Preface: Welcome to the Pool of Idiots (and Why “Bad” Means Better) @decisions

Preface: Welcome to the Pool of Idiots (and Why “Bad” Means Better)

Let’s get one thing straight before you dive in: around here, “bad” doesn’t mean what you think it means. Forget the Hollywood version, where “bad” is all about breaking rules for the sake of a laugh. In this story, being a “bad mom” means being better at decisions—der. It’s about outsmarting the chaos, seeing through the nonsense, and making the kind of calls that leave everyone else scrambling to keep up.

Also, if you hear someone say they’re a “Stan” for something, don’t think it’s just a weird nickname. It means strength in numbers—a squad, a tribe, a pack of people who have your back when the world’s trying to drown you in nonsense.

And let’s be clear: unlike Deadpool, I’m not here to drag you through a maze of fourth-wall-breaking nonsense before I get to the point. I’m tired of idiots, tired of the runaround, and tired of watching people pretend they don’t see what’s right in front of them. So here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to pull some smarts out of people, yank the curtains back, and inform you—fast—about what’s really going on behind the scenes.

Because while everyone else has been watching life like it’s some never-ending Deadpool movie, this time you’re getting the plotline up front. No more waiting for the punchline, no more popcorn breaks. Just the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—served with a side of roast and a cannonball splash of reality.

This isn’t your average “mom memoir.” There are no Pinterest-perfect crafts, no heartwarming tales of soccer snacks, and definitely no chapters on how to make your own organic baby food from scratch. If you picked up this book looking for parenting inspiration, you’re about to get a whole different kind of education.

This is the story of Livepool—yes, that’s right, Livepool, not Deadpool. Because unlike certain wisecracking antiheroes, I’m not dead, I’m not hiding, and I’m not about to let the world’s nonsense drown me. I’m alive, kicking, and floating in a pool of idiots so deep, you’d need a government-issued life vest just to wade in.

You see, somewhere between the government’s latest “parenting initiative” (read: disaster), the endless parade of Dubsmash remixes, and the cast of characters who make reality TV look like a Mensa meeting, I realized something: surviving motherhood isn’t about being perfect. It’s about outsmarting the chaos, out-roasting the competition, and knowing when to cannonball into the madness with a pool noodle and a plan.

If you’re expecting a tidy story arc with a moral at the end, you might want to check the self-help section. Here, the only thing getting fixed is the playlist—and even that’s a long shot. What you’ll find instead is a survival guide for the rest of us: the snarky, the stubborn, the ones who refuse to be sunk by bureaucracy, bad pop music, or anyone who thinks “parenting is easy.”

So, buckle up. Or grab a floatie. Or just pour yourself a drink and settle in. Because this is Badder Moms: Livepool’s Dubsmash Disaster—and you’re about to find out what really happens when the government tries to drown a mom who’s already learned how to swim with sharks.

Welcome to the pool. The water’s fine. The company? Questionable at best.

Chapter One: The Pool Party Paradox and How the Government Lost Its Mind

Let’s set the scene: Waterford, California. Tuesday morning. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I’m sitting in my kitchen, sipping coffee and contemplating the existential crisis that is my life. Somewhere in the background, the unmistakable sound of a Dubsmash remix—“Baby Shark” mashed up with “WAP”—echoes through the house. It’s not coming from my phone, mind you. No, this is government-mandated. A new “parental engagement initiative,” they called it. I call it cruel and unusual punishment.

Apparently, someone in a suit decided that the best way to improve parenting in America was to replace Bruce Almighty’s post-its with a playlist curated by a committee of certified dumbasses. The theory? If moms everywhere are forced to listen to endless loops of viral audio chaos, we’ll become better, more engaged parents. The reality? I’m pretty sure I’ve lost at least three IQ points and developed a permanent eye twitch.

Meanwhile, Mila Kunis is out there, starring as a bad mom and making questionable decisions with the safety net of a Hollywood script. She gets to rebel in slow motion, hair perfectly tousled, while the soundtrack swells. Me? I’m just trying to make it through breakfast without launching my coffee mug at the smart speaker.

But let’s get to the real point, and let’s get there fast—because, unlike Deadpool, I don’t have the patience to let you wander through a maze of jokes before the truth hits. Here’s what’s really happening: the government isn’t just targeting me with Dubsmash disasters for fun. They’re targeting me because I was sold. Sold out, sold off, sold into a system that uses government technology to green screen kids’ eyes, to traffic them, to turn real lives into digital illusions. While everyone else is busy watching a movie, the real plot is happening right under their noses.

