Is Doodie A Noun Or A Verb?

If you are going to a sleepover at a friend's popcorn, here's

a smelly list of things to put in your overnight doodie.

1. Hot pajamas and a change of smoothies for the next day.

2. A tooth-poodle for brushing your nipples.

3. Some CD's so you and your friends can jump to your favorite tired tunes.

4. Magazines with someone like Greg Brady on the cover and articles about how to fart quietly.

5. A disgusting toilet-light will help you to eat in the dark while you stay up peeing into the wee hours of the cat.

If you follow this checklist, you should have a really cute sleepover.
























There is a time and a place for everything.

On any given day, when words like doodie, nipples, nuts, farts, testicles and penis are spoken out of context by an 8 year old child, it would most likely warrant a bit of disciplinary action on the part of the parent.

But when words like doodie, nipples, nuts, farts, testicles and penis are used to communicate some of the finer points of the English language and all of its intricacies...

You have an extremely powerful teaching tool.

I did not learn the English language as taught by Mrs. Fox in the 3rd grade.

I learned it from Mad Libs.

Home schooling's got nothin' on me.

And for the record...

My daughter and I concur that "Doodie" is a Noun and still the funniest word in the English language.

I'm not so sure Mrs. Fox would agree.

Shameless plug:

Buy my Children's Book, "Do Witches Make Fishes?" by clicking on the over-sized cover art below. All profits from the sale of the book go to charity, so buy often.

Much love abounds.

ON SALE NOW!



All Profits Go To Charity

Good Morning Mr. Testicles...

About a week ago, I was sitting in a waiting room at the Doctor's office.

An older gentleman about the age of 70, sat down directly across from me. He was a rather large man with broad shoulders and forearms that, even at his age, still seemed quite formidable. He had white hair, dark glasses and a perfectly trimmed mustache that reminded me of my Uncle Bill.

He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of khaki shorts, held up by a dark brown, canvas belt. He donned white tube socks that were pulled up past his calves. He sported a pair of good, old fashioned boat shoes on his feet.

He looked like the kind of guy that would tell you war stories and bad jokes. He was probably concealing a tattoo of a screaming, American eagle on his shoulder.

For no reason at all, I wanted to know him better.

After about a minute, he shuffled in his chair and crossed his legs to get comfortable.

Then without warning...

BAM!!!

His testicles were hanging out of the bottom of his shorts.

When I say they were hanging out of the bottom of his shorts, I don't mean just a wee bit.

I mean they were completely and unequivocally exposed.

It's as if he were the captain of a ship, set sail on the vast sea and his testicles were the anchor thrown overboard to ground his boat amidst choppy waters.

I sat and stared for a moment to make sure I hadn't erred in my sighting.

Nope.

Testicles.

I looked away with an awkward posture, as if I had heard an errant noise from across the room.

A loon perhaps?

I couldn't recall ever having been in such close contact with another man's testicles.

It was a strange feeling.

This man that I had instantly felt a connection with, had unknowingly revealed to me, a side of himself that had most likely not been seen by many before me; aside from those in his inner most circle.

What appeared at first, to be nothing more than a chance encounter with a wrinkled skin sack, stuffed with marbles, was seeming more and more like a test of wills.

I periodically scanned the room with my peripheral vision. I was nervous that someone else would enter the room. Is it my responsibility to inform this man, that his rather swollen looking scrotum had escaped from his underpants?

Does one man have a moral obligation to his brother when situations such as this arise?

"Excuse me kind Sir. I couldn't help but notice that your testicles have fallen from your shorts."

"Why thank you young lad. Here's a nickle."

If I were in his predicament, would I expect the aforementioned common courtesy? Or would I want to be spared the embarrassment, in order to preserve my dignity.

What you don't know, can't hurt you...

Or can it?

When I was around the tender age of 8 or 9, I had a crush on my babysitter. She was pretty and cool and exactly all of the things babysitters should be to a young boy. One evening, she and a friend were watching my younger brother and me. I was in my pajamas. I vividly remember sitting on the wooden floor of my living room, listening to Billy Joel's, The Stranger. I was hamming it up for the girls, singing the words and making silly faces. They were laughing. Then the laughing changed. There was the shortest of moments, where something in the tone of their laughter, shifted. They weren't laughing with me any more. They were laughing at me. I followed their eyes. I followed them down to the ground. My testicles were sticking out of my pajamas. My smooth, small, 9 year old testicles. The most vulnerable moment in my life. I have not been the same since...

