“Pete is the king of details, so he wants to make sure the baby’s room is just right – the right colors, the right sheets, the right look.”
Fair enough. If I was a cashed up glamster I’d probably be the king of details too. This was not the source of my mirth, however.
That, was this little gem: “He’s a great parent.”
Uh…earth to Mister Simps-dude. She hasn’t popped it out yet. As awesome as your son-in-law may or may not be, the fact is that he’s at this point, the co-creator of a foetus. That is all. Choosing colors? Sheets? Looks? That’s all grand and all, but if that’s all there was to it, then slap me on Queer Eye and hand me the Mama of the Year award. Twice.
No, what I wanna see before we jump to such grandiose judgements is more of the “Is that a funky new streak in Pete’s hair? Oh no, that’s just projectile vomit…” variety. Or pumpkin soupy poo squirming its way down spandex. Or an exercise in picking out colored bed-sheets while little Mister/Miss Wentz-Simpson throws him/herself to the ground in a fit so dramatic that the little tike:
a) doesn’t even remember why they’re tantruming; and/or
b) gets so worked up that they wet themselves. Everywhere.
Deal with that shit graciously. In public. Then, I’ll give you some Myspace kudos, boy.