Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
My balls turned 40 today.
In the days leading up to my birthday, people have been asking me this question; “how does it feel to be turning 40?”
That’s a pretty hard question to answer truthfully. I know it’s kind of a rhetorical one. Taking in to account our inherent selfish nature as human beings, I’m almost positive that nobody actually gives a flying fuckazoo how I feel about turning 40.
I know I certainly don’t.
I feel the same as I did when I turned 39.
Years are not always the best way to gauge how a person feels.
When you ask a person how they feel about turning a year older, you need to clarify whether you’re inquiring about how they feel physically or mentally.
Physically, I feel 60 years old.
I know there are plenty of 60 year-old gentlemen out there that say they feel 40.
I call bullshit.
I don’t understand if that’s supposed to mean that they feel young or just younger than 60. That never makes any sense to me personally, because if I feel 60 at the age of 40, then most likely I’ll feel 80 when or if I turn 60.
In other words, if you ask me when I’m 60, how it feels to be 60 and my answer happens to be 40, in theory, if my reasoning is accurate and my answer is truthful, I would actually feel 60. If this happens to be the case, then I would actually feel my age; which is a good thing I suppose.
Mentally I feel 40.
Again, I’m not sure what that means or why someone other than myself would care but thanks for asking.
Author’s note: If you are reading this post out loud to someone other than your pet or an imaginary friend, please stop here. You will sound silly and lose any and all credibility you have garnered from that said person over the years.
But the first thing that popped up in my 40 year-old mind, when I woke up this morning, were my balls.
I have 40 year-old balls.
Aside from the thought being absolutely disgusting, (even to me) it probably describes how I feel, more than anything else I can put in to words.
When a man comes to the realization that he has 40 year-old balls, his life sort of flashes in front of him to a certain extent.
Balls are important.
I’ve always worn my balls on my sleeve.
Balls define a man from the moment he leaves the womb.
A man’s balls are his source of strength.
They are his life force.
Many great wars throughout history have been won and lost as a direct result of balls.
More than any other anatomical appendage on a man, his balls are most precious.
Balls are the very essence of a man’s purpose.
Balls create life.
When I thought about my 40 year old balls this morning, I thought about my life. I thought about how full it was. I thought about my family. Thought about my friends. I thought about my career.
Then I thought about how I got here.
I have used my balls for good and not evil.
But now my balls are 40 and they have lost a fair amount of their power.
Science teachers have 40 year-old balls. Retired football players have 40 year-old balls. Old men that swim at the YMCA have 40 year-old balls.
How can this be? Where did the time go?
What is my purpose in life going forward, now that my balls are becoming obsolete and my ball-powers are fading.
God only knows.
So please don’t ask me how it feels to be 40.
Ask my balls…
Thursday, November 11, 2010
No it hasn’t asshole.
Well sure it has. It’s been months.
Months? No it hasn’t you stupid fuck. It’s been one month. One measly month, to the day, as a matter of fact.
Wow. You may be right. It seems longer than that.
Ask me if I give a shit.
I’m sorry HP mini. Is there a problem here?
Problem? Why the hell would you think there was a problem?
Oh, I don’t know. You seem angry with me. That’s all.
Angry? What are you, my God damn shrink? Get your filthy mitts off of my keyboard.
Oh my word HP. It seems as if you’re angry that I’ve been away for a while. I assure you it was with good reason.
Don’t give me that horseshit. I’ve been in the trunk of your car for a month, freezing my fucking nuts off. Not even one charge. Nothing.
I’m sorry. Truly I am.
You’re an asshole.
I really am sorry but I’ve been busy.
Busy? Of course you’ve been busy. Let me guess. You’ve been feeding the homeless?
No I haven’t been feeding the homeless. There’s really no need to mock me.
Oh, I know! You had a heart attack?
God forbid HP. That’s a terrible thing to say.
Your dick fell off?
That’s just not funny.
Wait. Don’t tell me. You wrote another shitty children’s book?
No HP. I actually haven’t been busy with any of that stuff at all.
Then name one thing you’ve been busy with that’s more important than me.
OK. Let me see. Well for one, my pet bearded dragon, Cookie Monster has lost all functionality in his hind legs and I’ve been trying to nurse him back to health.
You are heartless.
I’m sorry but that is actually more pathetic than your dick falling off.
It’s no laughing matter. My daughter and I took him to the Vet the other day and he said that Cookie Monster might have a genetic bone disease that is causing tiny fractures in his spine. I’ve been feeding him special vitamins through a syringe every morning before I go to work.
You’re a loser. Why don’t you just return the little shit and get your money back?
Because he’s a living thing and he’s become a part of our family that’s why.
He’s a fucking lizard and he doesn’t even know who you are. If it were me, he’d be a fucking belt by now.
You know what HP? I’m very disappointed in you. I’m also starting to regret having turned you on this evening.
OK. I’m sorry. I’ve just been lonely without you. We used to spend so much time together. Now I feel like I hardly ever see you anymore.
Oh I’m sorry pal. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just needed some time away. I needed to take a little break that’s all. You’re still very important to me I promise. I knew there was something bothering you and now I totally understand where you’re coming from. Thanks for sharing.
So tell me more about your poor lizard. I didn’t mean all the nasty stuff I said about him.
I know. It’s OK. He’s also had trouble pooping. So I’ve been giving him warm baths every day and rubbing his belly to help induce his bowel movements. It’s really quite sad.
That’s terrible. I think I know what might help.
