The waiting room is very nice. It has the best doctor’s office magazines that I have ever read. I find that this is very weird because it is the OB/GYN’s office. I would expect more magazines on babies and flower arrangements, but they have a nice assortment of Newsweek and Time. I even found a Sports Illustrated there once. It’s either because the doctor is a male and understands how uncomfortable this is for me or it was left by the last set of perverts that were there.
Because that is what we all feel like. You are sitting there, waiting for your wife to show up, and in walks a lady that looks like your Grandma. You know that she is there to get some work done under the hood. How can you not feel like a pervert, the sick disgusting person that you are. You don’t mean to think this, but you do, thus you should be in prison. Even when the thought immediately leaves your head and you gag a little bit, you still thought it. The only men that may feel comfortable is the actual doctor but have you ever noticed that he doesn’t come out into the waiting room? My money is that he feels creepy to.
I’m sitting there waiting for my wife and the cold sweats are whipping me. There are several ladies there as well of various ages. I see one other guy and we make silent eye contact followed by the head nod. There will be no talking as we both are embarrassed that we have been witnessed here. His eyes seem to beg to let me know that he is there because his wife is pregnant and not because this is how he gets his rocks off. I acknowledge this and send this message back.
I bury my head in a copy of Newsweek. This is a subtle signal to the other people there that I am intelligent and not Mr. Quick Peek. The other women steal the occasional glace at me and I’m sure they are disgusted or amused at the level of my uncomfort. Finally my wife shows up and a massive amount of relief pours over me. This validates my reason for being there. I have an intense fear that she is going to stiff me there one day so I wait for 2 hours and then leave alone. The cops will probably be waiting for me outside.
She knows that I am uncomfortable here and finds it very funny. If I can make my wife laugh through pregnancy, then I’ve done my job. We sit and wait and the nurse finally calls my wife. I do my duty and carry her purse, a true sign that I am in total submission and just wanting people to tell me what to do.
The first stop is the urine test. The nurse handed the cup and I asked her if she wanted mine too. You see, when I get nervous in situations I crack very bad jokes. But how the hell do I know that she doesn’t want mine? Maybe there is some DNA test, I have no idea. The nurse looks at me with understanding. She is my savior and has dealt with many uncomfortable husbands.
She asks me to go to the second door down and wait in the room. I turn in at the first door to see a very pregnant lady on the table. I can’t think straight, I have tunnel vision. What the hell do I say to the lady on the table. How do I convince her that I am legit and there is no need to scream? Welcome Mr. Jokey. “You’re not my wife” I say and smile, hoping that she will let me leave in peace. She gives a half hearted laugh that I hear as I tail it to the right room.
These places are so odd. There are only two places to sit. A gimp stool for the doctor and the table. Where the hell does dad go? I never know what to do in this place and wish they just had a big sign saying “Dad sit here”. That would make life a lot easier. My wife shows up from the sample drive and sits on the table.
I do what any husband does in these situations. I start playing with all the machines and gadgets in the office. I pay for it, I should get the test drive. The most interesting piece is the massive koochie flashlight. It’s about knee high and has this snake like flashlight on it. At first I don’t know what the hell this is for but am thinking it would come in very handy in the garage. I ask my wife and she looks at me and starts laughing. That’s when it dawns on me that this thing has seen more tweeter than Mick Jagger. I immediately stop playing with it. There was a shadow puppet show that I was doing that suddenly had it’s last curtain call.
The rooms feels extremely small, almost claustrophobic. I’m a decent size dude and normally bump into a ton of things. I always have a random bruise but never much cared. Now it’s going to backfire.
I’m backing away from the vagina probe when I bump into the machine behind me. I move quickly and my arm scraps something gooey and very cold. I have no idea what this is but I’m pretty sure that it’s going to end badly. I turn around and there is this refridgerator sized thing with one large like finger. Oddly, this finger is glistening in something. What the hell is this? It looks like it was made on Planet Omacron.
My wife starts laughing so hard I think that she is going to give birth right now. I have no idea what is so funny but am running around looking for a paper towel. Through spurts of laughter, my wife tells me that it is the vaginal sonogram machine, the reason we are here today. OH. DEAR. LORD. I have just excited the VS and now I have goop on me.
I have never wanted to get out of a place so fast in my life. There is not a prison worse in the world than the small alien probing station at the OB/GYN office. This makes Thailand look like a resort spa. I can’t find any paper towels. This is a doctor’s office, there should be paper towels! I grab a handful of cotton balls to get the embarrassment juice off me. I am now a marked man. I am wearing the scarlet letter of the OB/GYN’s office. My wife can’t stop laughing, I can’t blame her. Apparently, they lube this thing up before probing my wife, very considerate I think. They just don’t tell Mr. Awkward husband.
That’s it, I’m done. No more jokes, no more nothing. I decide to stand right where I am at in military attention. Until I get the at ease sign, I’m not taking another step in this chamber of horror. I have no idea how my wife does this. I have no idea how so many people and things poke her and she doesn’t slug someone. It’s then that I realize how easy I have it. Cleaning, no problem, I’ll get on that, just don’t stick anything up my intestines.
The nurse comes in and I can’t take it anymore. “Where do I go?” I gasp in desperation. She points to a spot in the corner by the window. And that’s were I stay for the remainder of the trip. I’m not moving. The doctor comes in and starts making small talk with his head between my wife’s legs. Cut the chit-chat brother and let’s just lock it up. I don’t want to talk to anyone in that position.
The visit is over and we are free to leave as parole has been granted. I’m feeling great as I just got the first look at what would become my daughter. I know that I am to go through this again in March. I swear to god I will not touch anything and retreat to my happy place in the corner, by the nice window with the nice view.
2/28/07
2/27/07
Sermon on the Mount
Come brothers, gather at my feet and I shall instruct you. Your wife is pregnant and you wish to know how to handle the trials and tribulations that have befallen you. Listen to my voice of experience as my wife is also with child and I have done this once before. Take heed from my mistakes and write down Hossman’s Ten Commandments of Pregnancy.
1. Realize that everything is your fault eventually. Accept this and move on. You got her pregnant. You don’t clean the house. You don’t listen to her needs. You play to much xbox. You can’t cook to save your life. Here is the reality: It is all true. You can’t do any of those things and you love xbox. It is in your DNA. Do not point out that you were like this prior to the pregnancy. Do not take any of this personally, after all you are the bastard that did this to her.
2. Hire a maid. I don’t care if you have to get a second job, get a maid. Everything else is secondary. You can’t clean the toilet to her satisfaction. This is where she pukes when the morning sickness comes, so bite down and get the maid.
3. Go to bed before 8pm. This one is hard as a lot of us don’t like to go to bed before the sun sets. Here is the solution. Go to bed, read a book until she falls asleep. Then get up and go finish watching Busty Cops II by yourself, where it is more enjoyable anyway. When she wakes up, immediately tell her that you enjoyed going to bed that early and that you were with her all night, even if you didn’t come to bed until 3 am because Alien Marauders invaded your Xbox universe. If she catches you coming to bed, tell her that you just went to the bathroom. And for god sakes, play the Xbox on MUTE!
4. Inform the neighbors that your wife is pregnant and if they hear something in the middle of the night, to ignore it. Why this? Because in about month number 7 you are going to go out into the backyard and scream “FUCK!” just to get it out of your system. It’s just stress relief and does not require the cops. You have been up with her every night when she pukes, your cleaning, your cooking, your doing all your normal chores, trust me, you are going to need this.
5. Hold her hair when she pukes. Honestly, just suck it up and do it even if it is past midnight and you have a big meeting. Have a wet washcloth handy and a glass of spitting water.
6. Don’t answer any question like you normally would. If she asks if you like it when she is 8 months pregnant, you think, then say yes. If she asks if she is to hard on you, so no dear, you are just doing your part. If she asks why your genes are causing the child to kick her so hard and she can’t sleep, you say it is because that he can’t wait to come out and meet his mother. If you can get away with it, mumble every opportunity you can get.
7. Go to the OB/GYN office. I know, this is massively weird. You are a pervert and everyone knows it. Go anyway! It makes her feel better and atleast you get to hear the heartbeat of your future minion. Yes, you will have to use words like vaginal sonogram and talk about bowel movements. It’s weird, but you need to be Mr. Question for her when it comes down to it. She’ll have people poking in her like they are making a jack-o-lantern and her head might not always be there. And no, it’s not ok to punch the doctor when he is checking out your wife.
8. Fight till your last breath against using a midwife or a natural birth. I mean this and I don’t care what kind of crap I get for this. Why is this? It makes YOUR life that much harder. Have you ever seen the anger that comes out of a wife when she hasn’t had an epidural? Dude, you don’t need that. My wife actually got up and started to walk away before she got her epidural. Trust me on this. And a midwife? Nope, no way. I like it that it will cost 80,000 dollars to have a baby, that let’s me know that I’m using doctors and not the voodoo shaman. Fuck it, I have good insurance, let’s use it! So no, we will not be having my future all star linebacker in the Lovejoy birthing tub, you freak.
9. Eat your vegetables you fat bastard. Look, she has to eat right. To do that, you have to eat right. Her and your awesome kid need the nutrients, which means a lot of green stuff. Find out how to cook some broccoli and how to choke it down. She’ll won’t do it unless you do it, so suck it up. No cheese, no beer chaser, choke it down whole. You can eat your Taco Beuno at lunch at work but tell her you had a salad. You need to create team solidarity here, that means you better get to liking those sprouts, chump
10. Accept that your position is thankless and you will never receive any credit, ever. Try bringing up with any woman, ever, everything you did during the pregnancy. You will get the smackdown WWF style. A chair will be thrown at your head. You’ll be reminded that she did all the hard work and that infact, you were lucky to be included. Never mind that it is your child as well. You’ll be so quickly pushed aside that an extra in Braveheart will get more credit than you. But your Dad, and that’s your job. Get a job, put a roof up, pay for some grub, and support the family. All the other guys out there will know what you went through and secretly admire you for it. We won’t tell you though, that makes us feel gay.
Now go forth and multiply.
1. Realize that everything is your fault eventually. Accept this and move on. You got her pregnant. You don’t clean the house. You don’t listen to her needs. You play to much xbox. You can’t cook to save your life. Here is the reality: It is all true. You can’t do any of those things and you love xbox. It is in your DNA. Do not point out that you were like this prior to the pregnancy. Do not take any of this personally, after all you are the bastard that did this to her.
2. Hire a maid. I don’t care if you have to get a second job, get a maid. Everything else is secondary. You can’t clean the toilet to her satisfaction. This is where she pukes when the morning sickness comes, so bite down and get the maid.
3. Go to bed before 8pm. This one is hard as a lot of us don’t like to go to bed before the sun sets. Here is the solution. Go to bed, read a book until she falls asleep. Then get up and go finish watching Busty Cops II by yourself, where it is more enjoyable anyway. When she wakes up, immediately tell her that you enjoyed going to bed that early and that you were with her all night, even if you didn’t come to bed until 3 am because Alien Marauders invaded your Xbox universe. If she catches you coming to bed, tell her that you just went to the bathroom. And for god sakes, play the Xbox on MUTE!
4. Inform the neighbors that your wife is pregnant and if they hear something in the middle of the night, to ignore it. Why this? Because in about month number 7 you are going to go out into the backyard and scream “FUCK!” just to get it out of your system. It’s just stress relief and does not require the cops. You have been up with her every night when she pukes, your cleaning, your cooking, your doing all your normal chores, trust me, you are going to need this.
5. Hold her hair when she pukes. Honestly, just suck it up and do it even if it is past midnight and you have a big meeting. Have a wet washcloth handy and a glass of spitting water.
6. Don’t answer any question like you normally would. If she asks if you like it when she is 8 months pregnant, you think, then say yes. If she asks if she is to hard on you, so no dear, you are just doing your part. If she asks why your genes are causing the child to kick her so hard and she can’t sleep, you say it is because that he can’t wait to come out and meet his mother. If you can get away with it, mumble every opportunity you can get.
7. Go to the OB/GYN office. I know, this is massively weird. You are a pervert and everyone knows it. Go anyway! It makes her feel better and atleast you get to hear the heartbeat of your future minion. Yes, you will have to use words like vaginal sonogram and talk about bowel movements. It’s weird, but you need to be Mr. Question for her when it comes down to it. She’ll have people poking in her like they are making a jack-o-lantern and her head might not always be there. And no, it’s not ok to punch the doctor when he is checking out your wife.
8. Fight till your last breath against using a midwife or a natural birth. I mean this and I don’t care what kind of crap I get for this. Why is this? It makes YOUR life that much harder. Have you ever seen the anger that comes out of a wife when she hasn’t had an epidural? Dude, you don’t need that. My wife actually got up and started to walk away before she got her epidural. Trust me on this. And a midwife? Nope, no way. I like it that it will cost 80,000 dollars to have a baby, that let’s me know that I’m using doctors and not the voodoo shaman. Fuck it, I have good insurance, let’s use it! So no, we will not be having my future all star linebacker in the Lovejoy birthing tub, you freak.
9. Eat your vegetables you fat bastard. Look, she has to eat right. To do that, you have to eat right. Her and your awesome kid need the nutrients, which means a lot of green stuff. Find out how to cook some broccoli and how to choke it down. She’ll won’t do it unless you do it, so suck it up. No cheese, no beer chaser, choke it down whole. You can eat your Taco Beuno at lunch at work but tell her you had a salad. You need to create team solidarity here, that means you better get to liking those sprouts, chump
10. Accept that your position is thankless and you will never receive any credit, ever. Try bringing up with any woman, ever, everything you did during the pregnancy. You will get the smackdown WWF style. A chair will be thrown at your head. You’ll be reminded that she did all the hard work and that infact, you were lucky to be included. Never mind that it is your child as well. You’ll be so quickly pushed aside that an extra in Braveheart will get more credit than you. But your Dad, and that’s your job. Get a job, put a roof up, pay for some grub, and support the family. All the other guys out there will know what you went through and secretly admire you for it. We won’t tell you though, that makes us feel gay.
Now go forth and multiply.
2/26/07
The Xbox Diaries--The United Nations
I have no doubt that Xbox can bring ever lasting peace to this world. It could cure the conflicts in the Persian Gulf, bring an end to any future cold wars and settle marriage disputes. This a tall order, I know, but the Xbox is better than the UN.
In the online gaming world I ventured, I joined a game that I thought was pretty innocent at first. I had to play quick as my kid was napping and could wake up at any time.
The first voice I heard once I joined the game was an Irishman. I am assuming he was from Ireland because his accent was very thick and very cool. My wife immediately wanted to sleep with him. The next two voices that I heard were from Brittan. The smack talk was full on by the time I had gotten there. This excited me because it was not directed at me therefore allowing me to eavesdrop behind my virtual curtain like some peeping tom. It was great.
As always, there was some mother references but then the nationality references came in. It occurred to me then that perhaps I had stumbled onto some weird IRA vs The Queen grudge match. As I didn’t know the number for the state department, I decided to go ahead and represent the good ol’ USA myself. My diplomatic stance would be my chainsaw.
Citing the Boston Tea Party and the treacherous B. Arnold, I joined the Irishman in a new Gears game. They called me a lazy yank and I told them to get bent. I have a little bit of Irish blood in me, although diluted of course with democratic red white and blue freedom. . When I told Mickey Mcirish this I don’t think he was overly impressed, but he did seem eager to whip a little uppity British ass.
No one can cuss and talk smack like an Irishman. It was great. There were sheep references that I actually felt embarrassed to listen to. There was tea-bagging all over the place. It was a very intense round. I held my own and saved the Irish bastard several times. I asked him questions while we played. Like does it rain a lot, do you drink uncontrollably, and what exactly is a soccer hooligan.
He took it all in stride as we creamed the Brits back to the mother world. I told them to choke on my declaration of Hossman while I ignored taunts of the “Iraqi” situation.
The dispute was settled. The forces of good once again triumph.
Since then I have played several games where the nationalities come merging together like a big congealed mass of alien hatred. My favorite had to be the Australian kid. He couldn’t be more than 12 but he was funny as all hell. Imagine a “God Dammit” being said in that accent but with a high pitched voice. There was a little bit of ridicule but he took it very well.
And in general, most hate Americans. And like most of my country men my reply was the same: Suck it. And yes, I reminded everyone that without the USA they would all be speaking Russian so pony up the respect.
The last game I played was a bit of departure from Gears. It’s Call of Duty, a classic WWII game, Allies Vs. Axis. What made this so great was that we played with a Frenchman. It was all U.S. players beside him. So we did what we always do, we shot him. He was on our team, but no one seemed to care. I noticed that we love to rub it in, make it sting a little bit.
I swear, I got caught up in the mob mentality. My character couldn’t help it, he was following orders. The grenade just went off, I promise. Have you ever heard a Frenchman cuss. That is some funny stuff. I never understood a single word he said.
It dawned on me then that I was representing my country. That I was the spokesman for 250 million people. That my actions would dictate everyone’s attitude to this county. I am like Jesus, just not in a sacrilegious way.
I began to make amends and promote a positive on-line. I built a coalition you might say. Before I shot someone, I would sing a few bars of God Bless America so that the last thing they hear is freedom. I would offer safe asylum to anyone that crossed sides, then shoot them when they did so to remind them that freedom isn’t free. I offered free tips on how to marry to become a citizen and reminded them that our borders are completely secure.
That is about the time that the Korean kid came out of no where and blew my head off, offering some taunt that I sure as hell couldn’t understand. It always comes back to the Communists.
In the online gaming world I ventured, I joined a game that I thought was pretty innocent at first. I had to play quick as my kid was napping and could wake up at any time.
The first voice I heard once I joined the game was an Irishman. I am assuming he was from Ireland because his accent was very thick and very cool. My wife immediately wanted to sleep with him. The next two voices that I heard were from Brittan. The smack talk was full on by the time I had gotten there. This excited me because it was not directed at me therefore allowing me to eavesdrop behind my virtual curtain like some peeping tom. It was great.
As always, there was some mother references but then the nationality references came in. It occurred to me then that perhaps I had stumbled onto some weird IRA vs The Queen grudge match. As I didn’t know the number for the state department, I decided to go ahead and represent the good ol’ USA myself. My diplomatic stance would be my chainsaw.
