So I stumbled into some kind of article about all the secret code kids use to talk dirty on their cell phones (a.k.a. sexting), and I, for one, am shocked.

Actually, let me restate that. I’m grossed out.

And I’m wondering how on earth it is that things have changed so much in 20 years?

This is actually a pretty clever ad campaign from a teen + unplanned pregnancy prevention group.

When I was 18 years old, I had a close male friend who offered me $100 to record the outgoing message “When I think about you I touch myself” (in homage to the hit song at the time) on his answering machine, and I wouldn’t do it. And if I remember correctly, the offer was raised by at least another $100 before he stopped asking.

Yet the combination of peer pressure and cold hard cash was not enough to break me.

I think I worried about it coming back to haunt me in my bid for the Presidency or I was just a prude or who knows. Regardless, I wouldn’t do it. These days, I could use the money. You know who you are. Call me if offer still stands.

Meanwhile, I also remember that I was rendered immediately and immensely uncomfortable by the mere sight or sound of Rod Stewart. I have an explicit memory of being in my friend’s basement rec room in my late elementary years (so 9 or 10 years old), and seeing him on TV singing “If You Want My Body” and wishing I could drop dead from awkwardness and shame right then and there.

In other words, I would have never – even with the available technology – have sent any of this filthy stuff. My mother was a world-class snoop, so I probably would have had to use the ‘MOS’ or “PAL” codes (and in hindsight, wish I ‘d known them), but that’s it.

I can’t even imagine who I would have sent them to. By and large, the  boys I liked tended to be odd outcasts, unpopular and even actively disliked. Thus, my crushes were a shameful secret that I kept to myself, and I hid them so well and buried them so deep that even at this moment I struggle to recall the name of a single guy I liked in middle school. Love is weird like that. Fleeting and completely forgettable…

Anyway, and without further ado – and apologies if you’re prudish or easily offended or are now suddenly realizing that your sweet and innocent 12-year old is actually a raging floozy – here’s the lineup.

Top 50 Internet Acronyms Parents Need to Know:

1. 8 – Oral sex

2. 1337 – Elite

3. 143 – I love you

4. 182 – I hate you

5. 459 – I love you

6. 1174 – Nude club

7. 420 – Marijuana

8. ADR – Address

9. ASL – Age/Sex/Location

10. banana – Penis

11. CD9 – Code 9 (it means parents are around)

12. DUM – Do You Masturbate?

13. DUSL – Do You Scream Loud?

14. FB – F*** Buddy

15. FMLTWIA – F*** Me Like The Whore I Am

16. FOL – Fond of Leather

17. GNOC – Get Naked On Cam

18. GYPO – Get Your Pants Off

19. IAYM – I Am Your Master

20. IF/IB – In the Front -or- In the Back

21. IIT – Is it Tight?

22. ILF/MD – I Love Female/Male Dominance

23. IMEZRU – I Am Easy, Are You?

24. IWSN – I Want Sex Now

25. J/O – Jerking Off

26. KFY -or- K4Y – Kiss For You

27. kitty – Vagina

28. KPC – Keeping Parents Clueless

29. LMIRL – Let’s Meet in Real Life

30. MOOS – Member of the Opposite Sex

31. MOSS – Member(s) of the Same Sex

32. MorF – Male or Female

33. MOS – Mom Over Shoulder

34. MPFB – My Personal F*** Buddy

35. NALOPKT – Not A Lot of People Know That

36. NIFOC – Nude In Front of the Computer

37. NMU – Not Much, You?

38. P911 – Parent Alert

39. PAL – Parents are Listening

40. PAW – Parents are Watching

41. PIR – Parent in Room

42. POS – Parent Over Shoulder -or- Piece of Sh**

43. PRON – Porn

44. Q2C – Quick to Cum

45. RU/18 – Are You Over 18?

46. RUH – Are You Horny?

47. S2R – Send to Receive

48. SorG – Straight or Gay

49. TDTM – Talk Dirty to Me

50. WYCM – Will You Call Me?

My mental image of what today's oversexed kids will be like in another 20 years, after they've worn themselves out on talking dirty and can't even bear to look at the number 8 anymore.

I’m wondering for #49 if the following response is acceptable?

88811748811741431337888

Oooh, baby.

I love it when you text to me like that!

And I’m fond of leather.

