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.

W: Mmmm…boobs.