Citing the Boston Tea Party and the treacherous B. Arnold, I joined the Irishman in a new Gears game. They called me a lazy yank and I told them to get bent. I have a little bit of Irish blood in me, although diluted of course with democratic red white and blue freedom. . When I told Mickey Mcirish this I don’t think he was overly impressed, but he did seem eager to whip a little uppity British ass.
No one can cuss and talk smack like an Irishman. It was great. There were sheep references that I actually felt embarrassed to listen to. There was tea-bagging all over the place. It was a very intense round. I held my own and saved the Irish bastard several times. I asked him questions while we played. Like does it rain a lot, do you drink uncontrollably, and what exactly is a soccer hooligan.
He took it all in stride as we creamed the Brits back to the mother world. I told them to choke on my declaration of Hossman while I ignored taunts of the “Iraqi” situation.
The dispute was settled. The forces of good once again triumph.
Since then I have played several games where the nationalities come merging together like a big congealed mass of alien hatred. My favorite had to be the Australian kid. He couldn’t be more than 12 but he was funny as all hell. Imagine a “God Dammit” being said in that accent but with a high pitched voice. There was a little bit of ridicule but he took it very well.
And in general, most hate Americans. And like most of my country men my reply was the same: Suck it. And yes, I reminded everyone that without the USA they would all be speaking Russian so pony up the respect.
The last game I played was a bit of departure from Gears. It’s Call of Duty, a classic WWII game, Allies Vs. Axis. What made this so great was that we played with a Frenchman. It was all U.S. players beside him. So we did what we always do, we shot him. He was on our team, but no one seemed to care. I noticed that we love to rub it in, make it sting a little bit.
I swear, I got caught up in the mob mentality. My character couldn’t help it, he was following orders. The grenade just went off, I promise. Have you ever heard a Frenchman cuss. That is some funny stuff. I never understood a single word he said.
It dawned on me then that I was representing my country. That I was the spokesman for 250 million people. That my actions would dictate everyone’s attitude to this county. I am like Jesus, just not in a sacrilegious way.
I began to make amends and promote a positive on-line. I built a coalition you might say. Before I shot someone, I would sing a few bars of God Bless America so that the last thing they hear is freedom. I would offer safe asylum to anyone that crossed sides, then shoot them when they did so to remind them that freedom isn’t free. I offered free tips on how to marry to become a citizen and reminded them that our borders are completely secure.
That is about the time that the Korean kid came out of no where and blew my head off, offering some taunt that I sure as hell couldn’t understand. It always comes back to the Communists.
Little Ms. Chompers
I am living a parents nightmare.
My daughter was at her party, enjoying the hoopla. There was a fellow one year old with her. This is what I imagine what went through her head.
“Hmmm, that girl sure is a lot of hair. I wonder what it tastes like”.
Then my daughter bit her and bit her hard.
It is at this particular time, when our guest is screaming like a vampire victim, that I admit to myself that my daughter is a biter.
My daughter got her teeth early and we have a grand total of 8 chompers in that little vice of pain. I don’t know why I ignored the biting but I have a suspicion of where she got it from. Our fat cat.
Our cat hates my wife, can’t stand her. She loves me so I never much cared. She also appears to dig on my daughter, just hates my wife. She hates her so much that she has actually done sneak attacks when my wife is sleeping. I always thought that this was funny, my wife not so much so. I can hear my cat making little prison shives out of the toothbrushes in the bathroom at night. Isn’t that sweet. But I never thought that she would recruit my daughter into this. It’s like a cult.
My daughter didn’t know what to do with her teeth at first. It took her a while before she got the taste of man flesh. She took a chunk out of my wife who seemed shocked. The look on Hossmom’s face made the little gremlin laugh and we have gone on from there. She has taken chomps out of a table, anything on the floor, my chest hair and a dog. Now let’s add one kid in that line up right there and you get where we are at.
I have tried doing the same things with her that I have done with the dogs. I put something sour on my finger. She couldn’t get enough of it, then asked me tequila shot and salt.
Ok, plan 2. Chastise her. “no” I say. “No what?” She seems to ask.
Moving on. I thought about putting a mouth gaurd on her, wife wouldn’t let me. Although the first time she took a chomp during breast feeding might have changed her mind.
I know that everything is a new discovery for her and I know that a lot of kids go through this. But now that she is a man eater, I feel that she has escalated this test of wills a little bit. We have gone through these before. When she was younger there were times that she would cry just to cry. I promptly told her that I could sit here all night until she goes to sleep and that she would get tired of this before I did. The contest started and lasted roughly 2 months. It was harrowing, insults may have been tossed. My wife kept me hydrated and supported as I reasoned with my 5 month year old child.
“you are tired, you and I both know it, just give in” I would say.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” she would reply.
“that makes no sense. Bed time is good time, you know it, I know it, the dog knows it.”
“AAAAAAAA, cough cough, AAAAAAAAAAAA, you are a bad dad” She said.
“Well, that’s just mean. Don’t say things you will regret.” I shot back.
“AAAAAAAAA” stop and look at random light on the ceiling “AAAAAAAA”
“If you go to bed right now I will get you a pony and Beyonce to sing at your sweet 16”
Bingo, that did it.
But how to deal with this biting as I watch another child scream for the cops. My daughter’s record will have an assault charge before she can even get out of diapers. How many victims do there have to be before this rampage is over? I am the father of a biter. The family honor has been disgraced. I fear that the other parents cast me dirty looks because of this. How do I know. Because that is what I would do. You mean your punk little kid just bit my daughter? I must now whip someone, please get in line.
As we find a way to work this out I’ve got her meeting religious people at my door. I either get rid of them quickly or they perform an exorcism. It’s win win.
My daughter was at her party, enjoying the hoopla. There was a fellow one year old with her. This is what I imagine what went through her head.
“Hmmm, that girl sure is a lot of hair. I wonder what it tastes like”.
Then my daughter bit her and bit her hard.
It is at this particular time, when our guest is screaming like a vampire victim, that I admit to myself that my daughter is a biter.
My daughter got her teeth early and we have a grand total of 8 chompers in that little vice of pain. I don’t know why I ignored the biting but I have a suspicion of where she got it from. Our fat cat.
Our cat hates my wife, can’t stand her. She loves me so I never much cared. She also appears to dig on my daughter, just hates my wife. She hates her so much that she has actually done sneak attacks when my wife is sleeping. I always thought that this was funny, my wife not so much so. I can hear my cat making little prison shives out of the toothbrushes in the bathroom at night. Isn’t that sweet. But I never thought that she would recruit my daughter into this. It’s like a cult.
My daughter didn’t know what to do with her teeth at first. It took her a while before she got the taste of man flesh. She took a chunk out of my wife who seemed shocked. The look on Hossmom’s face made the little gremlin laugh and we have gone on from there. She has taken chomps out of a table, anything on the floor, my chest hair and a dog. Now let’s add one kid in that line up right there and you get where we are at.
I have tried doing the same things with her that I have done with the dogs. I put something sour on my finger. She couldn’t get enough of it, then asked me tequila shot and salt.
Ok, plan 2. Chastise her. “no” I say. “No what?” She seems to ask.
Moving on. I thought about putting a mouth gaurd on her, wife wouldn’t let me. Although the first time she took a chomp during breast feeding might have changed her mind.
I know that everything is a new discovery for her and I know that a lot of kids go through this. But now that she is a man eater, I feel that she has escalated this test of wills a little bit. We have gone through these before. When she was younger there were times that she would cry just to cry. I promptly told her that I could sit here all night until she goes to sleep and that she would get tired of this before I did. The contest started and lasted roughly 2 months. It was harrowing, insults may have been tossed. My wife kept me hydrated and supported as I reasoned with my 5 month year old child.
“you are tired, you and I both know it, just give in” I would say.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” she would reply.
“that makes no sense. Bed time is good time, you know it, I know it, the dog knows it.”
“AAAAAAAA, cough cough, AAAAAAAAAAAA, you are a bad dad” She said.
“Well, that’s just mean. Don’t say things you will regret.” I shot back.
“AAAAAAAAA” stop and look at random light on the ceiling “AAAAAAAA”
“If you go to bed right now I will get you a pony and Beyonce to sing at your sweet 16”
Bingo, that did it.
But how to deal with this biting as I watch another child scream for the cops. My daughter’s record will have an assault charge before she can even get out of diapers. How many victims do there have to be before this rampage is over? I am the father of a biter. The family honor has been disgraced. I fear that the other parents cast me dirty looks because of this. How do I know. Because that is what I would do. You mean your punk little kid just bit my daughter? I must now whip someone, please get in line.
As we find a way to work this out I’ve got her meeting religious people at my door. I either get rid of them quickly or they perform an exorcism. It’s win win.
Team Beer
Every American male loves to compete. When we were younger, we had different sports in high school. That evolved into intramural sports in college. That was when we were still in shape and our joints still had all the fluid in them. But what to do when you graduate and get a job and a gut? Where do you go when you no longer work out and by in “shape” you mean that you can fit into your pants. Why, you join a softball team of course!
Welcome to Men’s D league and Team Beer. As the league implies, there are 3 other divisions that are better than us. We make no bones about not wanting to practice and warm-up. We realize who we are: A bunch of over 30 has beens who have enough metal in our leg braces to build the Golden Gate Bridge. Yes, we are out of shape and way past our prime. The south shall rise again!
Our first game was this weekend and it didn’t fail to live up to expectations. Our wives and girlfriends came and they have a motto for the season. It’s not a good year unless someone goes to the emergency room. Keeping on that vein, we lost both our starting pitchers before the first inning was over. Busted ankle and a hyper extended knee. It’s funny when the wives come out to watch. They have their own little world out there that scares me.
They have a rule that they break all new wives in with. In the event of an injury you do 2 things. Either go get the car for the trip to the emergency room or get some ice. Never, ever, go on the field. I wish that I could say that there was some mantra or reason to this, but instead it is from lack of concern. Usually when one of us go down I can hear a “Oh lord, what did he do?” from the bleachers. They realize that their husbands are not in shape but can’t give up the glory days. It is a more “I told you so, you fat old bastard” kind of attitude. In the course of our playing we have had several stitches, a broken arm, and one softball to the face. That last one hurt but it was very cool to watch. We are a little sadistic.
We actually have one wife that brings the actual score book to each game and tracks our stats. This scares the crap out of me because I know it may be used as cause for my dismissal. And you can’t bribe her, I’ve tried. Yes, you may have just hit into a double play which sums up your 0 and 4 game but is that reason to get rid of you? Yes, and she is a meticulous record keeper. I imagine her home is covered with snapshots of our faces and our stats posted underneath us. She thinks “Well, Johnny is in a slump, time to send him out to pasture.” Poof, you’re gone. That is how our team slowly evolved form the Expo’s of softball to the Yankees. A lot good friends gone, a lot of good friends gone, I don’t like to talk about it.
Our game style mirrors our conditioning, which is non-existent. I asked what one guy did over the winter break. His reply was “Smoke and sit on the couch.” Thus our team name: Beer. That’s how we roll. We are out of shape and not the least bit embarrassed by it. Sure, other’s can hit an inside the park home run but that fun has no equal to when a 275 pound man steals second on you. We rub that in without mercy. If anyone threw anything over the break, it was dice in Vegas. We have no shame.
Our first game was good, but not without it’s highlights. I was on second base because of my cat like reflexes. If the cat was dead. I don’t have the range of motion that I used to, mostly due to my glass-like ankles. I sprain them walking and the next day requires a tube of ben gay and ice. I was having a good game that topped off with my Sportscenter highlight. I dove for a ball, I imagine me in slow motion, the expression of victory on my brow. Full out dive, it was beauty. About half way through my ESPY nomination is when I noticed that my pants were coming down with each extra inch. Slowly, Mr. Peepers was coming out to play with the crowd. Undaunted, I made the play. The ump, and I kid you not, yelled “Out at second” and pointing at my full moon “and Out at his pants.” I mooned the wives. Several swooned. Team Beer in full Glory.
Our right fielder is also our team manager. He is not the greatest player, at his own admission. But he does something that is crucial to any good team. He is great at paperwork. No kidding, this guy can do paper work until the cows come home. He takes money, makes sure everyone shows up and is not afraid to make the tough call. Unfortunately, he plays like he is swatting gnats. He did redeem himself this weekend though. It was a high fly to right. He begins what I call the Team Beer Tap Dance. His feet start to go in all directions at once. Listen to the song “Humpty Dance” and apply baseball to it. That’s my boy. He comes up too quick, mutters an Oh shit, back peddles and closes his eyes. His arms shoot out and plop, he makes the catch. I have no idea how. God loves Team Beer, that is all I can think of. The whole team jumps for joy, panties are thrown from the stands, kids begin to buy his jersey, it is mayhem. He then fills out the appropriate form to apply for the minor leagues.
We are a very humorous team that takes no prisoners. We rip on each other more than the other team. For example, when two guys over 250 pounds get on base, we call that the Double Whooper, the batter is the cheese. We dare people to turn double plays when the manager puts all 4 fat guys back to back in the line up. He loves doing this, makes the whole team laugh. God help you if you strike out. Good for us, we do this quite often. I took a big whiff myself this weekend. No contact, eyes closed but followed by the huge grunt. The standing rule: I now have to buy the next round.
We actually have a few actual athletes on the team that carry the rest of us. It’s their temperaments that we have to watch out for. One guy throws bats. Even when he’s not angry. When he is, I duck behind my wife for the fear of a fungo being tossed at my head. You would think that this guy would be ejected. Nope. The only guy we have ever had ejected was the nicest, most straight shooting guy we have. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he hits home runs, and he got tossed. The offense? He said bullcrap. That was the word. We have guys dropping the F bombs like it’s Omaha beach, but they don’t get tossed. Mr. Bullcrap got his though. He should learn to smoke during the innings as most of team does, it calms us.
No one beats Mr. Full Swing Bunt guy though, FSB for short. This happens to be my brother in law. He is not a small man and can look very intimidating when he swings. There is a big grunt and his eyes are closed. It’s like he’s swinging at a piñata with the blindfold on. The whole infield takes a step back only to realize a moment later that he just tipped it and the ball is slowly rolling three feet. Then the horses are off and it’s fun to see him try to leg it out as the defense fumbles to figure out what has just happened. It’s a whirlwind of comedy.
We won our first game, only two injuries that I am aware of. I’m stiff and sore but I remember that chicks dig scars and glory last forever. My daughter came over and I was excited to see if what she saw. Much to my dismay, she has been eating dirt the entire game. Then I realize she is the perfect mascot for Team Beer.
Welcome to Men’s D league and Team Beer. As the league implies, there are 3 other divisions that are better than us. We make no bones about not wanting to practice and warm-up. We realize who we are: A bunch of over 30 has beens who have enough metal in our leg braces to build the Golden Gate Bridge. Yes, we are out of shape and way past our prime. The south shall rise again!
Our first game was this weekend and it didn’t fail to live up to expectations. Our wives and girlfriends came and they have a motto for the season. It’s not a good year unless someone goes to the emergency room. Keeping on that vein, we lost both our starting pitchers before the first inning was over. Busted ankle and a hyper extended knee. It’s funny when the wives come out to watch. They have their own little world out there that scares me.
They have a rule that they break all new wives in with. In the event of an injury you do 2 things. Either go get the car for the trip to the emergency room or get some ice. Never, ever, go on the field. I wish that I could say that there was some mantra or reason to this, but instead it is from lack of concern. Usually when one of us go down I can hear a “Oh lord, what did he do?” from the bleachers. They realize that their husbands are not in shape but can’t give up the glory days. It is a more “I told you so, you fat old bastard” kind of attitude. In the course of our playing we have had several stitches, a broken arm, and one softball to the face. That last one hurt but it was very cool to watch. We are a little sadistic.
We actually have one wife that brings the actual score book to each game and tracks our stats. This scares the crap out of me because I know it may be used as cause for my dismissal. And you can’t bribe her, I’ve tried. Yes, you may have just hit into a double play which sums up your 0 and 4 game but is that reason to get rid of you? Yes, and she is a meticulous record keeper. I imagine her home is covered with snapshots of our faces and our stats posted underneath us. She thinks “Well, Johnny is in a slump, time to send him out to pasture.” Poof, you’re gone. That is how our team slowly evolved form the Expo’s of softball to the Yankees. A lot good friends gone, a lot of good friends gone, I don’t like to talk about it.
Our game style mirrors our conditioning, which is non-existent. I asked what one guy did over the winter break. His reply was “Smoke and sit on the couch.” Thus our team name: Beer. That’s how we roll. We are out of shape and not the least bit embarrassed by it. Sure, other’s can hit an inside the park home run but that fun has no equal to when a 275 pound man steals second on you. We rub that in without mercy. If anyone threw anything over the break, it was dice in Vegas. We have no shame.
Our first game was good, but not without it’s highlights. I was on second base because of my cat like reflexes. If the cat was dead. I don’t have the range of motion that I used to, mostly due to my glass-like ankles. I sprain them walking and the next day requires a tube of ben gay and ice. I was having a good game that topped off with my Sportscenter highlight. I dove for a ball, I imagine me in slow motion, the expression of victory on my brow. Full out dive, it was beauty. About half way through my ESPY nomination is when I noticed that my pants were coming down with each extra inch. Slowly, Mr. Peepers was coming out to play with the crowd. Undaunted, I made the play. The ump, and I kid you not, yelled “Out at second” and pointing at my full moon “and Out at his pants.” I mooned the wives. Several swooned. Team Beer in full Glory.
Our right fielder is also our team manager. He is not the greatest player, at his own admission. But he does something that is crucial to any good team. He is great at paperwork. No kidding, this guy can do paper work until the cows come home. He takes money, makes sure everyone shows up and is not afraid to make the tough call. Unfortunately, he plays like he is swatting gnats. He did redeem himself this weekend though. It was a high fly to right. He begins what I call the Team Beer Tap Dance. His feet start to go in all directions at once. Listen to the song “Humpty Dance” and apply baseball to it. That’s my boy. He comes up too quick, mutters an Oh shit, back peddles and closes his eyes. His arms shoot out and plop, he makes the catch. I have no idea how. God loves Team Beer, that is all I can think of. The whole team jumps for joy, panties are thrown from the stands, kids begin to buy his jersey, it is mayhem. He then fills out the appropriate form to apply for the minor leagues.
