Glad you asked.
Whiskey and I occasionally text back and forth about ideas for posts, whether to collaborate or to lay claim to a precious (read: traumatic) childhood memory. Sometimes, I also get seriously random texts from my brother at odd hours. He married his high-school sweetheart, so I guess he doesn’t have a lot of ex-girlfriends to drunk dial. Sisters are all about picking up the slack, there.
That’s where drunk ninja originated.
5:30 a.m. on a Tuesday: (Yeah, I’m up. I have a baby)
Whiskey: You ever notice how toddlers have an uncanny ability to get into shit when you look away for two goddamn seconds?
M.I.L.K.: Yes. By two seconds, you mean you were on Pinterest for a half-hour, right?
W: He’s like a ninja. But less coordinated. He’s like a drunk ninja.
W2: wtf is Pinterest?
M: YES. Toddlers are exactly like drunk ninjas. Masters of stealth…except louder. And with more accidents.
W: They’re also obsessed with cats and knives.
M: They have an uncanny ability to hit the MOST sensitive places on dad’s body.
W: That’s not funny.
M: Then why am I laughing?
Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.
W: Drunk Ninjas can get a little “grabby”
M: Drunk Ninjas lack all logical sense of self-preservation.
Saturday, 12:30 p.m.
W: Drunk Ninjas play with their junk in public.
M: Yeesh. Good luck with that.
Saturday, 5:30 p.m.
M: Drunk Ninjas do not understand your need for space.
W: Sometimes, drunk ninjas just need to be held.
M: Yeah, well sometimes drunk ninja’s mom just needs to get dinner on the table before drunk ninja’s big sister has a complete f’ing meltdown.
Sunday, 10 a.m.
W: Drunk Ninjas barf.
M: Ugh, tell me about it. Drunk ninjas cannot hold their milk.
W: Drunk ninjas really like boobs.
M: Drunk ninjas have that in common with more than your toddler, methinks.