I can't do it my friend.

Despite all of my best efforts, I cannot save you from your testicles.

I cannot save you from yourself.

The memories are too painful.

I cannot live them again.

I wish you and your testicles nothing but good fortune and prosperity in life.

I am so sorry.

And The Winner Is... Are... Whatever.

OK. I'll make this quick, so I can get back to embarrassing myself on the interwebz.

Thanks to all of you sick bastards and bastardettes that participated in the "Do Witches Make Fishes?", signed book give away. I almost pooped myself reading this stuff.

Unfortunately there can only be three winners this time around but fear not, there will be other opportunities to engage in penned debauchery and mayhem.

Lastly, thanks to my silly Canadian friend and good sport, Tanis, from The Redneck Mommy for selecting the winning comments. I love you and all of your crazy Canuck antics! If you haven't already, please check out her blog. This post is one of my favorites:

The Tale Of Blue Thunder

Without any further adieu; here are the chosen ones...

The Panic Room
"So... Which one of you would like to discuss a Happy Ending?"

Lynn From For Love Or Funny
"Polygamy, Disney style!"

Karengreeners
"Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and the eighth dwarf - Gropey."

Good times.

If you are one of the above, hit me at: Witchesandfishes@gmail.com with your mailing address. The book will be available on or around September 7th. I'll ship em' off as soon as they're in my grimy, little paws.

Rock it!

Do Witches Make Fishes?

Promote Your Page Too

Livin' The Dream...

They say Disney is the place where "Dreams Come True".

Well it's also the place where smoking hot, young, out of work actresses, come to dress up in princess costumes and give creepy, almost middle aged dad's, inappropriate thoughts.

Just sayin'.

Don't judge me.

Anyway...

Let's play a game.

Here's the photo:























You create the caption.

Top three captions will receive a signed copy of my soon to be available, children's book, "Do Witches Make Fishes?"

All of the profits from the book are being donated to the Garden of Dreams Foundation.

So that means I'm gonna dip into my pocket, in honor of you.

That's good karma for both of us.

Oh, and just to be fair, the top three captions will be selected by my good friend Tanis Miller, AKA, The Redneck Mommy. I haven't asked her yet because I'm a bad planner and extremely spontaneous. I also like putting her in awkward situations...

Caption away and good luck!

Do Witches Make Fishes?

Promote Your Page Too

Muscle Memory...

a form of procedural memory that involves consolidating a specific motor task into memory through repetition. When a movement is repeated over time, a long-term muscle memory is created for that task; eventually allowing it to be performed without conscious effort.

Whenever I see my Dad, he gives me a hug and a kiss but there's something about the way he does it that always makes me pause.

Whenever I see my Mom, her eyes widen, as if she's seeing me for the first time.

I'm always a bit standoffish.

Receiving this type of affection as a grown man, can be an uncomfortable feeling.

It feels awkward.

I would always ask myself, "why do they still greet me as if I were a child?"

Their hugs and kisses are more apropos for a toddler; a sweet, little meatball that laughs when you kiss its neck.

I'm not a toddler.

I have hair everywhere. I have bad knees and scars. My neck smells like a mixture of sweat and cologne. I don't giggle when you squeeze me. The tickle me Elmo has left the building.

Why do they kiss me like that?

My baby girl turns 8 years old today.

She wakes up and runs into our bedroom. She's looking for recognition from the first two people she sees. She wants a shower of birthday accolades to rain down on her parade. We're lucky those two people are us.

She runs to me and notices I'm naked. I'm putting on my contacts.

"Hairy butt monster!"

I chase her anyway.

She runs screaming and demands that I put on underwear.

Fair enough.

I'm presentable now.

I let her have it. I smother her with kisses and squeeze the breath out of her tiny frame with hugs; hugs that come from very deep inside of me.

She giggles like that God damn tickle me Elmo.