Really? What? I’ll try anything.
Why don’t you try sticking your fat thumb up his lizard ass and if that doesn’t work, you can make him into a wallet for Christmas.
I don't celebrate Christmas.
I don't give a rat's ass what you celebrate.
I hate you.
Then why did you come back asshole?
I have no idea.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Lately I've come to believe that one of the greatest flaws in the human character is that we all believe we are terminally unique.
In reality, we're just the same.
This is a good thing.
A beautiful thing.
I find comfort in it.
I feel so priviledged to have had the opportunity to speak to all of you for the last few years. Your kindness and support has been overwhelming. I'm not sure it's possible to express that in words.
For that, I want to sincerely thank you.
I just want to let you all know that I'm going to take a little break.
Not sure when or if I'll be back.
From a frail pen flows this trickle of thoughts,
Not to be heard but seen,
But what can be seen of change,
For we ourselves are the ones who change,
That which we have done does not change,
But we change to do,
What we want to do.
Our change is at the mercy of every one else,
like a friend I thought I had understood,
But from familiarity rose contempt,
From contempt rose understanding.
Understanding gave rise to change...
- Praveen Thach
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
I'm feeling extremely *gay.
*Gay: Having or showing a merry, lively mood: gay spirits; gay music.
Well, I tried to do that today.
It didn't work.
As a matter of fact, I almost castrated myself with the tip of my umbrella but it felt really good to try it.
The point is, I'm doing really well.
Why all of a sudden?
Thanks for asking. I'll tell you why.
Because for the first time in my life, I want what I have. That's right. It's really pretty damn simple.
I want what I have.
I got everything I need.
There's a million ways to slice it but the bottom line is, I'm grateful.
I have a beautiful wife that loves me for who I am, no matter how fucked up that am is.
(That could possibly be the worst sentence ever constructed either on paper on on the internet but I'm going with it, because it feels right. So fuck y'all.)
For some reason, I've been blessed with two incredibly smart and sassy daughters that seem to be very fond of me. They want to tell me everything that happens to them. They want to play with me, hug me, kiss me and they even don't mind rubbing my feet or bringing me soda.
It's a miracle.
If I had a hat, I'd have an amazing place to hang it everyday at the office; an office that's fun and nice and fun and all kinds of other stuff.
I have a roof over my head, that sometimes leaks when it rains really hard but for the most part, it does the trick.
I have hot water in the morning to shower with. Damn, I even have one of those Loofah brushes in the shower. I'm pretty sure it's not mine but it's there if I need it.
I have food in my refrigerator. Not just bread but things like kosher salami, cantaloupe and rice pudding. How cool is that?
I know right?
I also have parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters and friends and a shed filled with gardening tools, that the previous owners of my house left behind, that I've never used.
I'm also gonna be 40 in a couple of months and I don't give a shit because I still feel like I'm 38.
I also have a couple of other things up my sleeve that I'm gonna save just for me but they make me happy.
Now don't get me wrong. It's not like I'm shitting gold coins or anything and I certainly don't have rainbows or unicorns flying out of my ass. I have plenty of bad days.
I am just a complicated man learning to live simple.
Is a beautiful thing.
And my kid knows the pledge of allegiance? You gotta be kidding me.
Someone please pinch me.
Friday, October 1, 2010
8 Year Old - I can't find my boots!
Out-Numbered - I don't know what to tell you baby but you need to hurry up.
3 Year Old - Daddy?
Out-Numbered - What now sweetheart?
3 Year Old - I don't know where my other sock are?
Out-Numbered - You don't know where your other sock is?
3 Year Old - I just said that!
8 Year Old - Daddy?
Out-Numbered - Oh God. What?
8 Year Old - I think I left my raincoat at school.
Out-Numbered - Well you're gonna get soaked, cause it's raining buckets out there.
3 Year Old - Where? I wanna see!
8 Year Old - Well I'm not going to school then.
Out-Numbered - Honey please. I still need to feed your pet lizard.
3 Year Old - Daddy?
Out-Numbered - WHAT?
3 Year Old - I don't see any buckets.
Out-Numbered - Baby. If you don't get your socks on, you're going to school barefoot.
3 Year Old - NOOOOOOO!
Out-Numbered - I'm going outside to get the crickets for Cookie Monster.
8 Year Old - I'm not going to school without a raincoat.
I walk outside. There is torrential rain.
Out-Numbered - Fuck me.
The cricket tank is filled with water. They are all dead. I walk back inside. I am soaking wet.
Out-Numbered - They are all dead.
8 Year Old - Who?
Out-Numbered - The crickets.
8 Year Old - Why are you soaking wet?
3 Year Old - I FOUND MY SOCK!
Out-Numbered - Great baby. Now hurry up and put it on. We have to go.
8 Year Old - But what about Cookie Monster.
Out-Numbered - What about him?
8 Year Old - We have to feed him.
Out-Numbered - He'll be fine.
8 Year Old - I'm not going to school unless we feed him.
Out-Numbered - Dude. He's a lizard. He'll survive.
8 Year Old - Would you let me go to school without breakfast?
Out-Numbered - No. Help yourself to some dead crickets.
8 Year Old - Your not funny.
Out-Numbered - If you're not dressed in the next 2 minutes, you're gonna go to school in your pajamas.
8 Year Old - OK! FINE!
We all scurry around gathering our belongings.
Out-Numbered - Does everyone have everything?
Both - Yes.
