It’s been a while since we left a flaming bag of poop on our pal TBogg’s doorstep, but we couldn’t help tweeting the author of the America’s Worst Mother series soon after we saw this Daily Mail piece show up in our Facebook news feed. Here’s the lede:
Looking at the garish party invitation in my daughter’s hand, my heart sank. The venue was bad enough: the dirty, sticky soft play area at our local leisure centre. But the name of the birthday girl told me all I needed to know.
With her pierced ears, passion for pink leggings and array of electronic play equipment, Charmaine is definitely not the sort of child I want my daughter associating with. Pretending to look at my diary, I sighed. ‘Oh what a shame. We’re busy on that day.’
Poppy looked disappointed until I promised to organise an extra tennis lesson. ‘Why don’t you invite Maisie?’ I suggested, naming a classmate I do approve of.
From there it gets even more Oniony and April Foolsy, but is apparently serious. As it is outside our realm of expertise, we lay it down, cautiously ring the doorbell of a certain SoCal casa and run like hell.