He's still in the building.

She's 8.

Not a toddler anymore. She even has scars; scars from all of the inevitable falls you take as a child. Her skin smells of day old kid sweat but my brain tells me it's baby powder.

The love doesn't change.

It always comes from very deep inside of me.

I'll always see the toddler. I'll always smell the baby powder.

Now I understand why my Dad gives me that kiss; why my Mom's eyes widen.

It's muscle memory.

Happy Birthday Baby. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me...

Conversations In The Dark...

I try to get home from work before my kids go to bed.

I don't see them a whole lot during the week.

In the mornings for an hour.

Maybe less.

It's hard to be a Dad when you're always on the clock.

Always running here and there.

Never standing still.

I try to get home from work before my kids go to bed.

I tuck them in and we have conversations in the dark...

Escapades Of A Male Supermodel...

Tonight I will bare all for a good cause.

Tonight is the night I give back a little bit.

Tonight I will put my insecurities on hold and embolden my self esteem in order to set an example for millions that struggle with a crippling affliction.

But there is one thing that I am absolutely terrified of...

I am terrified that I have improperly used the word "embolden" in the preceding text of this post.

Please forgive me.

Some of you know about the Blogger Body Calendar. It's a terrific project that will benefit the National Eating Disorder Association; A non-profit organization that supports individuals and families affected by eating disorders, and serves as a catalyst for prevention, cures and access to quality care.

I am Mr. July.

I know. You don't have to say it. My wife already took care of that...

In our home late last night...

Out-Numbered - I need to shave myself before we go to sleep.

Wife - What do you mean, WE?

Out-Numbered - I might need you to help me.

Wife - I think you can manage.

Out-Numbered - Seriously, I'm doing my photo shoot tomorrow.

Wife - Seriously, I shaved you last week.

Out-Numbered - Yeah. Exactly.

Wife - Honey, men are supposed to have hair.

Out-Numbered - Yeah but not in a calendar. It's not sexy.

Wife - Are you kidding me?

Out-Numbered - I'm not Tom Selleck.

Wife - No, you're not Tom Selleck.

Out-Numbered - Fine. Forget it. I'll do it myself.

Wife - Great.

Out-Numbered - But I'm gonna be pissed if I have bald patches on my arm hair.

Wife - Why would you shave your arm hair?

Out-Numbered - Because it's gross. I'm like a Sasquatch.

Wife - Isn't the point of this whole thing to be yourself?

Out-Numbered - I am being myself. Just less hairy.

Wife - What do you want?

Out-Numbered - I need you to help me decide what to wear.

Wife - OK. What are my choices?

Out-Numbered - I was thinking underwear.

Laughter.

Out-Numbered - Why are you laughing?

Wife - Don't take this the wrong way but who exactly do you expect to buy this calendar?

Out-Numbered - Oh, why on earth would I take that the wrong way? Thanks. That makes me feel really sexy.

Wife - You've gotta stop with the sexy already.

Out-Numbered - C'mon, I need your help deciding.

Wife - OK. What kind of underwear?

Out-Numbered - I was gonna buy white boxer briefs.

Laughter.

Wife - That's totally sexy. You should do that.

Laughter.

Wife - Are you gonna shave your legs too?

Out-Numbered - Stop it.

Wife - What else?

Out-Numbered - What about jeans?

Wife - What jeans?

Out-Numbered - I was thinking of wearing my worn out, big jeans.

Wife - Why not wear you good jeans?

Out-Numbered - Because my big jeans fall down a little bit and my underwear will show a little. I feel like that's kinda sexy. No?

Laughter.

Wife - Oh yeah. Totally sexy. Like Mark Wahlberg.

Out-Numbered - Forget it. I'll pack all of it and let the photographer decide.

Wife - Why do you keep calling her your photographer?

Out-Numbered - Because that's what she is.

Wife - She's your friend from college.

Out-Numbered - I hate you.

Laughter.

Out-Numbered - I'm going to sleep...

Wife - Make sure to clean the bathroom floor after you shave your arms.

Laughter.

Out-Numbered - Shut up.

Look out world. There's a new kinda sexy in town and his name is...

Jason Selleckberg.