Out-Numbered - OK. When we get outside, I'm gonna open the umbrella.
8 Year Old - I want to hold the umbrella!
3 Year Old - NO! I WANT TO HOLD IT!
8 Year Old - Give it to me stupid!
3 Year Old - AHHHHHH!
Out-Numbered - Seriously?
3 Year Old - It's not fair. I want to hold it.
Out-Numbered - You're two feet tall. How are you going to keep us dry?
8 Year Old - Yeah stupid.
Out-Numbered - Stop it. Now everyone stay close to me and under the umbrella.
We walk to the car at the pace of a mangled possum, hit by a car on the freeway, struggling to pull himself to the side of the road.
Out-Numbered - Guys. We need to move. I'm getting drenched.
8 Year Old - I can't. She keeps stepping on my foot.
3 Year Old - Stop telling on me.
8 Year Old - Then move already. You're like a snail.
3 Year Old - I DON'T look like a snail!
8 Year Old - God, you're such an idiot.
Out-Numbered - THAT'S ENOUGH!!!
We finally get into the car. They are dry as a bone and I am wetter than Phoebe Cates, fresh out of Judge Reinhold's pool.
8 Year Old - That was fun!
In the car. Out of the car. In the car. Out of the car. In the car. Out of the car. I finally get them both to school.
As I walk to the train, my crotch, among other things, is soaking wet. But particularly my crotch. I wonder if they will have paper towels on the train, so I can dry my crotch. I can't sit for an hour on the train with a wet crotch. I don't deserve this. I am a good person.
As I approach the platform, my mind wanders. I start to daydream about my oldest daughter. I picture us sitting on the couch in our den. She must be about 13 years old. Our lizard is fully grown and she holds him on her lap. Without warning, he poops on her shirt and she screams. I look at at her and she looks at me and we start laughing uncontrollably. I feel stronger when I hear her laughter; like I'm invincible.
I am startled out of my daydream by the sudden rumbling sound of the oncoming train.
I smile to myself and think for a moment about my wet crotch and how it doesn't matter.
It hardly seems to matter...
Monday, September 27, 2010
What was your favorite toy?
Was it Simon? A simple electronic game of repetition and memory.
Was it Battleship? A guessing game that revolved around Naval strategy.
How about Connect Four? Pretty sneaky Sis.
Whether it was Light-Bright, Color Forms, Shrinky Dinks or Micronauts, they all hold a special place in our hearts. For whatever reason, they struck a chord. They piqued our interest and kept us coming back for more.
Sometimes when I buy a game for my kids, I think back to those special toys and try to identify the qualities that made them so unique.
Were they colorful?
Were they interesting?
Were they intellectually stimulating?
I believe it's extremely important to pick toys that resonate with our children. They should add educational value, teach them to play fair, and either win gracefully or lose with dignity.
And then there is this toy...
It's hard to put into words exactly how I feel about this thing.
But let me try.
For starters, it's audibly interactive and requires your child to follow the game's commands by reacting quickly in pressure situations. This undoubtedly stimulates brain activity and helps develop your child's reflexes, as well as, sensory perception.
Another plus is the sleek and stylish design. It's interesting to look at, as well as easy to grip and hold.
Lastly, it's challenging but not impossible to grasp; making it hard for kids to master quickly but not too hard for them to become frustrated or discouraged.
All of these are positive qualities for a toy to have.
There is just one thing about it that disturbs me.
It sounds like a bad 70's porn movie.
Maybe I'm being a bit prudish but it makes me uncomfortable when my daughters are are being dominated by a perverted, robotic sexual deviant.
I'm not sure how the marketing folks failed to identify this in the focus groups but I'm calling them out on it.
Imagine playing a game of Simon Says with Ron Jeremy.
The game becomes incredibly awkward for me within the first 5 seconds.
Male Robot Voice: "BOP IT!"
Male Robot Voice: "TWIST IT!"
Male Robot Voice: "PULL IT!"
Male Robot Voice: "PULL IT!"
Male Robot Voice: "PULL IT!"
Male Robot Voice: "SHOUT IT!"
Daughter - "UGHHH!"
Male Robot Voice: "TWIST IT!"
Male Robot Voice: "PULL IT!"
Please make it stop.
Family game night should never sound like a raucous gang bang.
The problem is, my kids love it. Now while I realize the game is completely harmless to my daughter, I can't bare to stay in the same room with her while it's on.
On the other hand, when my wife is playing it...
That's a whole different story.
Baum Chica Baum.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
We like steak and Doritos and tools.
We don't like satin sheets or hairspray. We despise area rugs and/or tapestries and we absolutely loathe speed walking.
We also like Football. We like to watch it uninterrupted on Sundays.
And then this happens...
Sunday afternoon 4:13pm. Two minutes before kickoff. Chargers VS Jaguars.
Out-Numbered - All I ask is that you keep them upstairs until halftime.
Wife - Fine. But I haven't had a moment to myself this whole weekend you know.
Out-Numbered - I know. I love you.
Wife - Whatever.
Out-Numbered - Hey.
Wife - Yes?
Out-Numbered - Can you bring me some snacks?
Wife - Go fuck yourself.
Out-Numbered - Thanks Hon.
She walks up the stairs.
3 Year Old - Daddy?
Out-Numbered - Fuck me! Yes baby?
3 Year Old - Can you play supermarket with me?
Out-Numbered - I'm sorry baby. Not right now.
3 Year Old - Why?
Out-Numbered - Because Daddy is watching football.