We are a very humorous team that takes no prisoners. We rip on each other more than the other team. For example, when two guys over 250 pounds get on base, we call that the Double Whooper, the batter is the cheese. We dare people to turn double plays when the manager puts all 4 fat guys back to back in the line up. He loves doing this, makes the whole team laugh. God help you if you strike out. Good for us, we do this quite often. I took a big whiff myself this weekend. No contact, eyes closed but followed by the huge grunt. The standing rule: I now have to buy the next round.
We actually have a few actual athletes on the team that carry the rest of us. It’s their temperaments that we have to watch out for. One guy throws bats. Even when he’s not angry. When he is, I duck behind my wife for the fear of a fungo being tossed at my head. You would think that this guy would be ejected. Nope. The only guy we have ever had ejected was the nicest, most straight shooting guy we have. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he hits home runs, and he got tossed. The offense? He said bullcrap. That was the word. We have guys dropping the F bombs like it’s Omaha beach, but they don’t get tossed. Mr. Bullcrap got his though. He should learn to smoke during the innings as most of team does, it calms us.
No one beats Mr. Full Swing Bunt guy though, FSB for short. This happens to be my brother in law. He is not a small man and can look very intimidating when he swings. There is a big grunt and his eyes are closed. It’s like he’s swinging at a piñata with the blindfold on. The whole infield takes a step back only to realize a moment later that he just tipped it and the ball is slowly rolling three feet. Then the horses are off and it’s fun to see him try to leg it out as the defense fumbles to figure out what has just happened. It’s a whirlwind of comedy.
We won our first game, only two injuries that I am aware of. I’m stiff and sore but I remember that chicks dig scars and glory last forever. My daughter came over and I was excited to see if what she saw. Much to my dismay, she has been eating dirt the entire game. Then I realize she is the perfect mascot for Team Beer.
2/21/07
Your Bedtime Story
Gather ‘round children, it’s time for your bedtime story.
There once was a man who was bald. Yet, he was a handsome man, a man of stature and dignity. Dimples crowned his smile, which would melt many hearts of the fairer sex. He was kind to others unless they couldn’t order a meal at McDonalds in under 5 seconds.
This man was detached from most of his emotions relying greatly on common sense and something called the Hossman Principles. It wasn’t that he was dead inside, but confident that everything would work out. He was carefree and beautiful. His life was good and easy. He spent his days enjoying fast food, being lazy and in general making eyes at his wife. One day she decided that they should have a child. In the immortal words of Korn “This won’t hurt a bit, THIS WON’T HURT A BIT’
He decided that his life could use a little company of the miniature kind. “Why not” he asked. Afterall, what better way to celebrate his hossness than to bring in a DNA replica of everything that was great about him.
Thus our man had a child and all was good. Until the child found her voice and her sealegs. She quickly informed our man that things needed to change. What was once easy and quick was not complicated and demanding. There was an immediate control for power, which our man lost.
Then one day the little hoss decided that it was time to say “mama”. This perplexed our man as he spent so much time with her. Why was he being shunned? Was he not the greatness? Where was his “dada” that he lived for so much? He decided that every day he would combat this problem head on. Every time mama was uttered he would quickly say “dada”.
He felt confident that he could brainwash the small one and get his due respect. Did she not throw up on him constantly, did she not continually bonk him in the head with water bottles. He would have his dada that he craved so dearly. All he wanted was a little recognition of his greatness. His simplistic days were gone so his ego needed filling and quick.
Little hoss resisted, the will of a giant she had. She began playing mind tricks on him. She would say “nana” or “baba’ which would send our man running to clarify the speech. “No, dada, say dada” at which point she would laugh and poot.
Our man was broken. He was beginning to accept being that other guy that “mama” hung out with. And that is when little hoss had him. Her whole plan was to break him down and then build him back up. First beat him, then embarrass him, that was her motto.
As he was putting on her shoe, she said “dada”. She got so excited saying it that she wouldn’t stop. “dadadadadadadadadadadadada”. Our man was wild with excitement as his existence had been finally acknowledged. He began repeating it as fast as she was. Soon, every object in the house was known as a variation of “dada”. The table was “dadada”. The carpet was “dadadada”, even the dog became “dadadadadada”.
But only our man was known as “dada”.
And they lived happily ever after.
(This is my bedtime story that I tell my daughter).
There once was a man who was bald. Yet, he was a handsome man, a man of stature and dignity. Dimples crowned his smile, which would melt many hearts of the fairer sex. He was kind to others unless they couldn’t order a meal at McDonalds in under 5 seconds.
This man was detached from most of his emotions relying greatly on common sense and something called the Hossman Principles. It wasn’t that he was dead inside, but confident that everything would work out. He was carefree and beautiful. His life was good and easy. He spent his days enjoying fast food, being lazy and in general making eyes at his wife. One day she decided that they should have a child. In the immortal words of Korn “This won’t hurt a bit, THIS WON’T HURT A BIT’
He decided that his life could use a little company of the miniature kind. “Why not” he asked. Afterall, what better way to celebrate his hossness than to bring in a DNA replica of everything that was great about him.
Thus our man had a child and all was good. Until the child found her voice and her sealegs. She quickly informed our man that things needed to change. What was once easy and quick was not complicated and demanding. There was an immediate control for power, which our man lost.
Then one day the little hoss decided that it was time to say “mama”. This perplexed our man as he spent so much time with her. Why was he being shunned? Was he not the greatness? Where was his “dada” that he lived for so much? He decided that every day he would combat this problem head on. Every time mama was uttered he would quickly say “dada”.
He felt confident that he could brainwash the small one and get his due respect. Did she not throw up on him constantly, did she not continually bonk him in the head with water bottles. He would have his dada that he craved so dearly. All he wanted was a little recognition of his greatness. His simplistic days were gone so his ego needed filling and quick.
Little hoss resisted, the will of a giant she had. She began playing mind tricks on him. She would say “nana” or “baba’ which would send our man running to clarify the speech. “No, dada, say dada” at which point she would laugh and poot.
Our man was broken. He was beginning to accept being that other guy that “mama” hung out with. And that is when little hoss had him. Her whole plan was to break him down and then build him back up. First beat him, then embarrass him, that was her motto.
As he was putting on her shoe, she said “dada”. She got so excited saying it that she wouldn’t stop. “dadadadadadadadadadadadada”. Our man was wild with excitement as his existence had been finally acknowledged. He began repeating it as fast as she was. Soon, every object in the house was known as a variation of “dada”. The table was “dadada”. The carpet was “dadadada”, even the dog became “dadadadadada”.
But only our man was known as “dada”.
And they lived happily ever after.
(This is my bedtime story that I tell my daughter).
Can I take your Order?
Little Hoss and I were out on one of our nice jaunts several days ago. Little hoss looked to be getting a little hungry. I base this on the fact that she threw Mr. Never Stops Singing toy at the back of my head. Ahh, so precious.
Little Hoss is partial to nuggets from McDonalds. We were close by so I decided that we would pick some up on the way home, thus preventing any more toys being thrown at my head.
This is where we welcome in Mr. Johnny Take Advantage. You know the guy, he’s very popular. He is the one that squeals his tires to just manage to get infront of you in the drive thru line. Why is this so important to him? I have no idea, but I hate him. Little Hoss hates him much much more as it has delayed her nugget harvest.
He doesn’t pull up to the window to order though. Nope, he must take a good five minutes to read the menu. Listen, I’m a pretty patient guy, but let me lay down some knowledge on you. If you have to actually study to menu at McDonalds, you don’t need to eat there. IT IS ALWAYS THE SAME! How to prove my point. How many of you out there now what the number 3 meal is? That’s what I thought. If you are studying the menu, you are a retard. You are obviously shielded from mass produced food, don’t crack now.
This makes me so mad I could just spit, as my mother would say. Honestly, do us all a favor and take your big doolie truck and park it in the river, you hippie. I have jihads going on all the time.
He finally pulls up to the window after a good 5 minutes as my daughter reminds him that SHE IS HUNGRY! He doesn’t order though, good lord no. He begins to ask questions. Look, I got your one answer here. IT’S ALL UNHEALTHY! IT’S DIPPED IN FAT AND LOVE HANDLES! COME ON! Who does this!
Little Hoss has begun planning her revenge. She suggests that I throw her on the guy’s windshield so she can proceed her barrage of baby insults. Maybe even throw in a little smelly baby puke, that’s always a class favorite. That stuff stains and stinks for years. You can’t get it out, try an exorcism. Oxyclean is a joke to this stuff.
I like this second idea and am considering it when Little Hoss gets so mad that she lays a deuce. Yup, a big smelly poo. I can’t believe that my kid screamed so loud she crapped. That is fortitude ladies and gentlemen, fortitude.
I’ve been a father for over a year now. I’ve heard some people say that pooping is cute, a little poo, then make faces. Poo is never cute, the smell is never good, and crapping is Little Hoss’s forte.
I’m about to throw this diaper on Mr. Dickweed’s windshield when I think the smell hits him. He makes some arm movements and quickly ducks his head back in his car. Finally, we can order.
At the next window I’m still watching. What did he order that took so much time? An icecream cone. I feel my vein pop on my forehead. My pain is blocked by the stench that is my daughter in the backseat.
It’s the same at the movie theater. When you wait in line, then get up there, then have to Then and only Then look at movie schedule. Who does this?
Secretly, I am hoping that this icecream cone was laced with arsenic. I can only be happy now if I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this icecream cone had a first life as the nest of a huge rat family. I know that this seems harsh but I don’t care. I have a stinky one year old screaming in the backseat, there is no room for debate on this one.
The doolie pulls off, obviously running from my vengeance. My minion in the back seat is calming down after I begin to pelt her with nuggets, that golden equalizer. She is happy even though there should be a quarantine in the car by now. I hope that the window lady got a big dutch oven smell of it as I rolled down my window. Sometimes you can only get justice by smitting the ones loosely associated with the act.
Little Hoss is partial to nuggets from McDonalds. We were close by so I decided that we would pick some up on the way home, thus preventing any more toys being thrown at my head.
This is where we welcome in Mr. Johnny Take Advantage. You know the guy, he’s very popular. He is the one that squeals his tires to just manage to get infront of you in the drive thru line. Why is this so important to him? I have no idea, but I hate him. Little Hoss hates him much much more as it has delayed her nugget harvest.
He doesn’t pull up to the window to order though. Nope, he must take a good five minutes to read the menu. Listen, I’m a pretty patient guy, but let me lay down some knowledge on you. If you have to actually study to menu at McDonalds, you don’t need to eat there. IT IS ALWAYS THE SAME! How to prove my point. How many of you out there now what the number 3 meal is? That’s what I thought. If you are studying the menu, you are a retard. You are obviously shielded from mass produced food, don’t crack now.
This makes me so mad I could just spit, as my mother would say. Honestly, do us all a favor and take your big doolie truck and park it in the river, you hippie. I have jihads going on all the time.
He finally pulls up to the window after a good 5 minutes as my daughter reminds him that SHE IS HUNGRY! He doesn’t order though, good lord no. He begins to ask questions. Look, I got your one answer here. IT’S ALL UNHEALTHY! IT’S DIPPED IN FAT AND LOVE HANDLES! COME ON! Who does this!
Little Hoss has begun planning her revenge. She suggests that I throw her on the guy’s windshield so she can proceed her barrage of baby insults. Maybe even throw in a little smelly baby puke, that’s always a class favorite. That stuff stains and stinks for years. You can’t get it out, try an exorcism. Oxyclean is a joke to this stuff.
I like this second idea and am considering it when Little Hoss gets so mad that she lays a deuce. Yup, a big smelly poo. I can’t believe that my kid screamed so loud she crapped. That is fortitude ladies and gentlemen, fortitude.
I’ve been a father for over a year now. I’ve heard some people say that pooping is cute, a little poo, then make faces. Poo is never cute, the smell is never good, and crapping is Little Hoss’s forte.
I’m about to throw this diaper on Mr. Dickweed’s windshield when I think the smell hits him. He makes some arm movements and quickly ducks his head back in his car. Finally, we can order.
At the next window I’m still watching. What did he order that took so much time? An icecream cone. I feel my vein pop on my forehead. My pain is blocked by the stench that is my daughter in the backseat.
It’s the same at the movie theater. When you wait in line, then get up there, then have to Then and only Then look at movie schedule. Who does this?
Secretly, I am hoping that this icecream cone was laced with arsenic. I can only be happy now if I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this icecream cone had a first life as the nest of a huge rat family. I know that this seems harsh but I don’t care. I have a stinky one year old screaming in the backseat, there is no room for debate on this one.
The doolie pulls off, obviously running from my vengeance. My minion in the back seat is calming down after I begin to pelt her with nuggets, that golden equalizer. She is happy even though there should be a quarantine in the car by now. I hope that the window lady got a big dutch oven smell of it as I rolled down my window. Sometimes you can only get justice by smitting the ones loosely associated with the act.
Pregnancy Files--The crying dog
Picture the scene if you will. About a year and half ago I walk into my bedroom to see my 3 month pregnant wife crying. Immediately I go into protection mode. I do not like it when one of my girls cry and get a very Viking attitude about it. I will pillage and plunder until the wrong is righted.
I ask my wife who is responsible, who has slighted her honor. She responds by telling me that she just felt like crying and started. Then she says that she looked at the dog and the dog looked sad.
Let me repeat that: The dog looked sad.
What the hell dude.
Our dog is a boxer and has a great face and is hands down the best sick dog ever. He will curl up with you anytime you feel bad and it is greatness. But to look sad? That is why she was crying? Again I declare what the hell, dude.
And thus I was initiated into the world of pregnancy hormones and the ravage that they play on the emotions of my wife. Within 10 minutes she was fine and no longer crying, much to my great relief. I do not deal well with women crying, especially my wife. I will give her whatever she wants and I am finding that I have that trait with my daughter. The pony is already ordered.
Fast forward to present day where my wife is again in the early stages of pregnancy. Even though I’m ready for these types of things now, I still have no idea how to handle them.
So welcome to my world. A world in which you are superdad, but no one will ever know. There is no winning here. There is no victory parade. There will be no movie and there never will be a plaque exulting your greatness.
My daughter just had her first birthday which went off without a hitch. I ‘ve told the story but not the aftermath.
Again my wife and I are in the bedroom after the party. She looks dead at me and informs me that we need better communication. It’s a blindsided hit and I expect she’ll be fined by the commissioner on Tuesday. I have no idea where this is coming from. So I ask. That is mistake number one, let’s count them up shall we?
I am gently informed that I did not return home before the party and the balloon herding incident. Mind you, that was only a 30 minute window to get them and come back. I thought nothing about it. I have a car full of balloons, chicken nuggets reeking the front seat and a fruit plate slowly going in the back, why the hell would I go home?
Mistake number two. I suggest, ever so slightly, that she is crackers. I point out that what she is saying makes no sense. Don’t call your wife looney, it’s a bad idea. I agree that things escalated at that point and I take full blame for it. I also took a 10 minute brunt of reasoning that I can’t follow about how I need to learn to communicate more.
Mistake number three: After listening to this I realize that this may be another hormone thing from our new pregnancy. I bring this up as a possible reasoning for this conversation. Other soon to be dads out there, please take heed—never, ever, ever, never in your long life blame pregnancy for craziness. Don’t do it. When you think you are going to do it, punch yourself in the face and save yourself some pain. Go outside, get Mr. Trusty Hammer, and drive a nail into your kneecap.
The barrage that followed next is somewhat a blur from the concussion that I received. I have only flashes of words coming at me. There might have been a midget, I’m not really sure. The xbox was blamed, my solid companion. The lack of my phone usage was in there somewhere. And I’m sure that it was pointed out that I, in fact, was not growing life inside me and had no idea what a trail that was and how hard it was and the morning sickness and the back pain and the not lifting, and the morning sickness again and the pain of childbirth and I’m selfish and the morning sickness and the swelling of feet and the morning sicknesss…………………………………………………..
That’s all I remember. That’s it, no more than that. I am sure it was over when she started snoring next to me and I started to come out of my state of shock.
Mistake number four: I vaguely remember laughing at the silliness of it all and how absurd that it sounded to me. This actually woke her up. I kid you not, this is a bad idea. She had argued herself asleep and woke up. I should have shut it. I couldn’t help it though, who falls asleep during an argument?
She didn’t have much left in her this time and soon started to get back down to earth. When we argue I make my wife “hug it out” as the term is used. I know, complete guy cliché, but it makes me feel better. She protested at first but loves it anyway. Her last parting shot was to remind me not to blog this or that the dog made her cry.
Mistake number five.
I ask my wife who is responsible, who has slighted her honor. She responds by telling me that she just felt like crying and started. Then she says that she looked at the dog and the dog looked sad.
Let me repeat that: The dog looked sad.
What the hell dude.
Our dog is a boxer and has a great face and is hands down the best sick dog ever. He will curl up with you anytime you feel bad and it is greatness. But to look sad? That is why she was crying? Again I declare what the hell, dude.
And thus I was initiated into the world of pregnancy hormones and the ravage that they play on the emotions of my wife. Within 10 minutes she was fine and no longer crying, much to my great relief. I do not deal well with women crying, especially my wife. I will give her whatever she wants and I am finding that I have that trait with my daughter. The pony is already ordered.
Fast forward to present day where my wife is again in the early stages of pregnancy. Even though I’m ready for these types of things now, I still have no idea how to handle them.
So welcome to my world. A world in which you are superdad, but no one will ever know. There is no winning here. There is no victory parade. There will be no movie and there never will be a plaque exulting your greatness.
My daughter just had her first birthday which went off without a hitch. I ‘ve told the story but not the aftermath.
Again my wife and I are in the bedroom after the party. She looks dead at me and informs me that we need better communication. It’s a blindsided hit and I expect she’ll be fined by the commissioner on Tuesday. I have no idea where this is coming from. So I ask. That is mistake number one, let’s count them up shall we?
I am gently informed that I did not return home before the party and the balloon herding incident. Mind you, that was only a 30 minute window to get them and come back. I thought nothing about it. I have a car full of balloons, chicken nuggets reeking the front seat and a fruit plate slowly going in the back, why the hell would I go home?
Mistake number two. I suggest, ever so slightly, that she is crackers. I point out that what she is saying makes no sense. Don’t call your wife looney, it’s a bad idea. I agree that things escalated at that point and I take full blame for it. I also took a 10 minute brunt of reasoning that I can’t follow about how I need to learn to communicate more.
