The Tacky Box Helps Kids Stop Saying "Boob"

Categories: The Parent Crap

Hallelujah! It's a box that helps your kid stop saying "box."

Your toddler just dropped a Cheerio on the floor and said, "Aww, motherfucking dickjob!" We've all been there. But what do you do about it? (After you take a video of it happening one more time, because these days your happiness is based on Facebook "likes" and this moment will be worth at least 300 points.)

Welp, Dallas mother, Chris Kent Phelps says that this moment calls for a Tacky Box. What exactly is a Tacky Box? I'm glad you asked. Because, I had questions, too. Including, but not limited to: How is not a porn site? (As the owner of, this is usually the first question that comes to my mind, whether or not the website sounds porny at all. But this one is definitely gonna get them some fancy spam. Also betting that is a porn site. But, I digress.)

Turns out, the Tacky Box is a box. Whenever your kid hears a "tacky" word, they write it down on a piece of paper and put that piece of paper into the box. (Which words are tacky, though? Tacky Box only seems to define them as four-letter words, but which ones? There are a lot of four-letter words. But not all four-letter words are tacky. For instance, I know they can't mean "ruby tits," because that's fancy and would not be tacky at all. And I'm pretty sure there are some more-than-four-letter words that are pretty tacky. Like "Oklahoma." I really hope the kit they sell has a list in it.) This process is supposed to help them get the word out of their head, and then it helps them never say that word ever. Allegedly.

The press release says this of the Tacky Box's powers:

"Every child will be exposed to tacky language and behavior, no matter how much parents want to shelter them. When the inevitable occurs, Tacky Box equips children with the skills to distinguish between what's appropriate and inappropriate and encourages them to proactively choose how to respond. Inspiring kindness rather than tackiness, Tacky Box Set arms parents with everything they need to help their child navigate the jungle, kind heart and good manners intact."

Stop saying "shit," you little shit. Oh shit. This is all my fault.

They additionally allege that this whole process will inspire your kid to keep their friends' language in check, too. Once Sally gets the hang of spelling out dirty words, she'll be sure to tell her friends at elementary school to stop being so tacky. So basically, the Tacky Box is supposed to change your kid from a dickhead into a douchebag.

And I think we can all agree that that would be an improvement. Considering that your dirty-mouthed-sailor toddler pretty much sucks right now.

The box kit, complete with a beautifully illustrated book and a notepad for writing "poop boobs" on, is a mere $29.95. I sincerely hope it works for your little fuckin' angel.

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Sharon_Moreanus topcommenter

Keep your $30 and be a fuckin parent for once.


Reminds me of an excellent story.  Right after daddy died, mom took us, her children (what?  I didn't just grow?), to McComb, Mississippi, for a sort of family reunion with a cabin full of wild Cajun people.  The Jolly's lived up the street from us for years, mom and Ms. Jolly had become big buddies and even went to see Tom Jones, only to come back all "The Ya Ya Sisterhood" long before the book arrived on shelves, and I had baby-sat Scarlet, Debbie and Chris, and our huge shrimp-boil block-party after Hurricane Camile sent-in the big shrimp in from the gulf where they were easy catches was perhaps one of my fondest memories. 

Out there in the Mississippi woods, my family got to be temp. Cajuns for a week.  On the way through Meridian, however, the shoulderless concrete highway led a tire on the station wagon to catch the drop-off and we swerved, almost being killed.  Coors beer cans, at Mr. Jolly's request (anything other than Jax or Dixie was forbidden), ended rolling all over the highway. I felt sad for mom.  She had just lost her husband, I had lost my father, and my sister didn't understand any of it. I was 16.  Goodbye, sweet 16, Gordon Hilgers, no proms for thee!  No matter.  Mr. Jolly had the Impala towed to Baton Rouge, and we partied down. 

One little five-year-old, named Johnnie, was a mess.  That kid cussed not only like a sailor but like Bluebeard the Pirate himself.  He'd walk up to us and coyly let one loose, and yes, he was an annoyance.  His daddy-o in Metiaire apparently had no compunction against cussing in front of his toddlers, and little Johnnie had learned it in an education surely all of us would really love to have. 

Enter Mr. Jolly.  Johnnie was trying to use a Y-shaped sling-shot.  Mr. Jolly, ever the prankster, pulled Johnnie over to him, and as Johnnie stood about lap-high, Mr. Jolly taught him to shoot the slingshot, but with one "small" problem: He taught the toddler to hold the Y near his face, pull the big rubber band away from his face as far as he could, and then Johnnie snapped it.  The rubber band smacked his face so danged hard that even the Ku Klux Klan across the lake could have heard little Johnnie holler. 

Toddler Johnnie thought twice about those words.  I still laugh at the memory. 

You are free to go now. 


Love the article, 30 bucks for a cigar box seems pretty high though...Poopy butt is a big player in mi casa lately.

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