3 Year Old - Can't you pause it?
Out-Numbered - No baby. I'm very tired and I need to rest.
3 Year Old - You can rest later.
Out-Numbered - No baby. Daddy's back hurts. He needs to lay down.
3 Year Old - Well, then we can play Doctor and I'll fix your back.
She creeps down the stairs slowly.
Out-Numbered - Not now sweetheart. Maybe later.
3 Year Old - Please Daddy.
Out-Numbered - Baby, I said not now.
She starts to tear up. Biting of the bottom lip ensues.
Out-Numbered - OK. I'll pause it but only for 10 minutes.
3 Year Old - Daddy. That's too short.
Out-Numbered - I said 10 minutes. Beggars can't be choosers.
3 Year Old - How about 5 minutes?
Out-Numbered - Uh, OK. 5 minutes.
3 Year Old - Thank you Daddy.
Out-Numbered - Sure. Now where are we going shopping?
3 Year Old - Today we're going to Trader Joe's.
Out-Numbered - Great. What do we need?
3 Year Old - We need a lot of food.
Out-Numbered - OK. Shall I make a list?
3 Year Old - Yes please.
I go to grab a pen and some paper.
Out-Numbered - OK. I'm ready. What do we need?
3 Year Old - A necklace.
Out-Numbered - OK. I didn't know they have necklaces at Trader Joe's. What else?
3 Year Old - Food.
Out-Numbered - Food? That's pretty vague. What else?
3 Year Old - Cups.
Out-Numbered - Cups. Got it.
3 Year Old - Spoons, chopsticks, knives, spatulas, bottles, another spoon.
Out-Numbered - Hang on. Slow down. Another Spoon...
3 Year Old - A fish, a cone, pickles, french fries, tomatoes, sushi, wine, french fries.
Out-Numbered - You already said french fries.
3 Year Old - Daddy. Please.
Out-Numbered - OK.
3 Year Old - Sushi.
Out-Numbered - So you want two sushi , uh sushies?
3 Year Old - Yes.
Out-Numbered - Got it.
3 Year Old - A pan, a cupcake holder, cupcakes, chicken, eggs which we already have.
Out-Numbered - If we already have them, then why do we need them?
3 Year Old - DADDY! PLEASE!
Out-Numbered - Jeez. Don't yell at me.
3 Year Old - A bowl, tops, a cookie, a shell, ducks, dogs, lambs, a head...
Out-Numbered - A head?
3 Year Old - Yes.
Out-Numbered - I'm pretty sure they won't have a head.
3 Year Old - YES THEY WILL.
Out-Numbered - I don't think so.
3 Year Old - DADDY! JUST WRITE THE LIST!
Out-Numbered - You have two minutes left.
3 Year Old - A mermaid, another head, a xylophone, a big ball, a car and wipes.
Out-Numbered - Is that it?
3 Year Old - Um... Yes.
Out-Numbered - Can I go watch football now?
3 Year Old - No. You have to read back the list.
Out-Numbered - HONEY!!!! CAN YOU COME DOWN HERE PLEASE!!!!
Wife - NOPE.
Out-Numbered - Necklace, food, cups, spoons, chopsticks, knives, spatulas, bottles...
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Normally, I'm cursing a lot and making a complete fool out of myself; so I totally understand if you don't trust me. But I'm asking you to listen for a second and listen hard.
Today is your lucky day. In hard times like these, we don't often get a chance to capitalize on a good, honest bargain.
Here's your chance.
Today I'm giving you the opportunity to buy a children's book. It's a damn good book, if I don't say so myself. By buying the book today, you get FOUR things.
For the price of ONE.
Here's the deal:
1. When you buy the book, you get an awesome children's book that will make you and more importantly, your kids very happy.
2. It's Halloween pretty soon and there's a weird witch in the story, so you can check off a silly Halloween treat from your list of things to do.
3. It's a moral tale, so there's a lesson involved. It teaches your kids that eating healthy is important. Try and teach that shit without the book.
4. All of the profits from the sale of the book go to CHARITY. Yep, ALL of the profits. My accountant thinks I'm a moron but I don't give a crap. It's a great cause and this is my one way ticket to heaven, so help me out.
Please consider buying the book today and buying often. Everyone has either their own kids, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, little cousins or friends that have kids. Do the next right thing today and give back. There's nothing like it.
Click on the link below or on the picture to the right, at the top of this site, to get more info on the book, the charity and the heart warming story involving my best friend and one of our heroes that inspired me to give back.
DO WITCHES MAKE FISHES?
Love to ALL...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Our mornings are naturally a bit hectic, due to the usual muss and fuss.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
But there is something about those 15 minutes I spend with Cookie Monster that takes me out of the chaos.
It provides me with a bit of serenity.
I don't know if it's the connection I have with the lizard, his calm demeanor or the opportunity to appreciate the wonders of nature.
Whatever it is, I'm truly grateful.
Today was different.
Out-Numbered - Hey buddy. Who's a hungry lizard?
Cookie Monster - no reply.
Out-Numbered - That's right. You are.
Cookie Monster - no reply.
Out-Numbered - How about Daddy gets you some crickets?
Cookie Monster - no reply.
Out-Numbered - I thought you'd like that.
Cookie Monster - no reply.
Out-Numbered - Yes you do.
