do?  I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.  We’re going to call his parents and say, ‘Hey.  Your kid shit in my tub.  Come get him.  Now.’”

Me: “Whatever.  You know we’re not going to do that.  We’re just going to have to lock ourselves in the bedroom and drink until it feels OK.”

Husband: “Yeah, because that’s a great idea.  Nothing weird about that.”

Me: “Well.  How else are we going to handle this?  They think we’re the weird ones because we won’t do things like rent a reception hall for our kids’ first birthdays and wipe their asses till they’re 16.  There’s no way we can handle a raw-meat-eating, rug-throwing, bathtub-shitting monster child without coming out the assholes in the end.”

Husband: “I know.  God, I hate people.”