Mistake number three: After listening to this I realize that this may be another hormone thing from our new pregnancy. I bring this up as a possible reasoning for this conversation. Other soon to be dads out there, please take heed—never, ever, ever, never in your long life blame pregnancy for craziness. Don’t do it. When you think you are going to do it, punch yourself in the face and save yourself some pain. Go outside, get Mr. Trusty Hammer, and drive a nail into your kneecap.
The barrage that followed next is somewhat a blur from the concussion that I received. I have only flashes of words coming at me. There might have been a midget, I’m not really sure. The xbox was blamed, my solid companion. The lack of my phone usage was in there somewhere. And I’m sure that it was pointed out that I, in fact, was not growing life inside me and had no idea what a trail that was and how hard it was and the morning sickness and the back pain and the not lifting, and the morning sickness again and the pain of childbirth and I’m selfish and the morning sickness and the swelling of feet and the morning sicknesss…………………………………………………..
That’s all I remember. That’s it, no more than that. I am sure it was over when she started snoring next to me and I started to come out of my state of shock.
Mistake number four: I vaguely remember laughing at the silliness of it all and how absurd that it sounded to me. This actually woke her up. I kid you not, this is a bad idea. She had argued herself asleep and woke up. I should have shut it. I couldn’t help it though, who falls asleep during an argument?
She didn’t have much left in her this time and soon started to get back down to earth. When we argue I make my wife “hug it out” as the term is used. I know, complete guy cliché, but it makes me feel better. She protested at first but loves it anyway. Her last parting shot was to remind me not to blog this or that the dog made her cry.
Mistake number five.
2/20/07
My Paper Plate Kingdom
I live in a paperplate world because I am a slob.
I am one of the unclean, one of the dirty. I am the leper of clean households. I have no skills when it comes to housework. I have let dishes pile, floors go un-vacummed and do not ask me about the bathroom.
Remarkably, I am ok with this much to the chargrin of my wife’s family. The word “hypocrite” may come to mind when I talk about this but I usually let this go for family harmony. However, just so they know—I have working tittles called “I never feed the dog” , “Let’s throw trashcans at people” and the ever popular “I can’t get my car inspected until it is 8 months past due” on the books right now. All secrets will be revealed here.
This was my attitude in college. Clean? Bah humbug I say! That would take away from my sleep time. Have you seen my new game, that takes first priority, the dishes will be their tomorrow unless I am able to push back the alien hoards today! This is true, I kid you not, we decided to put a big 30 gallon trashcan in the middle of the living room rather than clean. It was a lifestyle that required my roommates and I to continueally drink. This was also about the time I left a glass of milk in my bedroom for over a year. It was under my bed. I’m not proud of this, but yet it is true.
But, as in everything else, my daughter decided that this was not conducive to family living. This began when my wife was about a month pregnant and got morning sickness. She no longer had the will to clean which left it all to me. I was a bit of a freak during pregnancy. Hossmom was not allowed to life anything, not to clean the cat box and not to give me any backtalk whatsoever about rule 1 and 2. Oddly, she did not.
So for a good week I scrubbed, cleaned and called down the thunder of hossman cleaning. The dirt and grime was tricky, it was manipulative and cruel. But no match for me!
My wife soon began commenting on all the spots and things I have missed. It was then that I discovered that I had a disability. It’s call I can’t see dirtious. I have no idea what is going on. I would clean, my wife would then come in and asked if I had cleaned. If the answer is yes, then I haven’t cleaned enough. I was also doing all the cooking and other chores, so my world quickly went to shit.
But I am guided by logic. I know my shortcomings and embrace them.
I hired a maid. Best 80 bucks I ever spent. It’s been almost 2 years now and we still have her. She has been my life saver and I have written her into my will.
This still left the problem on what to do when the maid was not there. My dishwashing skills have gotten no better. I was terrified that child services would pay a house call one day and see my dishes in the sink. “We’ll be taking the kid, thank you.” Yank, I am no longer superdad.
But superdad always has a solution. And thus the solution was paper plates and cups. These very well may be the greatest invention ever. We eat every meal on paper plates. I have no shame in this. My house is clean, suck it. There are no dishes in the sink, there is no food sitting out. My dogs lick up whatever spills, the rest goes in the trash. By making one bold move I have taken care of mopping, sweeping, dish washing, drying AND I save on electricity.
I am a humanitarian, I am conserving electricity. It’s you people out there that give us a bad name.
My wife does not always enjoy this. I have proposed we even use paper plates when we have guests. My wife acts like she is shocked, although there is that slight thought that it would be ok. Why put on a false face to those on the outside. This is who I am, the Paper Plate King, love me for it.
My wife is now pregnant again. We still have the maid and we are still using the paper plates. I am much more prepared this time. For the future, I am suggesting that we wrap the counters in plastic and then tear it off weekly. Bam, no more dirty counter tops.
My genius is staggering.
I am one of the unclean, one of the dirty. I am the leper of clean households. I have no skills when it comes to housework. I have let dishes pile, floors go un-vacummed and do not ask me about the bathroom.
Remarkably, I am ok with this much to the chargrin of my wife’s family. The word “hypocrite” may come to mind when I talk about this but I usually let this go for family harmony. However, just so they know—I have working tittles called “I never feed the dog” , “Let’s throw trashcans at people” and the ever popular “I can’t get my car inspected until it is 8 months past due” on the books right now. All secrets will be revealed here.
This was my attitude in college. Clean? Bah humbug I say! That would take away from my sleep time. Have you seen my new game, that takes first priority, the dishes will be their tomorrow unless I am able to push back the alien hoards today! This is true, I kid you not, we decided to put a big 30 gallon trashcan in the middle of the living room rather than clean. It was a lifestyle that required my roommates and I to continueally drink. This was also about the time I left a glass of milk in my bedroom for over a year. It was under my bed. I’m not proud of this, but yet it is true.
But, as in everything else, my daughter decided that this was not conducive to family living. This began when my wife was about a month pregnant and got morning sickness. She no longer had the will to clean which left it all to me. I was a bit of a freak during pregnancy. Hossmom was not allowed to life anything, not to clean the cat box and not to give me any backtalk whatsoever about rule 1 and 2. Oddly, she did not.
So for a good week I scrubbed, cleaned and called down the thunder of hossman cleaning. The dirt and grime was tricky, it was manipulative and cruel. But no match for me!
My wife soon began commenting on all the spots and things I have missed. It was then that I discovered that I had a disability. It’s call I can’t see dirtious. I have no idea what is going on. I would clean, my wife would then come in and asked if I had cleaned. If the answer is yes, then I haven’t cleaned enough. I was also doing all the cooking and other chores, so my world quickly went to shit.
But I am guided by logic. I know my shortcomings and embrace them.
I hired a maid. Best 80 bucks I ever spent. It’s been almost 2 years now and we still have her. She has been my life saver and I have written her into my will.
This still left the problem on what to do when the maid was not there. My dishwashing skills have gotten no better. I was terrified that child services would pay a house call one day and see my dishes in the sink. “We’ll be taking the kid, thank you.” Yank, I am no longer superdad.
But superdad always has a solution. And thus the solution was paper plates and cups. These very well may be the greatest invention ever. We eat every meal on paper plates. I have no shame in this. My house is clean, suck it. There are no dishes in the sink, there is no food sitting out. My dogs lick up whatever spills, the rest goes in the trash. By making one bold move I have taken care of mopping, sweeping, dish washing, drying AND I save on electricity.
I am a humanitarian, I am conserving electricity. It’s you people out there that give us a bad name.
My wife does not always enjoy this. I have proposed we even use paper plates when we have guests. My wife acts like she is shocked, although there is that slight thought that it would be ok. Why put on a false face to those on the outside. This is who I am, the Paper Plate King, love me for it.
My wife is now pregnant again. We still have the maid and we are still using the paper plates. I am much more prepared this time. For the future, I am suggesting that we wrap the counters in plastic and then tear it off weekly. Bam, no more dirty counter tops.
My genius is staggering.
2/15/07
The XBOX diaries--The Tutor
My virtual brains are splattered across the screen. My body is in 4 different pieces. Atleast, I think so. I can’t really tell as the jumbled mass that used to represent righteousness and justice is in a bloody mass in the center of my screen. I can hear XTC ADDICT laughing away at me, bragging to the other players that it was way to easy of a kill. His chainsaw gun mocks me. My vengeance meter is running very high although there is not much I can do about it given that I no longer have a spine or legs. Thus continues my Gears of War legacy.
Apparently, I am one of those players that people like to play against to get the easy practice to hone their skills. I am roadkill. I am deer in headlights. I am the “old man” whose apparent arthritis cannot keep up with a 18 year old punk. But I have used my experience in life to my advantage and did what I had to do: I asked for help. Hossman now has a video game tutor.
Mr. ChicagoJR has proceeded to beat me across the net, time after time after time. He hides then tells me he sees me. He sings the Jaws theme song when he is about to kill me. It’s like being hunted by the Zodiac killer, I have no idea where he is. He is close and can probably smell my fear. My character is starting to lose his nerve, his fear is palpatable and I think that he has wet his pants. Bam, I explode into a million pieces, my atoms scattered across star systems.
“See old man, you don’t look around. You got the tunnel vision.” Chicago says.
“What do you mean Tunnell Vision?! I’m looking at the damn screen!” I yell.
“Naw man, you gotta always look behind you, every three seconds. I been following you all over this map” This game is an artwork that I have not realized.
ChicagoJr and I are in a private game. He has allowed me to do this several times and I learn from the master. I met him in a game and for some reason he took a liking to me. I guess it was like taking pity on that lost puppy that you find. Wet with fleas, he took me in. Since then he has shown me many tricks of the trade.
“ Quit aiming” master says. “you don’t aim with the shotgun, you just point at their head and get blazing.”
“That’s what I have been doing!”
“Naw man, you been shooting at their feet. You gotta learn to aim without aiming.” The zen master is right. I have been shooting at feet. I have to learn to aim without aiming. This becomes my “There is no spoon” chant.
Bam, I get a sniper rifle to the head. Another lesson resumes.
“After you hear the first shot, you have to jump every 4 seconds. He can’t reload that fast and you live.” I am taking it all in, my powers are increasing.
A huge explosion, my dignity scattered everywhere. “Don’t get tagged man, roll out of the way when they coming at you.” When you get hit with a grenade, this is called a “Fag Tag”. I have been fagged many times.
The lessons continue, hour after hour. My wife has gone to bed, my daughter lays disappointed in her crib at her father’s failure. I learn every trick I can from him. From using cover, to which weapon to use and to also taunt, such as tea bagging. When another player is wounded, he gets on all fours. Your character goes up and straddles him. You push the squat button and bam, you are tea bagging him. It’s a great insult.
“You ready man, you ready.” ChicagoJr tells me. The master is taking me to the real world to test my skills.
The game is execution, 2 on 4. Chicago and I are the two. We sweep through the map, working as a tandem. We are talking the whole way, the team work is high as I follow my general. I check behind me every three seconds. The second time I do this I see Poop23 coming at me with a grenade. I roll out of the way and blow his head off. I aim without aiming, the devil is here and hell’s coming with me.
ChicagoJr bags another one, with little effort. I am no longer afraid. I am the hunter, I am the vengeful one. The Flying Squirrel darts past me, he has not seen me. I pull out my grenade and tag him. I laugh while I do this. He has not learned the lesson of looking behind you every three seconds. I hear an “aw shit” as he realizes what has happened. His humulation is dinner for my soul.
“Aim without Aiming. Aim without Aiming” I chant to myself. My power grows strong. XTC ADDICT jumps from behind a wall. My machine gun remembers. My machine gun is my arm of justice. I dive behind a stone and tear him apart. He falls to the ground, panting in defeat. I straddle him. He is teabagged. It is bruttle. It is justice.
I laugh like a mad hyenna. All reason has left me. I am the last one standing and I stand in glory. They are mere boys and I, THE OLD MAN.
A bullet rips through my head and my victory is short lived.
“Man, you aint’ that good” ChicagoJr says over my lifeless virtual body.
I have learned my last lesson from the master. Betrayal is everywhere. I feel the vengeance rising again.
Apparently, I am one of those players that people like to play against to get the easy practice to hone their skills. I am roadkill. I am deer in headlights. I am the “old man” whose apparent arthritis cannot keep up with a 18 year old punk. But I have used my experience in life to my advantage and did what I had to do: I asked for help. Hossman now has a video game tutor.
Mr. ChicagoJR has proceeded to beat me across the net, time after time after time. He hides then tells me he sees me. He sings the Jaws theme song when he is about to kill me. It’s like being hunted by the Zodiac killer, I have no idea where he is. He is close and can probably smell my fear. My character is starting to lose his nerve, his fear is palpatable and I think that he has wet his pants. Bam, I explode into a million pieces, my atoms scattered across star systems.
“See old man, you don’t look around. You got the tunnel vision.” Chicago says.
“What do you mean Tunnell Vision?! I’m looking at the damn screen!” I yell.
“Naw man, you gotta always look behind you, every three seconds. I been following you all over this map” This game is an artwork that I have not realized.
ChicagoJr and I are in a private game. He has allowed me to do this several times and I learn from the master. I met him in a game and for some reason he took a liking to me. I guess it was like taking pity on that lost puppy that you find. Wet with fleas, he took me in. Since then he has shown me many tricks of the trade.
“ Quit aiming” master says. “you don’t aim with the shotgun, you just point at their head and get blazing.”
“That’s what I have been doing!”
“Naw man, you been shooting at their feet. You gotta learn to aim without aiming.” The zen master is right. I have been shooting at feet. I have to learn to aim without aiming. This becomes my “There is no spoon” chant.
Bam, I get a sniper rifle to the head. Another lesson resumes.
“After you hear the first shot, you have to jump every 4 seconds. He can’t reload that fast and you live.” I am taking it all in, my powers are increasing.
A huge explosion, my dignity scattered everywhere. “Don’t get tagged man, roll out of the way when they coming at you.” When you get hit with a grenade, this is called a “Fag Tag”. I have been fagged many times.
The lessons continue, hour after hour. My wife has gone to bed, my daughter lays disappointed in her crib at her father’s failure. I learn every trick I can from him. From using cover, to which weapon to use and to also taunt, such as tea bagging. When another player is wounded, he gets on all fours. Your character goes up and straddles him. You push the squat button and bam, you are tea bagging him. It’s a great insult.
“You ready man, you ready.” ChicagoJr tells me. The master is taking me to the real world to test my skills.
The game is execution, 2 on 4. Chicago and I are the two. We sweep through the map, working as a tandem. We are talking the whole way, the team work is high as I follow my general. I check behind me every three seconds. The second time I do this I see Poop23 coming at me with a grenade. I roll out of the way and blow his head off. I aim without aiming, the devil is here and hell’s coming with me.
ChicagoJr bags another one, with little effort. I am no longer afraid. I am the hunter, I am the vengeful one. The Flying Squirrel darts past me, he has not seen me. I pull out my grenade and tag him. I laugh while I do this. He has not learned the lesson of looking behind you every three seconds. I hear an “aw shit” as he realizes what has happened. His humulation is dinner for my soul.
“Aim without Aiming. Aim without Aiming” I chant to myself. My power grows strong. XTC ADDICT jumps from behind a wall. My machine gun remembers. My machine gun is my arm of justice. I dive behind a stone and tear him apart. He falls to the ground, panting in defeat. I straddle him. He is teabagged. It is bruttle. It is justice.
I laugh like a mad hyenna. All reason has left me. I am the last one standing and I stand in glory. They are mere boys and I, THE OLD MAN.
A bullet rips through my head and my victory is short lived.
“Man, you aint’ that good” ChicagoJr says over my lifeless virtual body.
I have learned my last lesson from the master. Betrayal is everywhere. I feel the vengeance rising again.
The Boxing Ring
I did a lot of my growing up in southern Arkansas. We were not hillbillies, but we were not far off. We lived out in the country where the nearest neighbors may have very well been pediphiles. Not that I know for sure mind you, but they did have the creepy factor going on. It might have been that they used an outhouse, it might have been that the oldest son stole a check book from my father or it might have been that the youngest daughter was super hot. I’m not really sure which, but they were creepy.
Being that we were in the sticks I didn’t have many playmates around. I had not developed into the big city superdad that I was soon to become so I hung around with my older brother almost constantly. Yes, I was a toadie. I am proud to have been a former toadie.. It has taught me many things in life, such as how take orders, avoid confrontation and never ever look someone in the eye when they are aggressive. It was a survival instinct and I make no apologies for it. You don’t know man, you don’t know.
My father did not make it easy at times for the life of a toadie, but he did try. One year for Christmas, my brother and I received a set of boxing gloves. I didn’t know how to take this. Did my brother ask for them because his knuckles were getting sore on my head? I have an extremely hard noggin so it serves the bastard right. Or was my father trying to give me a cushion between each blow? I suppose it didn’t matter because my brother couldn’t wait to try them out. I will say that I never ran and threw back a few elbows of my own, once almost breaking his jaw. Hands down the best punch I ever landed. Flush, square, completely clean shot. It even had the sound effects. I count it as one of my major accomplishments. Contrary to what you believe, my brother and I are extremely close. There was no one else to play with and he beat up more bullies for me than I can remember. It was like calling in an air strike, make the call, give coordinates and just stand back.
As the boxing gloves were new and contained some wonder, my brother needed the right scene for his future demolition of his little brother. Not some pasty living room with no crowd. He wanted to charge admission, hear the roar of the crowd and have live TV broadcasts with Cossell. To accomplish this, my brother came up with one of his truly great ideas—we should build a boxing ring.
To my amazement, I completely got on board with this idea. It would be the stage for the underdog, a sight to my great comeback and right of passage into manhood. Hell yes we would build a boxing ring. I would do my best work ever, time to saddle up bubba.
He being 7 and me being 5 didn’t daunt us away from building. My dad was a carpenter so we always had plenty of hammers and boards laying around. We scavenged the wood pile, yes we had one, and come up with a number of 2 x12’s and got to work. It took all day and my brother had extensive plans. We laid them out on 2x4’s and then put the floor in. It was perfect, a great Coliseum. However we had no idea how to put in ropes and posts. My brother decided that we didn’t need this and the work was complete, time to strap on the gloves.
The first bout lasted all of one punch.