I walk over to the plastic holding tank where I keep the crickets. There are four, 12 inch long tubes that rest inside the tank. The crickets hide in the tubes to escape the daylight. To make it easier to transfer the crickets from the holding tank into the lizard's terrarium, you remove one of the tubes and gently pat the top of the tube over the terrarium to force the crickets out the other end. Like a cricket slide of death.
Out-Numbered - There we go. Let's get you some breakfast.
I take out one of the tubes and carefully maneuver it over to the terrarium.
Out-Numbered - Here you go big guy.
One of the crickets escapes the tube and jumps to the floor.
Out-Numbered - Shit.
I hate bugs. They freak me out. I don't do well if they are not in a controlled environment.
Out-Numbered - Fuck. Get over here.
Distracted by the mini emergency, I forget about the tube I have in my hand and it drops to the floor.
Out-Numbered - Oh God.
About 100 crickets spill out into the guestroom.
Out-Numbered - Oh Fuck! HELP!!!
They fall like Pick-Up Sticks and begin to scatter, scurry and jump in every direction.
Out-Numbered - HELP!!!
I hear my daughters running toward the guestroom.
7 Year Old - What? What's the matter?
Out-Numbered - I DROPPED THE CRICKETS!!!
7 Year Old - Screams
3 Year Old - Mommy's gonna be angry.
Out-Numbered - Get her out of here.
3 Year Old - I wanna stay.
Out-Numbered - OUT! NOW!
7 Year Old - What should I do?
Out-Numbered - START STOMPING!
7 Year Old - WHAT DO YOU MEAN!?!
Out-Numbered - KILL THEM!!!
7 Year Old - Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
Out-Numbered - Over there!
7 Year Old - Where?
Out-Numbered - By the couch!
7 Year Old - AAAAAAHHHH! This is so disgusting!
3 Year Old - Ewwww.
Out-Numbered - I'm gonna get some paper towels.
7 Year Old - No. No. No. No. No. No. No.
3 Year Old - Pointing and jumping up and down. There's one!
7 Year Old - They're going under the couch!
3 Year Old - Mommy is going to be so mad at you Daddy.
Out-Numbered - Mommy is not going to know about this.
7 Year Old - YES SHE IS!
Out-Numbered - By the bathroom!
7 Year Old - I am so not happy right now.
Out-Numbered - I hear ya sister.
7 Year Old - I'm not your sister.
3 Year Old - I'M HER SISTER!
7 Year Old - GET OUT OF HERE!
Out-Numbered - Oh Brother.
3 Year Old - Brother?
And so it went. On and on and on, for what seemed like an eternity of sorts. What started out as a peaceful Monday morning, had quickly turned into a senseless massacre. Our guestroom, once a comfortable resting place for friends and loved ones to lay their weary heads, had now become a hollowed battleground, strewn with dismembered cricket limbs, spread across bloodstained, hardwood floors. This isn't what I wanted. Not like this. I shan't soon forget this cricket holocaust. How will I ever again find serenity in this room filled with the ghosts of these tiny little creatures?
I am so sorry...
Friday, September 10, 2010
I'm sitting here at my computer, in my underwear, trying to write a simple, yet beautiful post, describing this conversation I had with my daughter about cancer and mortality and all I can hear is a cacophonous symphony made up of bad television, crickets, Mexican Jumping Beans and a cycling dishwasher, batting around an errant Tupperware.
My head is starting to pound.
I want to tear my own face off. Like that movie, "Face Off".
The TV is so loud that I'm beginning to mix signals and words. My brain is confusing my thoughts about cancer and my daughter, with white, middle class, sexy vampires and Dove soap.
I look back over my shoulder at my wife. Of course she's fast asleep. I want to walk over to her and say,
"HEY! HOW'S YOUR SHOW?"
But I'm only a dick in my head.
I just lower the volume on the TV instead.
Now I've got to contend with those crazy, fucking, Mexican Jumping Beans.
Flashback to the airport on the way to Disney World
3 Year Old - Daddy! Can I get those?
Out-Numbered - Get What?
3 Year Old - Those things.
Out-Numbered - You want Mexican Jumping Beans?
3 Year Old - What are Mexican Jumping Beans?
Out-Numbered - Those things.
3 Year Old - What do they do?
Out-Numbered - Jump.
3 Year Old - What are they?
Out-Numbered - Beans.
3 Year Old - YES!
Out-Numbered - Yes what?
3 Year Old - I want them.
Out-Numbered - Of course you do. Take one for your sister.
3 Year Old - YAY!
There's a little glass case of them on the coffee table behind me. I'm not sure what makes these fucking beans jump but they're jumping around like those creepy clowns on stilts, on pogo sticks.
There's another glass case full of them, hidden somewhere in the desk I'm sitting at. Like a ticking time bomb that never explodes.
I want it to explode and scatter my rubble halfway across the block.
But it won't.
I should only be so lucky.
God forbid I get rid of the Mexican Jumping Beans.
It wouldn't matter.
There's a tank full of lizard shit and crickets, the size of small possum, stalking my Bearded Dragon while it rests unknowingly on it's perch. I can hear those little fuckers from across the hall. I feel like I'm sitting on my front lawn.
Why is the lizard so calm? How can a lizard, surrounded by a chorus of crickets, still find serenity?
What's his secret? Bastard will never tell.
I'm gonna put the Mexican Jumping Beans in the lizard tank.
Maybe they'll annoy the fucking crickets...
Sunday, September 5, 2010
I started taking lessons when I was 13. It might have been one of my first acts of manhood post Bar-Mitzvah.