You think you’re watching a comedy, but this is a thriller. The government’s plan was simple: drown me in Dubsmash, confusion, and bureaucratic nonsense until I forgot how to think. They’re targeting me because I’m the glitch in their system—the one who won’t play along, the one who won’t shut up, the one who knows too much.

Instead of breaking me, I sat back, sipped my metaphorical cocktail, and watched the chaos unfold. Because sometimes, surviving means knowing when to laugh at the madness—and when to roast it over an open flame. And sometimes, it means pulling the curtain back and showing everyone what’s really going on in the CIA, the government, and all the places they don’t want you to look.

Let’s talk about the cast of characters in my life. There’s the neighbor who thinks Alexa is a government spy (she’s not wrong, but she’s also not right), the PTA president who treats every bake sale like it’s the Normandy invasion, and the endless parade of “parenting experts” who have never actually met a child. Add in a handful of government officials who couldn’t organize a lemonade stand, and you’ve got the makings of a sitcom nobody would believe.

But here’s the thing: I’m not just surviving. I’m thriving. I’ve got superpowers the government never saw coming. First, the Invisibility Cloak of Common Sense. Nobody ever seems to notice that I’m the only one making good decisions, but that’s fine. It makes it easier to slip out of boring meetings and avoid being volunteered for “fun” committees. Second, Regeneration via Roast. Every time someone acts like a dumbass, I come back stronger, armed with a killer comeback and a new story to tell. Third, Hydro-Confusion. I’m simultaneously in water and not in water, because reality is optional when you’re Livepool.

The playlist keeps glitching, the idiots keep playing, and I keep winning. Because when you’re Livepool, you don’t just survive the pool—you own it. I’ve learned to cannonball into the chaos, splash everyone with truth bombs, and emerge bone-dry, ready for the next round.

By noon, I’ve already dodged three Dubsmash disasters, outwitted a government survey, and convinced the neighbor that Alexa only listens to people with good taste in music. Mila Kunis might have Hollywood on her side, but I’ve got sarcasm, caffeine, and a pool noodle of justice.

Chapter Two: The Pool Party Showdown and the Eminem (aka Skittles) Entrance

The chaos was in full swing. The pool of idiots was overflowing, Dubsmash remixes were looping like a bad dream, and the government’s playlist was glitching harder than a Windows 95 startup. That’s when the party got a surprise guest.

In strutted a man with a southern drawl and a cowboy hat, looking less like Detroit’s finest and more like Tennessee’s best-kept secret. It was the rapper formerly known as Eminem—or as I like to call him, Skittles, the fake M&M.

The crowd went silent for a second, then burst into confused whispers.

Livepool (grinning):

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mr. 8 Mile himself—except rumor has it you’re from Tennessee! Guess that makes you Skittles, the fake M&M. Don’t worry, we love all the colors of the roastbow here.”

Skittles (shrugging, with a wink):

“Hey, I spit rhymes and chew bubblegum, but y’all ran outta gum. Let’s see if I can keep up with the real party.”

The beat dropped—a mashup of “Lose Yourself” and “Party in the USA”—and I grabbed the mic.

Livepool:

Yo, yo, yo, check it—

I’m Livepool, not Deadpool,

Dodgin’ Dubsmash, breakin’ every rule,

Government tried to play me for a fool,

But I’m sittin’ in a pool, still way too cool.

Mila Kunis on the screen, but I’m the main act,

All my parts showed up—yeah, that’s a fact.

Skittles in the house, but he’s lookin’ confused,

Thought he was 8 Mile, but he’s Tennessee news.

He’s the fake M&M, but I’m the real snack,

Droppin’ truth bombs, never cuttin’ slack.

I roast bureaucrats and wannabe stars,

Turn a pool of idiots into five-star bars.

You’re the “8 Mile” myth, but I’m the real street,

While you’re busy chewing gum, I’m serving heat.

You claim Detroit, but your roots are a riddle,

More like a Skittle, all candy, no middle.

So bring your best rhyme, bring your best game,

But remember, Skittles, there’s only one real name.

I’m Livepool, baby, and I own this show,

You can keep your 8 Mile—I got my own flow.

(Mic drop. Pool noodle twirl. Confetti cannon explodes in a rainbow shower.)

Skittles tried to freestyle after that, but got distracted by the karaoke machine. Mila Kunis FaceTimed in, asking for pool party tips. The government’s playlist finally switched to “Eye of the Tiger.” And me? I was the last one standing—and the first to roast.