Yup, I hit the deck hard. I realized that this would not be the stage of my comeback, but the platform on my gateway to hell. I had built my own coffin, damn my optimism. I went in all full of fire, straight at him. There was no ducking, no dodging or weaving, no turning to the side. I came around with a big haymaker only to catch one right in the nose. Bam, down I went.
Ok, round two. This time around I managed to last at least for a full minute. I had learned from my first mistake. I had learned that I would need to do this boxing technique called “blocking”, thus allowing me not to get hit. It truly is amazing. I went in the second time with gloves up. That is when he changed strategies on me and went to my gut. On good kidney punch and I was gasping the Mother Mary for forgiveness on my knees.
But I was the David to his Golaiath. I would not give up. I had one thing that he did not count on. I fought dirty.
Round three, it’s go time. My brother started in with a barrage. That was fine, just had to last one more second. Have to get in close, feel his breath on me, hear his grunts, just a little closer.
That’s when I landed it. The beauty punch straight to the balls. Yes, it was intentional. Like a sack of potatoes, down he went. Victory was mine.
Then I did what any little brother would do when he landed a great punch. I called it quits and ran like hell. The boxing gloves went flying off my hands as I ran straight for my father. Hide behind a leg where he couldn’t get me, that was the way to go. He was Mickey to my Rocky and my brother couldn’t touch me.
It turns out that I didn’t have to run, my brother couldn’t get up that quick. My dad would take no pity on him for leaving himself open like that and I had the feeling that pops would be somewhat proud of me for holding my own. Of course, retribution came later that night, but it was worth it. We used the boxing ring only a couple more times, but my brother didn’t get as close to me as he had before.
Being that we were in the sticks I didn’t have many playmates around. I had not developed into the big city superdad that I was soon to become so I hung around with my older brother almost constantly. Yes, I was a toadie. I am proud to have been a former toadie.. It has taught me many things in life, such as how take orders, avoid confrontation and never ever look someone in the eye when they are aggressive. It was a survival instinct and I make no apologies for it. You don’t know man, you don’t know.
My father did not make it easy at times for the life of a toadie, but he did try. One year for Christmas, my brother and I received a set of boxing gloves. I didn’t know how to take this. Did my brother ask for them because his knuckles were getting sore on my head? I have an extremely hard noggin so it serves the bastard right. Or was my father trying to give me a cushion between each blow? I suppose it didn’t matter because my brother couldn’t wait to try them out. I will say that I never ran and threw back a few elbows of my own, once almost breaking his jaw. Hands down the best punch I ever landed. Flush, square, completely clean shot. It even had the sound effects. I count it as one of my major accomplishments. Contrary to what you believe, my brother and I are extremely close. There was no one else to play with and he beat up more bullies for me than I can remember. It was like calling in an air strike, make the call, give coordinates and just stand back.
As the boxing gloves were new and contained some wonder, my brother needed the right scene for his future demolition of his little brother. Not some pasty living room with no crowd. He wanted to charge admission, hear the roar of the crowd and have live TV broadcasts with Cossell. To accomplish this, my brother came up with one of his truly great ideas—we should build a boxing ring.
To my amazement, I completely got on board with this idea. It would be the stage for the underdog, a sight to my great comeback and right of passage into manhood. Hell yes we would build a boxing ring. I would do my best work ever, time to saddle up bubba.
He being 7 and me being 5 didn’t daunt us away from building. My dad was a carpenter so we always had plenty of hammers and boards laying around. We scavenged the wood pile, yes we had one, and come up with a number of 2 x12’s and got to work. It took all day and my brother had extensive plans. We laid them out on 2x4’s and then put the floor in. It was perfect, a great Coliseum. However we had no idea how to put in ropes and posts. My brother decided that we didn’t need this and the work was complete, time to strap on the gloves.
The first bout lasted all of one punch.
Yup, I hit the deck hard. I realized that this would not be the stage of my comeback, but the platform on my gateway to hell. I had built my own coffin, damn my optimism. I went in all full of fire, straight at him. There was no ducking, no dodging or weaving, no turning to the side. I came around with a big haymaker only to catch one right in the nose. Bam, down I went.
Ok, round two. This time around I managed to last at least for a full minute. I had learned from my first mistake. I had learned that I would need to do this boxing technique called “blocking”, thus allowing me not to get hit. It truly is amazing. I went in the second time with gloves up. That is when he changed strategies on me and went to my gut. On good kidney punch and I was gasping the Mother Mary for forgiveness on my knees.
But I was the David to his Golaiath. I would not give up. I had one thing that he did not count on. I fought dirty.
Round three, it’s go time. My brother started in with a barrage. That was fine, just had to last one more second. Have to get in close, feel his breath on me, hear his grunts, just a little closer.
That’s when I landed it. The beauty punch straight to the balls. Yes, it was intentional. Like a sack of potatoes, down he went. Victory was mine.
Then I did what any little brother would do when he landed a great punch. I called it quits and ran like hell. The boxing gloves went flying off my hands as I ran straight for my father. Hide behind a leg where he couldn’t get me, that was the way to go. He was Mickey to my Rocky and my brother couldn’t touch me.
It turns out that I didn’t have to run, my brother couldn’t get up that quick. My dad would take no pity on him for leaving himself open like that and I had the feeling that pops would be somewhat proud of me for holding my own. Of course, retribution came later that night, but it was worth it. We used the boxing ring only a couple more times, but my brother didn’t get as close to me as he had before.
2/14/07
The Rabbit
This is a story from a friend of my wife's.
She is my muse--enjoy!
This morning I went to the adult store to get something new for V-day. I am a married adult, so I just kept trying to tell myself no big deal. (But, there is a reason why people buy that stuff online) The store is located in the parking lot with Target, Kohl's, McDonnalds right in the middle of my little suburban town...not quite what I'm used to either. After dropping Peytie off at pre-school, I went to the store. Yes, it was open at 9:45am.
In my mind, I thought it would be the same Mom crowd as the Target or Kohls.
No, it was full of men. I was the only woman. It took everything I had not to walk out. More and more men kept walking in. I just kept looking at the lingerie. Then I forced myself to go over to the potions and toys. It was all I could do not to bust out laughing. I saw the infamous "rabbit"
and grabbed it. I had my handful of party favors and went to check out.
Once I got there 2 men got inline behind me. The woman checked me out and started to rip the Rabbit open and said "we have to test it" (no return policy). I was horrified. She took it out, put the batteries in and turned it on low "mmmmmmmm", med "vvvvvvvvv", and then high "VVVVVVVVVVVV". I just burst out laughing. This woman is standing there holding my rabbitt, about to blast off! Good Grief
She is my muse--enjoy!
This morning I went to the adult store to get something new for V-day. I am a married adult, so I just kept trying to tell myself no big deal. (But, there is a reason why people buy that stuff online) The store is located in the parking lot with Target, Kohl's, McDonnalds right in the middle of my little suburban town...not quite what I'm used to either. After dropping Peytie off at pre-school, I went to the store. Yes, it was open at 9:45am.
In my mind, I thought it would be the same Mom crowd as the Target or Kohls.
No, it was full of men. I was the only woman. It took everything I had not to walk out. More and more men kept walking in. I just kept looking at the lingerie. Then I forced myself to go over to the potions and toys. It was all I could do not to bust out laughing. I saw the infamous "rabbit"
and grabbed it. I had my handful of party favors and went to check out.
Once I got there 2 men got inline behind me. The woman checked me out and started to rip the Rabbit open and said "we have to test it" (no return policy). I was horrified. She took it out, put the batteries in and turned it on low "mmmmmmmm", med "vvvvvvvvv", and then high "VVVVVVVVVVVV". I just burst out laughing. This woman is standing there holding my rabbitt, about to blast off! Good Grief
Rock out with your Dock out.
When my wife is pregnant, she craves Chinese food. This is a little bit of an annoyance to me, as I could care less for the stuff. Never filling as say a good piece of juicy steak. That and I just know that they are sneaking octopus parts in my chow mien. Communists hate me and spend most of their day attempting to thwart the greatness that is the Hossman Family. But the wife wants it and when she is pregnant, I don’t have much choice.
I decided in the first pregnancy to do whatever the hell was requested of me without complaint. She’s the mother of my child, growing another minion for my plans, another bass player to my band. So whatever she asks, she gets. Of course, I’m pretty sure that she took advantage of this on many occasions. Feet rubs, back rubs were ok. But I began to question her when she said that I should get the oil changed on her car because it would help her pregnancy. I’m not sure how exactly and I’m not sure why she couldn’t spend 30 minutes sitting, but hey, what you going to do?
So tonight I’m with the little spud on the way to the Panda. I’m looking for convience in a Chinese restaurant and the Panda has a drive through. I live by the drive through. I’m a terrible cook and have had many disasters. I like riding with the kiddo in the car, it lets her know who is in control. Which of course is her. She gets chauffeured around, seeing many great sites, I the mindless driver. If she had a middle glass divider she would surely put it up while reminding me that I’m not being paid to talk but drive.
I bring my Ipod along for these trips so that we can have some sing along time. She loves this and I love my daughter, so there you go. I keep hoping that she will find a sweet spot in her heart for a little Metalica or possibly, if heaven allows, Rob Zombie. At this moment, it’s not to her tastes. She does like a little Aerosmith on occasion which has been my savior. Her “singing” is a more melodonic form of yelling at me. She can’t carry a tune yet, but the volume is good and high. Think drowning dolphin and that is what she sounds like. She laughs when I join her and when we are stopped I grab a foot and we do a little dance. On occasion, I have been known to do a little dance in the front seat for her which she very much digs.
At the drivethru for the Panda we are currently listening to the Lonely Goatherd from the Sound of Music soundtrack. I actually like this song, please read the Mary Poppins post. I can’t yodel for crap, but my daughter has got it down pat, minus the actual yodel part. She gives it a good shot though. She seems to be more partial to Johnny Cash but will take Julie Andrews on occasion.
We pull up to the menu and are waiting. “Orange chicken, orange chicken” I keep repeating to my self. I have actually messed this up in the past when my mother in law and my pregnant wife waiting on food. Please interpret that as “beatdown” and you get the picture. We are waiting for the person in front to go ahead and make an order although as we have been line for a good ten minutes you would think he would know what the hell he wants, for the love of Christ. That’s a different blog though. In the meantime, it’s dancing time with my daughter.
We proceed to crank up the Lonely Goatherd and get into it. She’s laughing so I grab her feet and we start doing a Christina Aguilera kind of thing. More joy comes. I’m singing along in full hossman volume American Idol audition. I’m getting into it. There then enters some shoulder shaking and hip thrusting on my part, the car is a rocking. Eyes closed, radio loud, yup, we are having some good times. My daughter starts to bounce in her seat, she’s getting into it. She joins with her dolphin cry and we have got a concert going ladies and gentlemen.
It’s at that moment that I look up and see the Hispanic/Chinese guy at the drivethru looking at me and laughing his balls off. I look at the menu again and realize that it’s not only the menu, but also the squawk box for placing your order. I have just given a resounding rendition of the Lonely Goatherd to Mr. Hispanic/Chinese can I take your order guy. He apparently has loved it, because he is beginning to double over. The words “Their duet becomes a trio” lodges in my throat but my daughter keeps on a rocking. This was the final desolation of my manhood and coolness. It’s gone. It’s been on the way out for years but I thought I had at least a little bit left. I might as well go ahead and buy my expanding waste sweatpants and black socks now, it’s all over.
So I panic. I hear, in a very shaky voice. “Can I take your order?”
“Yes, I need a double order of sweat and sour chicken.” I had a panic attack and my mind went blank. I’m a knob and I know it.
It wasn’t a total loss though. When I went back 15 minutes later I decided to leave the kid at home with mom and played some very loud Zombie. Time to redeem myself.
I decided in the first pregnancy to do whatever the hell was requested of me without complaint. She’s the mother of my child, growing another minion for my plans, another bass player to my band. So whatever she asks, she gets. Of course, I’m pretty sure that she took advantage of this on many occasions. Feet rubs, back rubs were ok. But I began to question her when she said that I should get the oil changed on her car because it would help her pregnancy. I’m not sure how exactly and I’m not sure why she couldn’t spend 30 minutes sitting, but hey, what you going to do?
So tonight I’m with the little spud on the way to the Panda. I’m looking for convience in a Chinese restaurant and the Panda has a drive through. I live by the drive through. I’m a terrible cook and have had many disasters. I like riding with the kiddo in the car, it lets her know who is in control. Which of course is her. She gets chauffeured around, seeing many great sites, I the mindless driver. If she had a middle glass divider she would surely put it up while reminding me that I’m not being paid to talk but drive.
I bring my Ipod along for these trips so that we can have some sing along time. She loves this and I love my daughter, so there you go. I keep hoping that she will find a sweet spot in her heart for a little Metalica or possibly, if heaven allows, Rob Zombie. At this moment, it’s not to her tastes. She does like a little Aerosmith on occasion which has been my savior. Her “singing” is a more melodonic form of yelling at me. She can’t carry a tune yet, but the volume is good and high. Think drowning dolphin and that is what she sounds like. She laughs when I join her and when we are stopped I grab a foot and we do a little dance. On occasion, I have been known to do a little dance in the front seat for her which she very much digs.
At the drivethru for the Panda we are currently listening to the Lonely Goatherd from the Sound of Music soundtrack. I actually like this song, please read the Mary Poppins post. I can’t yodel for crap, but my daughter has got it down pat, minus the actual yodel part. She gives it a good shot though. She seems to be more partial to Johnny Cash but will take Julie Andrews on occasion.
We pull up to the menu and are waiting. “Orange chicken, orange chicken” I keep repeating to my self. I have actually messed this up in the past when my mother in law and my pregnant wife waiting on food. Please interpret that as “beatdown” and you get the picture. We are waiting for the person in front to go ahead and make an order although as we have been line for a good ten minutes you would think he would know what the hell he wants, for the love of Christ. That’s a different blog though. In the meantime, it’s dancing time with my daughter.
We proceed to crank up the Lonely Goatherd and get into it. She’s laughing so I grab her feet and we start doing a Christina Aguilera kind of thing. More joy comes. I’m singing along in full hossman volume American Idol audition. I’m getting into it. There then enters some shoulder shaking and hip thrusting on my part, the car is a rocking. Eyes closed, radio loud, yup, we are having some good times. My daughter starts to bounce in her seat, she’s getting into it. She joins with her dolphin cry and we have got a concert going ladies and gentlemen.
It’s at that moment that I look up and see the Hispanic/Chinese guy at the drivethru looking at me and laughing his balls off. I look at the menu again and realize that it’s not only the menu, but also the squawk box for placing your order. I have just given a resounding rendition of the Lonely Goatherd to Mr. Hispanic/Chinese can I take your order guy. He apparently has loved it, because he is beginning to double over. The words “Their duet becomes a trio” lodges in my throat but my daughter keeps on a rocking. This was the final desolation of my manhood and coolness. It’s gone. It’s been on the way out for years but I thought I had at least a little bit left. I might as well go ahead and buy my expanding waste sweatpants and black socks now, it’s all over.
So I panic. I hear, in a very shaky voice. “Can I take your order?”
“Yes, I need a double order of sweat and sour chicken.” I had a panic attack and my mind went blank. I’m a knob and I know it.
It wasn’t a total loss though. When I went back 15 minutes later I decided to leave the kid at home with mom and played some very loud Zombie. Time to redeem myself.
2/13/07
Second hand food
How clean is a dog’s mouth? Seriously, I need to know this. It is becoming an issue in my home. I once heard that a dog’s mouth is very clean. I heard that their saliva can help wounds heal faster, almost magical if you will. That is why I have let my boxer clean my softball wounds. Of course, then he gets the taste of man flesh in his mouth which could produce long term issues. I willing to deal with them when the time comes by smiting him down but in the meantime it is a relationship that works out well.
The problem is that my daughter has discovered her new favorite game. It is called feed the dogs. My daughter has always been a messy eater, which I attribute to her mother’s side of the family, the filthy animals. She likes to throw things, smear and create basic havoc that we like to call dinner. I felt blessed that I had dogs then that could do several things for me. They would eat anything that was put off the floor. I mean anything. Meats of course are their favorite but they are also partial to carrot puree and baby puke. For a while, it was a great situation, everyone pitching in. There are no slackers in this household, no ma’am thank you very much. Also, you have never seen a high chair cleaned quicker than my dogs who seem to have started doing tongue length exercises to increase their dexterity. It’s like an elephant trunk coming out of there.
For a while, this went well. My house was ordered, my kingdom secured. I could sit back on my throne and observe all that was hoss and it was good. That’s when my daughter made a new discovery. She decided that she liked to watch the dogs eat the food on the floor. She thought it was the most funny thing she had ever seen. It was her three ring circus, she was the ultimate ring master. The dogs couldn’t have been happier. Months of screaming in the middle of the night, hours of ear pulling and the occasional grabbing of private parts is finally starting to pay off. It was like finding the Holy Grail for them. It was instant food, instant gratification, praise all that is holy!
My daughter then found even a better way to communicate with the boxer. She discovered that if she held the food, Kahn—my dog, would eat it right out of her hand! Greatness! Joy has come! Kahn is a very gentle dog, it’s a boxer’s nature. I know that there are those out there will be shocked that my dog is doing this and are thinking Cujo. Please relax, he’s a sissy. He doesn’t “chomp” like a lot of dogs. He has to smell, then put his fluffy jowls on it, then maybe take it although most times he drops it to the floor.
My daughter loves this, can’t get enough of it. It’s the giving streak in her, she’s a humanitarian. She just has to take it one step further. Why not give half to the dog, and the other half for her! Even better and produces wild, crazy laughter. Of course, this means that it is covered in dog slobber. Thus my original question.
She does this with everything. Cookies, pasta, green beans, nuggets. My dogs need to be put on cholesterol medication for this. And it keeps getting stranger. There have been times when I have decided to eat my dinner from my power chair in the living room. Normally, mutt 1 and mutt 2 sit right at my feet. They are very quiet and respectful but will not budge until I give them something or move. My daughter, being a very impressionable do-gooder, has noticed this. What does she do? She joins them. She thinks is even a better idea than feeding them. She will go right to where they are and sit, looking at Hossdad. Waiting, waiting, please drop something waiting. Sadly, these three pairs of eyes hold massive sway on me. On occasion, perhaps, I have thrown the occasional food morsel their way. My daughter takes it, gives a little to each dog, then eats her portion, laughing all the way. She has also learned that if she screams really loud, I may be tempted to give her food right away. My father skills are being questioned, what am I supposed to do.