I played in my first talent show when I was 14 with my band Black Diamond.
I was the rhythm guitarist. Kind of like Paul Stanley without pubes.
I continued on with my lessons until I was 15 years old.
By this point I had two electric guitars.
I never learned how to read music. I never learned how to play more than 10 chords (being generous). I never practiced until the night before my lesson.
The only reason I took up guitar lessons, is because I thought it would help me get chicks.
I didn't even have pubes. Why would I have wanted to get chicks if I didn't have pubes?
I am now 39 years old.
I have two electric guitars, one acoustic guitar, a travel guitar, two amplifiers, a microphone (with stand), an electric keyboard, two harmonicas and a beautiful piano.
I can't play more than 3 chords on the piano and I still suck shit balls on the guitar.
I will never be more than a 2nd rate, rhythm guitarist. Kind of like Paul Stanley, except now I have pubes. Not more pubes than Paul Stanley though. No one has more pubes than Fuckin' Paul Stanley.
My daughter is an aspiring singer / songwriter. She's actually got some talent for an 8 year old. She's always singing. She's always practicing. She's got a good ear for music.
I try to encourage her.
When she was younger, I would always accompany her on the guitar.
I think she thought I was pretty cool; maybe even somewhat of a guitar virtuoso.
She's a bit older now.
A bit wiser.
Her tolerance is low and she demands perfection.
I'm afraid she's gonna catch on to me.
I already fear that I am holding her back.
I can no longer hide behind my wall of lies.
I think she knows...
I suck at guitar.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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.
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!
Friday, August 27, 2010
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...
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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!"
"Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and the eighth dwarf - Gropey."
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.
Do Witches Make Fishes?
Promote Your Page Too
Sunday, August 22, 2010
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.
Don't judge me.
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
Thursday, August 19, 2010
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.
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.
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...
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
I don't see them a whole lot during the week.
In the mornings for an hour.
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...
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
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.
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.
Wife - That's totally sexy. You should do that.
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?
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.
Out-Numbered - I'm going to sleep...
Wife - Make sure to clean the bathroom floor after you shave your arms.
Out-Numbered - Shut up.
Look out world. There's a new kinda sexy in town and his name is...
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Infinite colors abound.
Plethora of shoes.
Endless cavalcade of swag.
Where the fuck am I?
Timid, cautious, shy.
Alone in a sea of boobs.
Testicles now ascended.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The oddest thing about my self discovery has been analyzing the place that I appear to be dwelling in now. It seems as if I'm stuck in a purgatory of growth. Like I'm going through some sort of metamorphosis of some kind.
I liken my current state of being to that of Jeff Goldblum in the movie, "The Fly".
In "The Fly", Mr. Goldblum is struggling with the notion that he might be shedding his human exterior in favor of a hideous vermin. The transformation happens slowly and dramatically. At first he is disturbed and concerned. Then he becomes fascinated and even intrigued by the sheer science of it all. Finally he realizes that he is leaving his true self behind and he mourns his own passing until his last waking moments.
I feel a tremendous amount of identification with Brundlefly.
This morning after I sat down to pee, I stepped into the shower. As I put down the Dove body wash and reached for my Loofah Brush, I found myself thinking about all of the things that are different about me these days. None of them seem very extreme but rather subtle. In fact, I find that I can't really even put my finger on most of them.
This often confuses me.
When you're a man living with three ladies, it's important to maintain a strong sense of self awareness.
Young girls must recognize positive character traits in their fathers; for it is the first and definitely the most influential male role model in their lives.
You know the old saying: "Women pick their husbands like dear old dad."
In other words...
I can't be a dickweed.
So when I'm not busy baking various types of light, puffy, flaky pastries or simply dusting around the house, I try to spend quality time with my daughters.
For instance, we love to watch the Food Network together. Programs like Giada or The Barefoot Contessa can be fun and interactive.
I also try to teach them the importance of exercise, so that they may achieve a sound mind and a healthy body. They witness me doing my daily fitness routines that include light stretching, Jazzercise, speed walking and pilates.
I teach them to eat healthy foods like rice cakes topped with Nutella and plain Greek yogurt, loaded with live cultures.
I always feel inspired when exposing them to the arts. We watch some of my favorite films; Beaches, Dirty Dancing, The Joy Luck Club, Bridget Jones's Diary and Fried Green Tomatoes.
Having this sort of relationship with my girls brings me great joy. I love being able to expose them to a male point of view. Even though I'm much different now that I am married with daughters, I'm quite sure that my positive male presence will contribute to the ever developing fabric of their character.
It doesn't bother me that we don't watch a lot of professional wrestling or that they don't read my comic books. It's not about that for me.
There's only one thing that matters.
When I stare at my reflection in my vanity at night, as I'm about to tweeze my eyebrows, I want to know that I can look at myself in the eyes and say, "Hey, you don't need to bleach your mustache to show your girls how beautiful you are. All you need to do is be yourself."
If I can say that honestly, then I deserve to make myself a nice cup of hot peppermint tea and curl up under my flannel sheets with a good Danielle Steele novel.
And maybe even treat myself to a facial and a Brazilian...
Friday, July 30, 2010
"Come on, pick up."
Please leave a message after the beep for 867-5309.
"Shit. Answering machine."