But not like that. In a cute bomber jacket or a nice pair of boots or something. But still…

So I’ve had a number of blog mis-fires today. In part because of the usual (don’t ask, and I won’t go there), and a bit because I just wasn’t feeling it.
I started a piece about my dog’s counter surfing problem…and saved it for later (to a certain degree because I couldn’t upload the accompanying incriminating photographic evidence).

I had another one about a recent list of popular funeral songs (‘Highway to Hell’ is a surprising chart-topper), but I was having trouble nailing down my own song list. Hopefully I don’t die tonight, because my iPod is sorely lacking a solid set of selections for the funeral. Just make sure it’s absurd, but upbeat. Like maybe Tom Jones ‘It’s Not Unusual’?

And then there was one about how much I repeat myself.

But nothing was clicking.

And then I turned on the TV and saw – for the second time in 24-hours – a commercial for a product called “Your Baby Can Read!”

Have you seen this?

It’s alarming.

It would be funny if it was a joke, but it’s not a joke. It’s got footage of a preemie reading aloud from Shakespeare and then an 18-month old perusing the Wall Street Journal, interspliced with exciting voiceovers about how babies are born to read. Babies LOVE to read. Babies who aren’t reading and writing letters to the editor and splitting atoms are just wasting their and your precious freaking time. Babies were put on this earth to read..and YOURS CAN TO.

And then, in a seemingly random and non-correlated event, I was looking on Amazon.com, and you know how they have that feature at the bottom where people start random conversations about whatever wacky thing is on their mind (usually wanting to fight about god or creation or overly-assert some kind of rigid opinion) and hundreds of people chime in?

I don’t know why this is there and what it has to do with selling books, and I never chime in, but sometimes I lurk, and tonight I saw a subject line about proper reading materials for a voracious book-loving 4-year old Einstein. The mother was worried about Harry Potter being too scary, and dozens of people (also the parents of genius reader babies) were chiming in about how their pre-schooler loved Tolstoy and James Joyce.

And I just start thinking…what IS this?

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!?

Admittedly, I don’t have a baby.

To the best of my knowledge, in the next nine months there will not be a baby.

But I was a baby once.

Apparently a very dumb baby.

And this strikes me as worrisome.

Let’s break it down: When I was four years old I could not read.

I maybe knew the alphabet, but I think I thought ‘elemenopee’ was a letter.

At four years old I played with gypsy moth caterpillars, cut all the hair off my Barbie, and was deathly afraid of the rock band KISS. And I knew that the house on the corner housed a witch and if you looked at the windows too long, she would sense you and eat you. And believed that if I was wearing Keds, I could jump over a tree (despite numerous failed attempts).

Basically, stacked up against your average under-achieving nobody reads to him and nobody bought him ‘Your Baby Can Read!’ 2009 4-year old, I was Rainman idiot stupid…without the savant part. No toothpick counting here. Just underpants from K-Mart.

And I guess I’m saying even if your baby can read, WHY should he/she read? Is this really advisable?

Should it just be, “Your baby can read and watch CNN and worry about the economy and their future and whether or not the planet will be habitable in 50 years before they’re even out of diapers!”?

Read what?

And why?

I get rushing to adulthood when life ends at 35. I’m fine with that. In that case, get married at 13, be a grandparent at 26, and in the ground by my age. Smoosh it all together, hit the ground running, and make sure your christening gift is a subscription to the New Yorker.

But if you’re probably going to make it to 75 or 85 or even more? And (if you’re like 99% of the population) worry your @ss off through the bulk of it?

Why bother?

Be an idiot kid for a while. Struggle to stack some colorful rings on a plastic rod. Do work with your bubble mower. Make tons of long-distance calls to imaginary friends and potted plants on a play phone. Eat some poop. Marry your dog. Whatever.

Just don’t start reading.

And for god’s sake, don’t start blogging.

The last thing I need is more competition.

(p.s.

All genius babies who are also surfing the internet looking for soft porn and somehow – disappointingly – end up at this blog instead, but then decide you would like me to start a special blog just for you, send me an e-mail with some subject matter of interest, and I’ll see what I can do.

• Want to know if Santa is real?
• Confused about how the Tooth Fairy gets in and out undetected?
• Can’t find Waldo?
• Wondering if that dead goldfish your mother flushed really went into the ocean?
• Confused about the difference between ‘by accident’ and on purpose’? (That confounded me until I was about seven – bad confusion to have, let me tell you what…)
  

If you’re willing to buy me beers (or click on ads until you have blisters)…then I could be the demystifying adult you’ve been looking for!)