That’s when it dawns on my. Good God my daughter has gone feral. She’s being raised by a pack of dogs. Begging at my feet? Peeing on the floor? She loves snuggling with the dogs, tell me that isn’t pack behavior. She isn’t screaming, she’s howling! I am raising a pack baby, my soul be damned! She didn’t want balloons for her birthday, she was a snausage! Will she grow fur? Is she going to be like that movie Gorilla’s in the Mist? Will she fling poo or just insults. Many questions, many questions. But let’s start with the first one: How clean is a dog’s mouth.
The problem is that my daughter has discovered her new favorite game. It is called feed the dogs. My daughter has always been a messy eater, which I attribute to her mother’s side of the family, the filthy animals. She likes to throw things, smear and create basic havoc that we like to call dinner. I felt blessed that I had dogs then that could do several things for me. They would eat anything that was put off the floor. I mean anything. Meats of course are their favorite but they are also partial to carrot puree and baby puke. For a while, it was a great situation, everyone pitching in. There are no slackers in this household, no ma’am thank you very much. Also, you have never seen a high chair cleaned quicker than my dogs who seem to have started doing tongue length exercises to increase their dexterity. It’s like an elephant trunk coming out of there.
For a while, this went well. My house was ordered, my kingdom secured. I could sit back on my throne and observe all that was hoss and it was good. That’s when my daughter made a new discovery. She decided that she liked to watch the dogs eat the food on the floor. She thought it was the most funny thing she had ever seen. It was her three ring circus, she was the ultimate ring master. The dogs couldn’t have been happier. Months of screaming in the middle of the night, hours of ear pulling and the occasional grabbing of private parts is finally starting to pay off. It was like finding the Holy Grail for them. It was instant food, instant gratification, praise all that is holy!
My daughter then found even a better way to communicate with the boxer. She discovered that if she held the food, Kahn—my dog, would eat it right out of her hand! Greatness! Joy has come! Kahn is a very gentle dog, it’s a boxer’s nature. I know that there are those out there will be shocked that my dog is doing this and are thinking Cujo. Please relax, he’s a sissy. He doesn’t “chomp” like a lot of dogs. He has to smell, then put his fluffy jowls on it, then maybe take it although most times he drops it to the floor.
My daughter loves this, can’t get enough of it. It’s the giving streak in her, she’s a humanitarian. She just has to take it one step further. Why not give half to the dog, and the other half for her! Even better and produces wild, crazy laughter. Of course, this means that it is covered in dog slobber. Thus my original question.
She does this with everything. Cookies, pasta, green beans, nuggets. My dogs need to be put on cholesterol medication for this. And it keeps getting stranger. There have been times when I have decided to eat my dinner from my power chair in the living room. Normally, mutt 1 and mutt 2 sit right at my feet. They are very quiet and respectful but will not budge until I give them something or move. My daughter, being a very impressionable do-gooder, has noticed this. What does she do? She joins them. She thinks is even a better idea than feeding them. She will go right to where they are and sit, looking at Hossdad. Waiting, waiting, please drop something waiting. Sadly, these three pairs of eyes hold massive sway on me. On occasion, perhaps, I have thrown the occasional food morsel their way. My daughter takes it, gives a little to each dog, then eats her portion, laughing all the way. She has also learned that if she screams really loud, I may be tempted to give her food right away. My father skills are being questioned, what am I supposed to do.
That’s when it dawns on my. Good God my daughter has gone feral. She’s being raised by a pack of dogs. Begging at my feet? Peeing on the floor? She loves snuggling with the dogs, tell me that isn’t pack behavior. She isn’t screaming, she’s howling! I am raising a pack baby, my soul be damned! She didn’t want balloons for her birthday, she was a snausage! Will she grow fur? Is she going to be like that movie Gorilla’s in the Mist? Will she fling poo or just insults. Many questions, many questions. But let’s start with the first one: How clean is a dog’s mouth.
Ode to My IPOD
O Space Lord, Mother Mother, the hate still shames me.
I don’t want to waste my time, become another casuality of society.
I am off to find the hero of the day, but they still try to break me.
Excuse me while I tell you how I feel
I got 99 problems but the bitch ain’t one.
Standing in the rain, with my head hung low, I couldn’t get a ticket, it was a sold out show.
I never conquered rented games, 16 just held such better days.
You’ll be sorry when I’m gone.
In your head, in your head, they are dying
Zombie, Zombie
I wonder why she hung around this place
I got sunshine in a bag, I’m useless, but not for long the future is coming on.
I’d never thought I’d die alone
Give all my things, to all my friends.
I want to love somebody, I really need somebody to love.
I hear the train a’ coming, it’s rolling around the bend
But wait! I am the Astro-Creep, more human than human
I somehow, someway, keep coming up with funky ass shit every single day
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head.
I got my head shaved, by a jumbo jet
Wahoo!
This entire ODE was from song lyrics on my Ipod.
I don’t want to waste my time, become another casuality of society.
I am off to find the hero of the day, but they still try to break me.
Excuse me while I tell you how I feel
I got 99 problems but the bitch ain’t one.
Standing in the rain, with my head hung low, I couldn’t get a ticket, it was a sold out show.
I never conquered rented games, 16 just held such better days.
You’ll be sorry when I’m gone.
In your head, in your head, they are dying
Zombie, Zombie
I wonder why she hung around this place
I got sunshine in a bag, I’m useless, but not for long the future is coming on.
I’d never thought I’d die alone
Give all my things, to all my friends.
I want to love somebody, I really need somebody to love.
I hear the train a’ coming, it’s rolling around the bend
But wait! I am the Astro-Creep, more human than human
I somehow, someway, keep coming up with funky ass shit every single day
I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head.
I got my head shaved, by a jumbo jet
Wahoo!
This entire ODE was from song lyrics on my Ipod.
2/12/07
Press Conference
I have a short statement to make. I will be taking no questions.
I have been asked to inform all involved that my wife is neither controlling nor usually upset. I have been informed that I am free to make my own decisions. Any reference in previous statements that my wife may talk in her sleep, look angry at me or otherwise dictate any of my actions should not be considered. I have been informed that what I witnessed did not occur and that the light I saw was swamp gas reflecting off earth's atmosphere. Any questions regarding my behavior should be directed toward Hossmom.
Thank you
I have been asked to inform all involved that my wife is neither controlling nor usually upset. I have been informed that I am free to make my own decisions. Any reference in previous statements that my wife may talk in her sleep, look angry at me or otherwise dictate any of my actions should not be considered. I have been informed that what I witnessed did not occur and that the light I saw was swamp gas reflecting off earth's atmosphere. Any questions regarding my behavior should be directed toward Hossmom.
Thank you
Mary Poppins
Mary Poppins is hot. Don’t deny it. We all think so. Whether she is on Holiday at the race track or laughing on the ceiling, she is smoking. I’m not sure when my infatuation started with Ms. Poppins, but it is there, full bore. Mind you, I’m not that wild about Julie Andrews, but Mary Poppins. I can’t even really tell you why. Is it because I now have kids and can appreciate what she did for the Banks family? Possibly. Is it because I want to go fly a kite, up to the highest height, up in the atmosphere, up where the air is clear. Could be. She’s a minx that one I tell you.
I revealed to my wife my Poppins fetish. Interesting conversation, that one. It began with a look. Honestly, I have no idea why she stays with me other than my fabulous good looks. She was a bit taken aback, but in marriage you are supposed to open up, right? I mean, who hasn’t told their significant other the Princess Leia fantasy:? There is a whole following on that one. No one gives you weird looks when you say that. But no, mention Ms. Poppins and you are in a whole different world of creepy.
I am afraid to look on the web to see what is devoted to this subject. Mainly because I am at work and afraid of the triple x action that might pop up. The truth is that I don’t want to really know who shares this believe, because deep down, I think it is a little weird myself. I mean, she wears a turtle neck and ankle length skirt! I have major problems here. It might be the hair but I’m not really sure. The hat with the flower does do something for me, but I choose not to analyze this to much, it takes away from the magic that is Poppins.
What would it be like to be married to her? Chimney sweeps breaking in at anytime? That would be cool as I understand from the movie that they are delightful chaps who would in no way steal your mother’s jewelry or run away with your daughter. Would she sing to the dogs to put them to sleep, something about the value of not barking in the middle of the night thus waking the baby up and causing me to crash around what ever toy may be on the floor. If she did, I bet it would be about leftover Thanksgiving turkey that they would get. They would sigh, maybe huff a little, and go off to a dreamcickle land.
I think that I would particularly enjoy going inside paintings with her. Leave the kids at home with a less qualified baby sitter and just get gone. I would choose anything from Rembrandt maybe a little velvet Elvis thrown in for a good time. Could we go into pictures of Vegas or Tahoe? Maybe even a little Tahiti. Does it work with just sidewalk paintings or would a picture in a magazine be good enough. Say something from the super bowl or Monster truck weekly?
I do think the singing would wear on my nerves a little bit. I would have to get her an IPOD to keep her quiet on occasion. But she would be good with the kiddo. What’s her stance on xbox violence? That could be a deal breaker. Although anytime she would want to Chim-Chimney me, I would be good to go.
I revealed to my wife my Poppins fetish. Interesting conversation, that one. It began with a look. Honestly, I have no idea why she stays with me other than my fabulous good looks. She was a bit taken aback, but in marriage you are supposed to open up, right? I mean, who hasn’t told their significant other the Princess Leia fantasy:? There is a whole following on that one. No one gives you weird looks when you say that. But no, mention Ms. Poppins and you are in a whole different world of creepy.
I am afraid to look on the web to see what is devoted to this subject. Mainly because I am at work and afraid of the triple x action that might pop up. The truth is that I don’t want to really know who shares this believe, because deep down, I think it is a little weird myself. I mean, she wears a turtle neck and ankle length skirt! I have major problems here. It might be the hair but I’m not really sure. The hat with the flower does do something for me, but I choose not to analyze this to much, it takes away from the magic that is Poppins.
What would it be like to be married to her? Chimney sweeps breaking in at anytime? That would be cool as I understand from the movie that they are delightful chaps who would in no way steal your mother’s jewelry or run away with your daughter. Would she sing to the dogs to put them to sleep, something about the value of not barking in the middle of the night thus waking the baby up and causing me to crash around what ever toy may be on the floor. If she did, I bet it would be about leftover Thanksgiving turkey that they would get. They would sigh, maybe huff a little, and go off to a dreamcickle land.
I think that I would particularly enjoy going inside paintings with her. Leave the kids at home with a less qualified baby sitter and just get gone. I would choose anything from Rembrandt maybe a little velvet Elvis thrown in for a good time. Could we go into pictures of Vegas or Tahoe? Maybe even a little Tahiti. Does it work with just sidewalk paintings or would a picture in a magazine be good enough. Say something from the super bowl or Monster truck weekly?
I do think the singing would wear on my nerves a little bit. I would have to get her an IPOD to keep her quiet on occasion. But she would be good with the kiddo. What’s her stance on xbox violence? That could be a deal breaker. Although anytime she would want to Chim-Chimney me, I would be good to go.
The Prettiest Baby
My baby is prettier than yours. I don’t feel guilt when I say that. There is no remorse, there are no second thoughts. It is ludicrous however. Babies have no specific looks other than a squid like appearance. The statement makes no sense, there is no logic behind it. It is incredibly selfish and uber comparative parent. Yet I seem to be completely ok with that.
That is what I have learned about fatherhood in the last year. When you have a daughter, your plans change. You may have thought you were going to be strict, stern and provide a good morale upbringing. The first time your daughter looks at you and recognizes who you are, the rest goes to crap. I would give her my wallet, no questions asked. I just took out a loan to get her that pony that I know she will ask for. I am shocked that the national news doesn’t print when she does something new, like standing for the first time. I truly believe that my daughter is a genius. I base this on the fact that she has discerned that there are different kinds of paper and each tastes different. She is a paper connoisseur, pure genius.
So in the first year of fatherhood there are a couple of truths that I have come to terms with. I honestly believe that my daughter is the prettiest baby there ever was. I have no doubts. That scares me. I know that I am not objective, I know that there is no scale to make judgment. I write that and think that if there was a scale, she would be tops. It’s not even close. You would think that this would embarrass me. Not even close. She is like a new religion, requiring that I sign over all my assets and financial means to her.
I have also learned that I will talk about my daughter to anyone at anytime. I do not care if you listen or not. I have actually thought that this must be a beatdown for the one I am talking to. I do not care. Pre-squid, I didn’t think much about babies. They made me uncomfortable, somehow finding a way each time to find my weaknesses and exploit it. When I held them, they screamed like I was Chester the Molester. Very embarrassing. It got even worse when the parents would laugh, then take the kid away like I am defective. They were loud, uncouth, smelly and pukey. When someone talked to me about their kids, I’d nod my head along, buy the right amount of candy from the coworker, and move on. Never gave it much thought and IT WAS A BEATDOWN.
But now I understand the other side. They never cared if I listened or not. They knew, just knew, that their child was the most gifted anywhere, ever. That is me. These pages will be filled with stories about my child and I will judge you if you do not read them and appreciate the greatness that is Little Hoss. I try not to rehash the same subject over and over again but it can be quite hard. I have about 10 working tittles involving my daughter, everyone will be written but I try to space it out.
It can be tough though, being the father of the prettiest baby in the world. I am constantly on the guard against random lady snatching her. Walking through the mall, each grandmother gets the steely “back off” glance from me, they are perps in blue wigs. In the store when someone asks to “touch the baby” my initial response is “back off baby stealer.” One look at her and I know that they are going to pick her up and head for the hills, I have to be vigilant. I want her to be treated like my cat who loves to be looked at and noticed, but god help you should you try to pick him up. It usually ends up as Scratchy MacScratch time.
When she was born I wheeled her out in her little baby cart to all my family there, waiting for the crowning of Pretties baby. My first response was not come look at the baby. It was “Dear God, they are a mob. They are a mob and they are going to trample my prettiest baby”. I swelled up like a puffer fish, hovering over the cart. Touch her and your fingers get broke was the message I was sending. I almost hit my mother. I like when we go out to dinner with my brick salesman Brother in Law so he can provide extra security. He is a big dude with bricks in his car, what more could I want?
Which brings me to my last lesson of fatherhood this year. I am completely insane. I am certifiable. I am that weird guy that you see walking in the parking lot that you take the long way around to avoid. I need a big Indian guy to stuff a pillow over my head. I have lost more IQ points than I did my first two years of binge drinking college. No one is going to steal my baby, she is not the prettiest in the world and she is not the best behaved. I see the logic, but I don’t believe it. Of course if you say this to me, I will have you deported to Russia with the rest of the communist bastards. I work for the government, I can do this. Especially my mom.
That is what I have learned about fatherhood in the last year. When you have a daughter, your plans change. You may have thought you were going to be strict, stern and provide a good morale upbringing. The first time your daughter looks at you and recognizes who you are, the rest goes to crap. I would give her my wallet, no questions asked. I just took out a loan to get her that pony that I know she will ask for. I am shocked that the national news doesn’t print when she does something new, like standing for the first time. I truly believe that my daughter is a genius. I base this on the fact that she has discerned that there are different kinds of paper and each tastes different. She is a paper connoisseur, pure genius.
So in the first year of fatherhood there are a couple of truths that I have come to terms with. I honestly believe that my daughter is the prettiest baby there ever was. I have no doubts. That scares me. I know that I am not objective, I know that there is no scale to make judgment. I write that and think that if there was a scale, she would be tops. It’s not even close. You would think that this would embarrass me. Not even close. She is like a new religion, requiring that I sign over all my assets and financial means to her.
I have also learned that I will talk about my daughter to anyone at anytime. I do not care if you listen or not. I have actually thought that this must be a beatdown for the one I am talking to. I do not care. Pre-squid, I didn’t think much about babies. They made me uncomfortable, somehow finding a way each time to find my weaknesses and exploit it. When I held them, they screamed like I was Chester the Molester. Very embarrassing. It got even worse when the parents would laugh, then take the kid away like I am defective. They were loud, uncouth, smelly and pukey. When someone talked to me about their kids, I’d nod my head along, buy the right amount of candy from the coworker, and move on. Never gave it much thought and IT WAS A BEATDOWN.
But now I understand the other side. They never cared if I listened or not. They knew, just knew, that their child was the most gifted anywhere, ever. That is me. These pages will be filled with stories about my child and I will judge you if you do not read them and appreciate the greatness that is Little Hoss. I try not to rehash the same subject over and over again but it can be quite hard. I have about 10 working tittles involving my daughter, everyone will be written but I try to space it out.
It can be tough though, being the father of the prettiest baby in the world. I am constantly on the guard against random lady snatching her. Walking through the mall, each grandmother gets the steely “back off” glance from me, they are perps in blue wigs. In the store when someone asks to “touch the baby” my initial response is “back off baby stealer.” One look at her and I know that they are going to pick her up and head for the hills, I have to be vigilant. I want her to be treated like my cat who loves to be looked at and noticed, but god help you should you try to pick him up. It usually ends up as Scratchy MacScratch time.
When she was born I wheeled her out in her little baby cart to all my family there, waiting for the crowning of Pretties baby. My first response was not come look at the baby. It was “Dear God, they are a mob. They are a mob and they are going to trample my prettiest baby”. I swelled up like a puffer fish, hovering over the cart. Touch her and your fingers get broke was the message I was sending. I almost hit my mother. I like when we go out to dinner with my brick salesman Brother in Law so he can provide extra security. He is a big dude with bricks in his car, what more could I want?
Which brings me to my last lesson of fatherhood this year. I am completely insane. I am certifiable. I am that weird guy that you see walking in the parking lot that you take the long way around to avoid. I need a big Indian guy to stuff a pillow over my head. I have lost more IQ points than I did my first two years of binge drinking college. No one is going to steal my baby, she is not the prettiest in the world and she is not the best behaved. I see the logic, but I don’t believe it. Of course if you say this to me, I will have you deported to Russia with the rest of the communist bastards. I work for the government, I can do this. Especially my mom.