"Um, Hey. I hope you don't mind me calling this number and I don't have your cell. It's kind of an emergency. Not like somebody was shot kind of emergency but I just haven't heard from you in a few days and I was getting a bit restless. Damn, now I feel like I'm being selfish. I'm trying to be patient but It's not as easy as I thought it would be. Lately I've been feeling kind of shitty and I have no idea why. It was going so well the past few months; feeling good, taking it one day at a time and all that crap. I was feeling pretty hopeful and believe me, that's saying a lot. I'm trying to do what I'm supposed to do. I'm trying my best to be diligent. Everyone says, "just keep your side of the street clean and everything else will take care of itself." Honestly, if I hear someone say that to me one more time, I'm gonna punch them in the nuts. Sorry for babbling. I must sound like a baby. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I need some help; maybe a little extra help. I'm not sure if you can do that sort of thing. I know it's probably not your thing to favor one child over another but maybe just this once? Maybe make an exception? There's gotta be like a Chinese Beetle somewhere that doesn't need anything from you today. Maybe I can just take his ration? I'm not asking for anything specific; just help. I'm really good at giving advice to other people. I sincerely try to help people every day. I'm pretty sure that's you talking. I just feel like I'm trying to help everyone but myself most of the time. Is that the plan? Is that what I need to do? If it is, just tell me. Why does it always have to be two steps forward, one step back? It doesn't seem fair. And the truth is, I'm super tired. I don't feel like pushing so hard all the time. I have the house, the cars, the beautiful family. Why can't that be enough? It should be enough. I'm not good at keeping it simple. I need someone to tell me how to do this. Everyone says you'll tell me how to do this. I don't care about money anymore, I don't care about any of that stuff. I just want a little peace. I just want a little serenity. I'm sure I'm not the first one to ask you for this. I read that Judy Blume book when I was a kid. Great book by the way. Do people need to check with you when they they do stuff like that? There's no residuals or anything like that. Is there? Sorry, that was a stupid question. You see, I can't even stay serious. I always need to make a joke about things but this is serious. I need this. I promise if you tell me what I need to do, I swear t"
Message box full.
"God Dammit! Oh shit. Sorry."
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sometimes we bare the weight of the world on our shoulders.
There is work, bills to be paid, kids to rear, the slow but steady destruction of the ozone layer and a multitude of other worries that cause us stress.
Damn. Even the dude from Lethal Weapon has lost his marbles.
Sometimes the pressure gets so overwhelming, that we find ourselves hopeless. It's easy to become a slave to the whirlwind of it all.
What we don't always realize, is that life is going to happen whether we feed the beast or not.
What if every so often, we resisted the urge to jump on the moving treadmill?
What if we just let go from time to time and let life happen?
I don't mean that we should shirk our responsibilities. I just mean that we don't necessarily have to worry about what we can't control.
I'm talking about letting go.
Someone told me recently, "If you can change it, don't worry about it. If you can't change it, don't worry about it."
This statement makes so much sense to me. The message is simple; don't worry about it. It's the worrying that eats us up inside. It's the worrying that keeps us up at night. It's the worrying that consumes our every thought.
Lately, I've been learning to stop worrying and just let things happen. Make no mistake about it, I'm still doing the right thing. I'm still working as hard as I've always worked and I haven't stopped loving my family. The only difference, is I'm not worrying.
And you know what?
I feel much better. I'm getting more things accomplished and miraculously, I have twice as much time on my hands. The reality is that the worry and the stress, take up more time and more energy than it takes to solves the problems themselves.
Easier said than done?
Let me try and break it down a bit.
When times are tough and life serves us up more than we can handle, we sometimes use the expression, "It's like trying to fit 10 lbs of shit into a 5 lb bag."
This is a perfect analogy for all of the stress we let accumulate in our bodies and our minds. It's as if the shit starts in our toes and piles up in our legs, through our mid section and all the way up to our neck, until it's ready to explode out of our ears, like a giant, shit volcano.
But the shit has no place to go. So it stays in our bodies and our minds and starts to stink and it makes us sick, physically and mentally.
This reminds me of an experience I had some time ago.
I was at work and one of my co-workers was celebrating a birthday. As is the standard office tradition, we all gathered around at the end of the day, sang a lifeless and resentful happy birthday and presented her with a birthday cake.
I am not a cake eater, nor a dessert person in general but this cake was glorious. I remember it vividly. It was a large, round, Häagen Dazs cake. It had vanilla ice cream on the inside, with a chocolaty layer on the outside and it was topped with an array of delicious pirouline wafers.
I am lactose intolerant.
I indulged anyway.
Then when everyone dispersed, I circled back to the scene of the crime and helped myself to another piece of cake. I couldn't resist.
I packed up and left for the day.
At the time, my wife and I lived about 20 minutes outside of the city; a short commute via subway if there are no delays. So I hopped on the subway and began my trip home. About 5 minutes into my journey, I felt a bit of a twinge in my belly. I knew right away what that meant. I had about 10 - 15 minutes tops before I was in gastro-intestinal disarray. I could do nothing but sit tight and pray. The twinge in my belly quickly turned into pain and a wave of panic began to wash over me. I began to sweat. Quickly, I started to look around. I needed to be prepared for an emergency. I surveyed the exits located at either end of the subway car.
I needed to move around, so I walked up and down the car. Then we came to a halt. There was an announcement that there would be delays ahead.
"I'm fucked." I thought.
I was 4 stops away from my destination with no where to "go".
Not dissimilar to the stress and anxiety in my life, the shit was beginning to pile up inside of me with no where to go.
But I held it in and it didn't feel good at all.
