Ow! A Flying Baby Just Shot Me With a Goddamn Arrow!
And now I’m expected to perform in bed??
Twang! THUNK.
Gahhh! Ow ow ow ow ow holy shit holy shit okay… Call an ambulance—
Why are you touching me? You still want to have sex? Are you serious? Honey, this is no time for fooling around. I require immediate medical care. Oh god, it’s lodged deep in there, isn’t it?
Am I FEELING anything? You mean besides the arrow in my clavicle? No, wait, you’renotsupposedtotakeitout—
Pop! Gurglegurglegurgle.
Arrrghhhhh! Great. Just great. Now the duvet is definitely ruined. Also, I’m sorry, but I am deeply concerned about how any aspect of this situation could turn you on.
No, no, that’s not true, I am an attentive lover! This IS me communicating, princess!
Twang! THUNK. Twang! THUNK.
Oh hell, the winged baby is back. And he’s still armed. Duck! Duck, sweetheart!
Jesus Christ, this vicious little tyke is a crack shot. We need a shield! Use the pillow, that teddy bear, the box of chocolates, anything to deflect the barrage. Dammit, we really should’ve worn protection.
No, I meant like chainmail, get your head out of the—
Twang! Twang! Twang! THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
Oh shit. I’ve been pinned to our bed’s headboard—one arrow through just the shirt fabric above each shoulder, and a third arrow through the crown of my hat. Just my luck. This goddamn infant doesn’t miss.
…What? Pumpkin, you INVITED him here? Because I’ve been struggling with confidence during lovemaking? This is what you meant by “spicing things up” in the bedroom? Shnookums, I’ve been impaled by a medieval projectile, and now I’m doing the backstroke in a puddle of my own vital fluid. This is a major overcorrection.
You’re still into it??!!! Cutie pie, I can’t get it up if the dog is watching. What makes you think I can make whoopee with that homicidal toddler hovering behind the ceiling fan?
Real romantic, Rachel. I’m swooning. I’m also growing extremely woozy and experiencing blurred vision.
Twang! KSHKSHKSHK. Twang! KSSHHHKKKKK. Twang! PSSSSHHHHHHHHHH.
My vase of hydrangeas! My collection of fine china! And dammit, there goes my home aquarium. Now there’s shattered glass and flopping goldfish all over our bloody duvet!
How about this, pookie? Let’s do some role play. You’re a nurse, and I’ll be your patient. Mmmm ohhh I’m in so much pain, miss. Why don’t you straddle me and sexily put pressure on the wound?
Ouch– I mean, ohhh yeahhh. Watch as I tease you by slowly unbuttoning my shirt. Mm hmmm… Then I’ll sensually dress this sopping cavity in my chest with gauze and bandages while you continue to apply constant pressure.
Mmmm do you like that? Darling, please tell me that’s doing it for you, because the clock is ticking here. I’m pretty sure pint-size Legolas struck a major artery.
Boi-oi-oi-oing!
No, Rachel, I’m afraid that wasn’t my penis. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m using your edible underwear as an improvised slingshot to hurl Hershey’s Kisses at the flying bastard. Don’t you see? We must take the fight to him. It’s the only way he’ll learn.
Hear that, kiddo?! I’M NOT AFRAID OF YOU ANYMORE!
Wait. He’s pulled out a walkie talkie. He’s whispering into it.
Flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap flap.
God no. Now there’s a whole goddamn flock... Well then, what DO you call a group of them, dear? An infatuation? A dalliance? A copulation of cherubs? Whatever they’re called, these un-potty-trained sons of bitches are gonna shit all over our freakin’ DUVET.
Oh hell, they have grenades. Rachel, they’re going to love-bomb us.
KABOOM. <3
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MORE FROM LUKE
To the Girl Who Said My Eyes Are "A Little Too Close Together"
First of all, thanks. I was in the market for an obscure insecurity. You entered my life for all of fifteen seconds, and yet I still replay our fleeting interaction every morning as I put in my contact lenses. Now I know my eyes are freakish orbs that are basically kissing each other. So thank you.
An Open Letter to Q-Tips
It’s time to drop the charade. “Wiping between your baby’s toes.” “Cleaning your bathroom’s tile grout.” “Dipping into perfume, then storing in a plastic bag for later.” I just have one question: Who do you think you’re fooling? We all use you for the same thing—and it’s none of those.
 | A guest post by
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I don't mind cherubs that hunt for food, but cherubs that hunt for sport are another breed entirely.
Great Valentine commentary and also relatable to anyone with toddlers.