2/11/07
The Artwork
I am a very involved father. I rarely sit on the side and let the "womenfolk" do the raising. I like to dig in, get my hands dirty and fix the problem. Ms. Hoss loves/hates that at times. She has explained to me on countless occasions how she just wants me to listen. She said other things but I didn't pay attention. When it comes to our daughter though, I'm all about taking the responsibility and doing what needs to be done. Yes, sometimes I call for help when it is out of my range. Much like I will do when she gets to be 13 or so and wants to talk about buying her first bra. I am so out, not my area of expertise and it terrifies me that my daughter will one day be growing up. Other than that, I'm all on board.
I am superdad
I made a deal with my wife that I would do the 3 am feedings so she could rest. After several false starts I got the hang of it. I approach things from a logical standpoint. For example, when I would feed my daughter at 3 am, we were as organized as a military marching band. Get kid, bring kid downstairs, put kid in carseat to hold her while I make bottle, feed kid, go to bed. That is about the time when my daughter decided to let me know that logic don't work, my life is a lie, I'm no where as smart as I think I am. She decided that she should scream constantly the minute I put her down. The hell with the boiling water, she wanted some chest time. I tried to adjust. I would put her in the car seat, actually buckle her in, and swing her so she might fall back asleep. Of course, the louder she screamed, the higher I would swing her. It got to the point that I was almost hitting the ceiling while juggleing boiling hot water. Cirque de sole called and asked us to join, but we hated the pants. We eventually worked it out by doing 2 things. First, she figured out that the more she screamed, the faster I would move, thus giving her food. I figured out that I felt alot better if I gave her some smack talk while she screamed. Such classic gems such as "you can scream all you want squid, the water won't boil any faster." or my favorite of "when your 18 I'm going to walk out to your slumber party in tighty whites while scratching my gut." Plan your revenge early. We worked it out though, basically meaning that I would start crying at how much my daughter hated me. A year has passed since then and we are entering a new phase for her. She is very mobile, always on the go, loves to climb but still finds it in her daily schedule to yell at me.
I am patient superdad
As I have said before, I'm not the wait and see type. Nor am I squemish. When she poops, and good god phew, I jump right in. Here is my case in point of superdad on the make. Tonight was bath time. She loves bath time. I have no idea why because she doesn't do a whole lot in the tub. She splashes some, giggles a lot, and then plays the "I can stand in the tub" battle with my wife. My wife is certain that she will slip and knock some teeth out. I approach it like my dad did. Let her fall, smack some teeth out, they'll grow back, then she won't stand in the tub anymore. I know, kinda harsh. But it is the logical approach.
I am dad's superdad
The first step in bath time is the taking off the clothes. That's what I usually do. I strip her down and then put her on the floor. She hears the bath going and walks to my wife in all of her glory. It's quite cute and I think that this is the video I'm going to show on her graduation. I took her shirt off, so far so good. The pants go next. I let her take her own socks off as she loves to do that. My girl is self sufficient. I am superdad.
The diaper is next. Normally, this is no big deal, a little wet but manageable. Take off, throw in trash can, perform exorcisim, send to wife. I undid the two sticky holder and pulled it off like a magician sweeping off a table cloth.
I am efficient superdad.
I was holding her up by the shoulder when I noticed it. A 2319. This is our code for when poop has gone beyond the legal border of the diaper. Our immigration policy on this is quite stern. usually, we yell "2319!" when we see this. Of course, I normally notice this before I actually take off the diaper. I may have been a little lax this time because a 2319 was staring me right in the nose. It was a nice consistancy, with a few carrot peices mixed in. What I did next was a complete reflex, but logical. I yelled. Yup, just like her. "Woa!" escaped my lips at the exact minute I dropped her from my grasp. Don't call CPS, she was standing her own. Of course, when she falls, she lands on her butt, which is not how I would have planned this.
I am shocked superdad.
This time she decides to land square on the two books that she happened to be standing on. Down she goes, poo and all. I'm sure there was some sort of sound made but I can't remember hearing anything other than the shock and awe of the diaper. I do realize that now she is sitting in her own poop, on a couple of books, stark naked. That's when my logical mind kicks in.
I am logical superdad.
Bath is running. Kid needs bath. Kid has poo. Poo must come off. Poo+kid+smear=Bath. That was my mind set. So we do what comes naturally. I put her up on her feet and say "go get bath" and she proceeds to happily trot off. There is poo but it is sticking to her, no need to clean the carpet.
I am fixing superdad.
That is when my wife pulls the curtian on my one man show. "What are you doing" she lovingly asks. "Peanut is going to the bath" I answer, failing to see how she can not follow my logic. Ms. Hoss trots after Little Hoss to the bathtub. My daughter has already made it and is waiting to be put into the water of clean. This is where I fail to see some possible obsticles to my plan. When a kid hears running water, what do they usually do? Yup, they pee. Usually my wife is in the bathroom waiting for her. But due to my incompetence she was trying to help me before trotting after the kid. She didn't see me send my daughter on her way so this is somewhat of a shock. As if planned, that's when my daughter, little hoss that she is, decides that she is going to mark some territory. She lets go with all the water and milk she has drunk in the last day. AND she's laughing. This is 3 am feeding all over again. It's like I"m being punished for not meeting her at the tub. Now we have a new problem. Pee+Poo+no diaper+trailing mom=superdad kryptonite.
I am superdad without Ms. Tessmocker.
The pee mingles with the poo, says hello and asks if they should go on a holiday down the leg to my floor. They argue a bit but come to an understanding and start on thier merry way. Stright down my daughter's leg, stopping for lunch at the knee, before settling in at thier new home, Mt. Saint Carpet. It circles the town and finds a nice place not to far from the city. My wife is running to avert disaster but I can already see this is to late. Some sort of weird poo paste hits the floor and settles in guarenteeing that I will have to disclose this when I sell my house as a past biohazard problem we may have once had. My wife scoops up little hoss and in the tub it goes. I am standing there watching, frozen if you will. That is when I notice the books. Perfect, right in the center, is her butt print in a brown mosiac of smelly colors.
I am art dealer superdad.
I can hear my daughter laughing, my wife cussing my name and that is when the special gueststars arrive. Cue dogs please. Whenever they hear a commotion, they must come. Whenever they smell pee or poop, they must eat. Galloping like a horse and a fat rat, my two dogs attempt to go the bathroom. That's when my wife uses her "angry voice" which they know means to hide behind dad's leg. They assume that I am in as much trouble as they are and will thus take the brunt of the fury. I usually kick them out in front and it is a mad scramble at who can get away the fastest while sacrificing the others. I am also holding the Di Vinci my daughter made on the book. It's time to own up, it's time to make amends. I look at my wife, I look at my daughter, I look at my brand new 2007 poop stain on the carpet. My work is done.
I am coward superdad.
I mutter a good luck to my wife as the dogs and I make an exit worthy of Kiaser Sose. Poof, just like that, we're gone. My wife may have yelled for me to "get my chicken butt back here" but I didn't hear that, even though that is what she said and that's why I put it in quotes but I couldn't testify to it in a intergaltic court of law. I'm gone but I did take the poo books. In the kitchen, the dogs and I come to an understanding. We are all buying flowers for mom tomorrow. We all look at the books and decide that we will not hang my daughter's first attempt at artwork on the fridge. In the trash they go. Destroy the evidence and play dumb, that's my whole plan. I went Nazi on the books and took them to the outside trash knowing that they would never be found. The dogs stood guard for mom. The deed was done.
I am genius superdad.
Later my wife would explain how I should have NOT dropped the baby, how I should have NOT let her walk to the tub with poo on her and how I should have NOT high tailed it out of there. She would further explain that she had to drain the tub twice because there were chunks of my daughter's art supplies still floating around and how I will have the very nice job of cleaning the tub and carpet with bleech tomorrow. That's when I point out that our dogs have gone back upstairs to the poo stain. She hurries after them.
I am scape goating superdad.
For my wife.
I am superdad
I made a deal with my wife that I would do the 3 am feedings so she could rest. After several false starts I got the hang of it. I approach things from a logical standpoint. For example, when I would feed my daughter at 3 am, we were as organized as a military marching band. Get kid, bring kid downstairs, put kid in carseat to hold her while I make bottle, feed kid, go to bed. That is about the time when my daughter decided to let me know that logic don't work, my life is a lie, I'm no where as smart as I think I am. She decided that she should scream constantly the minute I put her down. The hell with the boiling water, she wanted some chest time. I tried to adjust. I would put her in the car seat, actually buckle her in, and swing her so she might fall back asleep. Of course, the louder she screamed, the higher I would swing her. It got to the point that I was almost hitting the ceiling while juggleing boiling hot water. Cirque de sole called and asked us to join, but we hated the pants. We eventually worked it out by doing 2 things. First, she figured out that the more she screamed, the faster I would move, thus giving her food. I figured out that I felt alot better if I gave her some smack talk while she screamed. Such classic gems such as "you can scream all you want squid, the water won't boil any faster." or my favorite of "when your 18 I'm going to walk out to your slumber party in tighty whites while scratching my gut." Plan your revenge early. We worked it out though, basically meaning that I would start crying at how much my daughter hated me. A year has passed since then and we are entering a new phase for her. She is very mobile, always on the go, loves to climb but still finds it in her daily schedule to yell at me.
I am patient superdad
As I have said before, I'm not the wait and see type. Nor am I squemish. When she poops, and good god phew, I jump right in. Here is my case in point of superdad on the make. Tonight was bath time. She loves bath time. I have no idea why because she doesn't do a whole lot in the tub. She splashes some, giggles a lot, and then plays the "I can stand in the tub" battle with my wife. My wife is certain that she will slip and knock some teeth out. I approach it like my dad did. Let her fall, smack some teeth out, they'll grow back, then she won't stand in the tub anymore. I know, kinda harsh. But it is the logical approach.
I am dad's superdad
The first step in bath time is the taking off the clothes. That's what I usually do. I strip her down and then put her on the floor. She hears the bath going and walks to my wife in all of her glory. It's quite cute and I think that this is the video I'm going to show on her graduation. I took her shirt off, so far so good. The pants go next. I let her take her own socks off as she loves to do that. My girl is self sufficient. I am superdad.
The diaper is next. Normally, this is no big deal, a little wet but manageable. Take off, throw in trash can, perform exorcisim, send to wife. I undid the two sticky holder and pulled it off like a magician sweeping off a table cloth.
I am efficient superdad.
I was holding her up by the shoulder when I noticed it. A 2319. This is our code for when poop has gone beyond the legal border of the diaper. Our immigration policy on this is quite stern. usually, we yell "2319!" when we see this. Of course, I normally notice this before I actually take off the diaper. I may have been a little lax this time because a 2319 was staring me right in the nose. It was a nice consistancy, with a few carrot peices mixed in. What I did next was a complete reflex, but logical. I yelled. Yup, just like her. "Woa!" escaped my lips at the exact minute I dropped her from my grasp. Don't call CPS, she was standing her own. Of course, when she falls, she lands on her butt, which is not how I would have planned this.
I am shocked superdad.
This time she decides to land square on the two books that she happened to be standing on. Down she goes, poo and all. I'm sure there was some sort of sound made but I can't remember hearing anything other than the shock and awe of the diaper. I do realize that now she is sitting in her own poop, on a couple of books, stark naked. That's when my logical mind kicks in.
I am logical superdad.
Bath is running. Kid needs bath. Kid has poo. Poo must come off. Poo+kid+smear=Bath. That was my mind set. So we do what comes naturally. I put her up on her feet and say "go get bath" and she proceeds to happily trot off. There is poo but it is sticking to her, no need to clean the carpet.
I am fixing superdad.
That is when my wife pulls the curtian on my one man show. "What are you doing" she lovingly asks. "Peanut is going to the bath" I answer, failing to see how she can not follow my logic. Ms. Hoss trots after Little Hoss to the bathtub. My daughter has already made it and is waiting to be put into the water of clean. This is where I fail to see some possible obsticles to my plan. When a kid hears running water, what do they usually do? Yup, they pee. Usually my wife is in the bathroom waiting for her. But due to my incompetence she was trying to help me before trotting after the kid. She didn't see me send my daughter on her way so this is somewhat of a shock. As if planned, that's when my daughter, little hoss that she is, decides that she is going to mark some territory. She lets go with all the water and milk she has drunk in the last day. AND she's laughing. This is 3 am feeding all over again. It's like I"m being punished for not meeting her at the tub. Now we have a new problem. Pee+Poo+no diaper+trailing mom=superdad kryptonite.
I am superdad without Ms. Tessmocker.
The pee mingles with the poo, says hello and asks if they should go on a holiday down the leg to my floor. They argue a bit but come to an understanding and start on thier merry way. Stright down my daughter's leg, stopping for lunch at the knee, before settling in at thier new home, Mt. Saint Carpet. It circles the town and finds a nice place not to far from the city. My wife is running to avert disaster but I can already see this is to late. Some sort of weird poo paste hits the floor and settles in guarenteeing that I will have to disclose this when I sell my house as a past biohazard problem we may have once had. My wife scoops up little hoss and in the tub it goes. I am standing there watching, frozen if you will. That is when I notice the books. Perfect, right in the center, is her butt print in a brown mosiac of smelly colors.
I am art dealer superdad.
I can hear my daughter laughing, my wife cussing my name and that is when the special gueststars arrive. Cue dogs please. Whenever they hear a commotion, they must come. Whenever they smell pee or poop, they must eat. Galloping like a horse and a fat rat, my two dogs attempt to go the bathroom. That's when my wife uses her "angry voice" which they know means to hide behind dad's leg. They assume that I am in as much trouble as they are and will thus take the brunt of the fury. I usually kick them out in front and it is a mad scramble at who can get away the fastest while sacrificing the others. I am also holding the Di Vinci my daughter made on the book. It's time to own up, it's time to make amends. I look at my wife, I look at my daughter, I look at my brand new 2007 poop stain on the carpet. My work is done.
I am coward superdad.
I mutter a good luck to my wife as the dogs and I make an exit worthy of Kiaser Sose. Poof, just like that, we're gone. My wife may have yelled for me to "get my chicken butt back here" but I didn't hear that, even though that is what she said and that's why I put it in quotes but I couldn't testify to it in a intergaltic court of law. I'm gone but I did take the poo books. In the kitchen, the dogs and I come to an understanding. We are all buying flowers for mom tomorrow. We all look at the books and decide that we will not hang my daughter's first attempt at artwork on the fridge. In the trash they go. Destroy the evidence and play dumb, that's my whole plan. I went Nazi on the books and took them to the outside trash knowing that they would never be found. The dogs stood guard for mom. The deed was done.
I am genius superdad.
Later my wife would explain how I should have NOT dropped the baby, how I should have NOT let her walk to the tub with poo on her and how I should have NOT high tailed it out of there. She would further explain that she had to drain the tub twice because there were chunks of my daughter's art supplies still floating around and how I will have the very nice job of cleaning the tub and carpet with bleech tomorrow. That's when I point out that our dogs have gone back upstairs to the poo stain. She hurries after them.
I am scape goating superdad.
For my wife.
2/9/07
Sleep Talking
I am about to embarrass my wife. I do this intentionally and of my own free will. On my tombstone please write “He made us laugh”. However, like a school that is being investigated I shall now pay up pre-emptively. Following are some postsecrets about myself. I figure that when she reads this, it’s coming out anyway.
I sneeze when I look at the sun or when a pimple is popped on my forehead. I cry at any movie that has to do with a father and daughter or the loss of either one. I have a very nervous stomach that has made itself known at very inappropriate times. I once pooped on a neighbors fence. I drive like an 85 year old—slow and erratic. I was drunk when I took my wedding vows. I have to buy shoes that make my feet look slim, otherwise I am self conscious that my feet look fat—seriously. I absolutely love the song “not ready to make nice” by the Dixie Chicks. I am a seriously flawed individual. Ok, that should about do it for my public humiliation although I’m sure that my wife will bring out more after she reads this.
Most people know about sleep walking. It’s a pretty common sight at times and most of us have done it at one time or another. Everyone knows that there are a select few individuals that talk in their sleep. You know, scream a name, say a phrase, things of that nature. But my question to you: How many of you have ever heard about someone have an actual, full fledged conversation while asleep. I’m not talking about just saying a few things. I’m talking about making a statement, getting a questions asked, and then answering it. This is my wife and this usually happens weekly. It is my absolute favorite hobby and activity that we do together. Of course, my wife is unconscious during all this.
Most nights my wife falls asleep much sooner that I do. She is the type that loves to go to bed at around 9:00pm. Which I find very weird because in college she would never go to bed before sunrise. I have thought at times that this must mean that she is bored with me and that I provide no excitement to our lives. Then I realize that we have a kid together and that she has to stay with me forever. Let’s face it, how could I not get custody? I can live in a loveless marriage as long as that included someone buying the clothes for me. It’s an arrangement that works out well.
Her problem is that she can’t fall asleep unless I’m in bed with her. Or more accurately, it has been pointed out to me that it will be my problem if I’m not in bed with her. I don’t know what this means, but I find it is healthy for me to be in bed when she goes. It helps that I have the Xbox next to my bed. Not only is it good for playing alone, but good for cuddling when I’m lonely. The motherboard is so warm. Needless to say, I go to bed when appropriate. I usually read for about an hour or something of that nature. This allows my wife to quietly and peacefully doze off, dreaming of her real husband.
This is when my night gets good. Out of no where, she will make the most bazaar statement. At first it was so shocking that I didn’t know what she was talking about. Her voice is loud and clear, it’s as if we had been talking all night. There is no yawning, no grumbling. It’s as clear as HDTV. I kid you not. But the subject is so out there, that unless you know what is going on you may think that you have just been insulted. I have learned in my 12 years with my wife to recognize this for what it is—sleep conversation fun times. It’s the tone of voice and the subject of the question that tips me off. So what do I do? I answer and then ask a question.
But this isn’t where it stops. This can go on for a good 15 to 20 minutes. It’s like the exorcist. She’s possessed, I must call the preacher in the morning. Let me give you an example of our most recent sleepy time fun:
“Did you kiss her” she asks.
Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. It’s go time I think. It’s around 10 at night and I’m reading a book. I have never cheated on my wife, haven’t kissed anyone else in 13 years and am feeling indignant at such a question. Time for some revenge.
“Who do you mean” I reply
“Fiona”
This is going to be so great.
“Fiona the horse you mean? Yup, got that done today.”
“That’s good, she needed it.” She says as clear as day.
“In fact, I did that after I put the flowers in the radio. It was great.”