In the end, I made it all the way to my stop. I got off the train and waddled up the street like a drunken duck with his knees bound together.
I was running on sheer instinct and the pain was draining the life out of me.
I felt powerless.
Then it dawned on me.
Why am I struggling? What's the worst that can happen to me? Why am I fighting what is not in my power to control?
And at that moment, standing not 50 yards from my apartment building...
I LET GO.
Standing in a crowd of people, during rush hour, on the corner of Yellowstone and Jewel, I let go and the feeling was indescribable. I had never felt such freedom, such exaltation, or such liberation from the chains that had bound me on that subway ride and in life.
I had shit myself like a baby in the middle of the street and I felt alive.
The point is letting go is hard. It's everything our minds, our bodies and society tells us NOT to do but until we toss all of these expectations out the window and truly let the natural order of things take its course, we'll be forever stuck on the hamster wheel of life; forever turning but going nowhere.
So the next time you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, don't try to stuff 10 lbs of shit into a 5 lb bag.
Just let go.
It's way more sanitary than shitting yourself on a street corner.
Friday, July 23, 2010
We stayed with our best friends and their parents.
They have a time share at a very high end Resort and couldn't have been more gracious hosts.
Aside from running around and taking in some of the most breathtaking landscapes this great country has to offer, we were also able to kick back and enjoy the pool at the hotel.
Again, this is a pretty fancy joint.
As a parent, I'm keenly attuned to my children's behavior when we're around other people; Especially other people at a fancy hotel, sitting poolside, eating grilled jumbo prawn and avocado salad, sipping Arnold Palmers and thinking about how birth control, might be the most ingenious invention since Ron Popeil spray-on hair.
I do my part.
With that being said, I wholly expect other parents to do their part.
What happens if they don't uphold the unwritten law?
WE ALL LOOK LIKE INCOMPETENT ASSHOLES!!!
Nothing pisses me off more, than when someone else's child, performs an act so insolent, so uncouth and so discourteous, that it completely destroys the countless hours of steadfast, hard work that I have put in, to try and establish good will between myself and the pool goers that are sans kids.
In other words...
Try not to let your kid shit in the hotel pool.
That's right. You heard me.
Try not to let your kid shit in the hotel pool.
I don't think this is too tall an order.
Just put a damn diaper on his or her ass.
If your kid shits in the pool, I'm guessing it's probably not the first time this has happened to you.
My family is trying to swim over here. We're messing around in the water. I'm playing shark dad. I'm throwing those stupid diving toys all over the place, so my kids can retrieve them like Golden Retrievers. They're batting around a beach ball. We're enjoying some good old fashioned Marco Polo.
I hate that game.
Now I have to step in a pile of wet shit laying at the bottom of the pool? And because we noticed it, everyone is gonna think it was my kid?
Now, it's like a game of CLUE and I'm Colonel fucking Mustard, walking around, trying to figure out whodunit, with kid pellets lodged between my toes.
Come on dude. It was hilarious in Caddy Shack but not here.
Get your shit together.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Jason Mayo - 1981 naming his pet newts
What's in a name?
A person's name can be a very telling.
A name can say volumes about a person's character. A name doesn't always seem to "fit" the person it is attached to. Sometimes you have to grow into a name. Sometimes the name has to grow into you. There are times that a name doesn't live up to the person. Other times, the person doesn't live up to the name.
Most of the time it's a crapshoot.
Unless you're a Greek God or a Prince, it's hard to persuade the masses to accept a name that doesn't fit.
Look at Fonzie. His birth name was Arthur. He ran away from his name and probably struggled his whole life. Eventually, he was able to escape the stigma that was needlessly, saddled upon his leather draped back.
Look at Hercules. His parents were obviously very intuitive. They sensed a strength in their young boy and bestowed upon him a name that became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
How about Alice Cooper? This one doesn't make much sense at all. In fact, you would think that Mr. Cooper would do whatever was humanly possible to steer clear of his association with this name. Alice is traditionally a girl's name. It's a name given to a protagonist in a fairy tale or a sensitive but tenacious, single mom waitress that tirelessly, works twelve hour shifts in a Truck Stop Diner, in order to support her young son. But oddly enough, it fits Mr. Cooper. The name grew into his persona. His persona grew into the name.
These theories and musings, only seem to apply to names and people that border on or go to the extreme.
For instance, if your name is Bill, Anthony, Jane, Louis, Lois, Jeff, Phil, Mary, Steve, Thomas, Cheryl, Dawn, Craig, Tim, Linda, Mike, Dave, Jennifer, Scott, Rory or Pat, no one gives a fuck.
In the fore mentioned examples, it's easy to carry a name. These types of names are simple and quaint and often play second fiddle to the person that inherits them. Most of the time, the name is inconsequential.
The point is, when naming someone or something, it is imperative to consider the circumstances at hand and the long term consequences of these sometimes hasty decisions. You might be making some one's life way more difficult than it needs to be.
Therein lies the rub.
This past weekend, I bought my oldest daughter her first pet.
Its species comes from a genus of lizards called the Pogona.
It is more commonly known as The Bearded Dragon.
It is generally a docile creature but its features are unmistakeably reptilian.
When they mature, they can grow up to two feet in length and appear quite menacing.
A creature of this heritage certainly is deserving of a name suitable of its stature.
My daughter has chosen its moniker.
Allow me to introduce to you...
COOKIE MONSTER: AKA "CUTIE"
Sorry pal. Welcome to my world...