“The radio needed flowers” Snore ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
And that’s the end of the conversation. I asked another question but couldn’t get another answer out of her.
So how do I know that she’s really asleep. Well, she never remembers when I talk to her about it in the morning and I can also hear her snoring after each question usually. Not a big grizzly one, just a small one, enough to know that she’s asleep.
I have used this disability to my great advantage. It’s how I get most of the games for my Xbox. She will start by saying something like “Did you see the blimp.”
“I sure did. In fact, can I go get the new 85 dollar game tomorrow, the moose said it was ok.”
“Sure, as long as the moose said it was ok.”
Bam, I got a new game and permission to blow money on it. How can you argue with that?
This just doesn’t happen at 10 at night either. This has happened at 3 in the morning, on many, many different occasions. She’ll wake me up with questions because she hasn’t gotten me to answer yet. Once she bolted straight up in bed, eyes closed.
“Where do we keep the widgets”
“Where should they be” I’m trying not to laugh but I’m about to pee myself.
“They should be with the munchkins! Stop laughing and go get them!”
“I just put them up. How about letting the dog get them.”
Then, in a very exasperated voice she says “The dog can’t do it! Why would you do that to the DOG!”
I’m in full out gut busting mode now. I can’t help it, it’s just to good. I know that we could go on for hours like this. It’s where I get most of the ideas for my stories. She never remembers anything she says about it in the morning but sees only the after effects. It can be very awkward for her. She once had a roommate in college that she did this to. The roommate moved out the next morning. Greatness. She seems very offended when I tell her in the morning what happened. Doesn’t she realize that this is comic genius?
The best is when she wakes up halfway in the conversation. We may have been talking about building Paris on Mars and all of a sudden her eyes will pop open. She’ll stop what she is saying in mid-sentence, trying to figure out why she was talking and what she was talking about. She then realizes what happened and huffs over on her side, cussing me all the way. So worth it.
I know that I am messing with her dreams. I know that they must be jacked up after a 20 minute conversation with me like this. Sometimes I try to plant dream ideas to her to see if it works. I’ll just start talking when she’s sleeping. If I get an answer, I know that it is happy fun time in her head. “Did you see the carebears going over the rainbow today. That was pretty cool.” I’ll keep at this them until I hear “But the little one got left behind.” Pay dirt. Let’s continue this, shall we—
“Where did they get left behind at?”
“In the bus.”
“In the bus to candyland” I ask
“No the one going to Hogwarts.”
One of these days I’m going to whip out the video camera. I know that it may be the end of my marriage. But hey, I always have Fiona standing by.
I sneeze when I look at the sun or when a pimple is popped on my forehead. I cry at any movie that has to do with a father and daughter or the loss of either one. I have a very nervous stomach that has made itself known at very inappropriate times. I once pooped on a neighbors fence. I drive like an 85 year old—slow and erratic. I was drunk when I took my wedding vows. I have to buy shoes that make my feet look slim, otherwise I am self conscious that my feet look fat—seriously. I absolutely love the song “not ready to make nice” by the Dixie Chicks. I am a seriously flawed individual. Ok, that should about do it for my public humiliation although I’m sure that my wife will bring out more after she reads this.
Most people know about sleep walking. It’s a pretty common sight at times and most of us have done it at one time or another. Everyone knows that there are a select few individuals that talk in their sleep. You know, scream a name, say a phrase, things of that nature. But my question to you: How many of you have ever heard about someone have an actual, full fledged conversation while asleep. I’m not talking about just saying a few things. I’m talking about making a statement, getting a questions asked, and then answering it. This is my wife and this usually happens weekly. It is my absolute favorite hobby and activity that we do together. Of course, my wife is unconscious during all this.
Most nights my wife falls asleep much sooner that I do. She is the type that loves to go to bed at around 9:00pm. Which I find very weird because in college she would never go to bed before sunrise. I have thought at times that this must mean that she is bored with me and that I provide no excitement to our lives. Then I realize that we have a kid together and that she has to stay with me forever. Let’s face it, how could I not get custody? I can live in a loveless marriage as long as that included someone buying the clothes for me. It’s an arrangement that works out well.
Her problem is that she can’t fall asleep unless I’m in bed with her. Or more accurately, it has been pointed out to me that it will be my problem if I’m not in bed with her. I don’t know what this means, but I find it is healthy for me to be in bed when she goes. It helps that I have the Xbox next to my bed. Not only is it good for playing alone, but good for cuddling when I’m lonely. The motherboard is so warm. Needless to say, I go to bed when appropriate. I usually read for about an hour or something of that nature. This allows my wife to quietly and peacefully doze off, dreaming of her real husband.
This is when my night gets good. Out of no where, she will make the most bazaar statement. At first it was so shocking that I didn’t know what she was talking about. Her voice is loud and clear, it’s as if we had been talking all night. There is no yawning, no grumbling. It’s as clear as HDTV. I kid you not. But the subject is so out there, that unless you know what is going on you may think that you have just been insulted. I have learned in my 12 years with my wife to recognize this for what it is—sleep conversation fun times. It’s the tone of voice and the subject of the question that tips me off. So what do I do? I answer and then ask a question.
But this isn’t where it stops. This can go on for a good 15 to 20 minutes. It’s like the exorcist. She’s possessed, I must call the preacher in the morning. Let me give you an example of our most recent sleepy time fun:
“Did you kiss her” she asks.
Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. It’s go time I think. It’s around 10 at night and I’m reading a book. I have never cheated on my wife, haven’t kissed anyone else in 13 years and am feeling indignant at such a question. Time for some revenge.
“Who do you mean” I reply
“Fiona”
This is going to be so great.
“Fiona the horse you mean? Yup, got that done today.”
“That’s good, she needed it.” She says as clear as day.
“In fact, I did that after I put the flowers in the radio. It was great.”
“The radio needed flowers” Snore ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
And that’s the end of the conversation. I asked another question but couldn’t get another answer out of her.
So how do I know that she’s really asleep. Well, she never remembers when I talk to her about it in the morning and I can also hear her snoring after each question usually. Not a big grizzly one, just a small one, enough to know that she’s asleep.
I have used this disability to my great advantage. It’s how I get most of the games for my Xbox. She will start by saying something like “Did you see the blimp.”
“I sure did. In fact, can I go get the new 85 dollar game tomorrow, the moose said it was ok.”
“Sure, as long as the moose said it was ok.”
Bam, I got a new game and permission to blow money on it. How can you argue with that?
This just doesn’t happen at 10 at night either. This has happened at 3 in the morning, on many, many different occasions. She’ll wake me up with questions because she hasn’t gotten me to answer yet. Once she bolted straight up in bed, eyes closed.
“Where do we keep the widgets”
“Where should they be” I’m trying not to laugh but I’m about to pee myself.
“They should be with the munchkins! Stop laughing and go get them!”
“I just put them up. How about letting the dog get them.”
Then, in a very exasperated voice she says “The dog can’t do it! Why would you do that to the DOG!”
I’m in full out gut busting mode now. I can’t help it, it’s just to good. I know that we could go on for hours like this. It’s where I get most of the ideas for my stories. She never remembers anything she says about it in the morning but sees only the after effects. It can be very awkward for her. She once had a roommate in college that she did this to. The roommate moved out the next morning. Greatness. She seems very offended when I tell her in the morning what happened. Doesn’t she realize that this is comic genius?
The best is when she wakes up halfway in the conversation. We may have been talking about building Paris on Mars and all of a sudden her eyes will pop open. She’ll stop what she is saying in mid-sentence, trying to figure out why she was talking and what she was talking about. She then realizes what happened and huffs over on her side, cussing me all the way. So worth it.
I know that I am messing with her dreams. I know that they must be jacked up after a 20 minute conversation with me like this. Sometimes I try to plant dream ideas to her to see if it works. I’ll just start talking when she’s sleeping. If I get an answer, I know that it is happy fun time in her head. “Did you see the carebears going over the rainbow today. That was pretty cool.” I’ll keep at this them until I hear “But the little one got left behind.” Pay dirt. Let’s continue this, shall we—
“Where did they get left behind at?”
“In the bus.”
“In the bus to candyland” I ask
“No the one going to Hogwarts.”
One of these days I’m going to whip out the video camera. I know that it may be the end of my marriage. But hey, I always have Fiona standing by.
The Greatest Character actress Ever:
She is the greatest character actor ever. She has played so many roles that she makes Heston’s work look like a weekend community theater. She has been passed over by the academy more times than that Soap Opera Star (her name escapes me but the joke still works). She has worked on every continent and knows many high class Hollywood people. She only works with the hossman family, but that has not held her career back as I am very funny and write only staring roles. You may have never heard of her, but that may be because you can’t tell who it is behind the makeup. She has been staring in the stories I write my wife for 4 years and has never yet failed to give an Oscar winning performance. She has a tragic childhood, the tears well up in your eyes every time you hear it.
She was a country girl out in small town Texas. She didn’t like her home so she ran away like Tom Sawyer. She tried to find a river for her raft but only came to a lake. As she didn’t know the difference between a lake and a river, she assumed that she had hit paydirt. She had no thumbs and thus couldn’t build a raft. She had no formal education so she couldn’t reason out that fat floats and she should just jump in. She was no more than 6 weeks old when she left, but she had powerful instincts. The nights were cold and the days were lonely. One day, as she was foraging for some potato chips in a ditch, she was rescued by a very sweet couple. They decided to take the orphan in. The parallels to superman are uncanney. She possessed super human gobbling powers that the new foster parents knew that they couldn’t cope with. That is when we received the call.
The Hossman family packed up and went to see her. She immediately went and sat in my lap, earning my loyalty forever. I also had a Twinkie, but I choose to think that that had nothing to do with it. It may have also been the 110 pound German Shepherd that was prowling, but she knew that safety lay within Hossman’s pudge. We couldn’t help it, we took her home and a star was born.
She has since stared in such classic Hossman Family stories such as “The Fat Belly Newt Commeth”, “The Fat Belly VS Evil Cat”, and the all time family classic “Are you going to eat that.” She has helped write each of her scripts, plotted her scenes, and even does charity work by eating my daughter’s cheerios off the floor so that I don’t have to sweep.
Her first big break came in the nominated classic “Dear God, give me a Binkie”. In this role, she refined her screen style by constantly chewing up anything around the house. It was a social protest to bring light to the lack of edible cow hooves, or “Binkies”, that we had. Dramatic, compelling, fat—a blockbuster. She gave a startling performance as the down beaten character that must right a wrong. She was imprisoned, but would not give up her fight, learning to jump the laundry basket that was in her way. Many tears were shed at the premier.
Since then, she has gone by many names. She is known as the following: The Fat Belly Newt, The wrath of Newt, Newt-licious, Newt-cicle, Newt-arrific, The taming of the Newt, Newt-zilla. She now goes just her initials: FBN
She has played so many roles in the Hossman Family stories that many are lost to posterity. They have been stolen and redistributed, a clear infringement on copyright laws. She has done short stairway plays as well as the big budget flicks. She gives nightly barking serenades to the neighbors. She teaches an exercise class to the cats.
However, she has done some work that she isn’t quite proud of. When she was trying to get her first start, she headlined a lesser known flick called “Humping the Boxer.” It was a gritty, low budget feature that questioned the normal roles of sexuality of a species. With biting, growling and constant panting, it was a straight to DVD release. She gave a riveting performance as the lesbian outcast and did her first nude scene.
When not on the big screen, she likes to spend her time helping raise the Little Hoss of the family and digging holes under my fence. She enjoys a nice quiet nap, rubbing her butt on the floor and chewing on walls. She has her own local cable access show called “The Newt and Kahn Comedy hour” which culminates with her knocking me in the crotch. She has big mascara eyes and a gut that almost drags the floor. She occasionally likes to dance like no one is watching, sing like no one is listening, and growl when no one is actually there.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present, the one, the only, the Hossman Family Dog:
The fabulous Fat Belly Newt.
She was a country girl out in small town Texas. She didn’t like her home so she ran away like Tom Sawyer. She tried to find a river for her raft but only came to a lake. As she didn’t know the difference between a lake and a river, she assumed that she had hit paydirt. She had no thumbs and thus couldn’t build a raft. She had no formal education so she couldn’t reason out that fat floats and she should just jump in. She was no more than 6 weeks old when she left, but she had powerful instincts. The nights were cold and the days were lonely. One day, as she was foraging for some potato chips in a ditch, she was rescued by a very sweet couple. They decided to take the orphan in. The parallels to superman are uncanney. She possessed super human gobbling powers that the new foster parents knew that they couldn’t cope with. That is when we received the call.
The Hossman family packed up and went to see her. She immediately went and sat in my lap, earning my loyalty forever. I also had a Twinkie, but I choose to think that that had nothing to do with it. It may have also been the 110 pound German Shepherd that was prowling, but she knew that safety lay within Hossman’s pudge. We couldn’t help it, we took her home and a star was born.
She has since stared in such classic Hossman Family stories such as “The Fat Belly Newt Commeth”, “The Fat Belly VS Evil Cat”, and the all time family classic “Are you going to eat that.” She has helped write each of her scripts, plotted her scenes, and even does charity work by eating my daughter’s cheerios off the floor so that I don’t have to sweep.
Her first big break came in the nominated classic “Dear God, give me a Binkie”. In this role, she refined her screen style by constantly chewing up anything around the house. It was a social protest to bring light to the lack of edible cow hooves, or “Binkies”, that we had. Dramatic, compelling, fat—a blockbuster. She gave a startling performance as the down beaten character that must right a wrong. She was imprisoned, but would not give up her fight, learning to jump the laundry basket that was in her way. Many tears were shed at the premier.
Since then, she has gone by many names. She is known as the following: The Fat Belly Newt, The wrath of Newt, Newt-licious, Newt-cicle, Newt-arrific, The taming of the Newt, Newt-zilla. She now goes just her initials: FBN
She has played so many roles in the Hossman Family stories that many are lost to posterity. They have been stolen and redistributed, a clear infringement on copyright laws. She has done short stairway plays as well as the big budget flicks. She gives nightly barking serenades to the neighbors. She teaches an exercise class to the cats.
However, she has done some work that she isn’t quite proud of. When she was trying to get her first start, she headlined a lesser known flick called “Humping the Boxer.” It was a gritty, low budget feature that questioned the normal roles of sexuality of a species. With biting, growling and constant panting, it was a straight to DVD release. She gave a riveting performance as the lesbian outcast and did her first nude scene.
When not on the big screen, she likes to spend her time helping raise the Little Hoss of the family and digging holes under my fence. She enjoys a nice quiet nap, rubbing her butt on the floor and chewing on walls. She has her own local cable access show called “The Newt and Kahn Comedy hour” which culminates with her knocking me in the crotch. She has big mascara eyes and a gut that almost drags the floor. She occasionally likes to dance like no one is watching, sing like no one is listening, and growl when no one is actually there.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present, the one, the only, the Hossman Family Dog:
The fabulous Fat Belly Newt.
2/7/07
Trekkie Cult Support Group
Hello, my name is Hossman, and I am a Trekkie.
You reply—Hello Hossman.
I know all the actual serial numbers of every Enterprise. And yes Shorty, there is more than one Enterprise. Most forget about the one that was destroyed defending the Klingon base on Kitymar because it had only a short run.
I have had serious debates over who is the better captain, Picard or Kirk and to a lesser extent the one that Scott Bacula played.
I know the name of the first actual captain of the enterprise and no, it wasn’t Kirk
I know the actual actors names of every major character, including guest appearances.
I know where the science station is located compared to the weapons or navigation. On both shows.
You reply—we still love you Brother!
I know what the T stands for in James T. Kirk.
I know where Picard was born.
Every cell phone that I buy MUST flip open so I can imagine that I am using a communicator.
I was once disappointed because when I got my new toy phaser, it didn’t actually stun anyone.
I know that Tasha Yar once had relations with an Android and I thought that was cool.
You Reply—Sing to Jesus, Brother
When I realized that Star Trek didn’t really exist, it was worse than finding out the truth about Santa Claus.
I know exactly how fast “Warp 1” is.
I know who is the inventor of the Warp Drive Engine.
I know the physics behind the “Picard Maneuver”
You Reply—We forgive you!
I know the age at which Spock’s Father died, and I know his name.
I know his mother’s name and place of birth.
My brother once punched me for telling him that I thought Star Trek was stupid. I agreed with him punching me.
When a fellow Trekkie showed up for jury duty in her official star trek uniform, I thought that was a great idea.
You Reply—Bring it home Father Hossman
Bring up any episode, of any show, and I can tell you what it is about based on one line of dialog.
I judge people that are fans of Deep Space Nine or Voyager, because they have gotten away from the roots that is Star Trek.
I truly believe that you can time travel if you sling shot around the sun.
I can tell you in what movie or show you are watching based on the style of uniform that is being worn.
I avoid wearing tight red shirts and black pants so I won’t be the first crew member killed.
You Reply—Preach to us, convert us!
I know how to play Star Trek chess with three levels.
I was disappointed when I discovered that I couldn’t Mind Meld with the dog.
I named my dog Kahn, after the Wrath of Kahn.
Wrath of Kahn is my fantasy football name.
I considered naming my child Tiberius.
I know what frequency of phaser is best suited to slicing through the atmosphere of a planet to dig a hole on the ground.
You Reply----I feel the spirit of the Kirk, I feel the spirit of the Kirk!
I describe my address in terms of which Quadrant of the Neutral Zone I live in.
If in your campaign you mention anything about Star Trek, you will get my vote.
I believe the Prime Directive could fix the BCS.
I am afraid that other Trekkie’s will not think that I am Trekkie enough.
You Reply—Have no fear, have no fear.
My secret ambition is to learn to read and write Kligon fluently.
I celebrate the future birthday of James T. Kirk.
I know that when I meet a green skinned hot alien, I will have to make out with her
I think that fans of Battlestar Galatica are rip off copy cats.
You reply—let them burn, let them burn.
I say “engage” everytime I press the gas pedal on my car.
I let people know that “I’m a doctor damit, not a faith healer” every chance I get.
I wish I had green Vulcan blood.
I wish I had a convention costume.
You reply—come join us, come join us.
I do believe that there is an alien world out there where the super hot aliens where nothing but loin clothes and are in open marriages.
I can sing the theme song.
I boldly go where no man has gone before.
You reply-We will follow.
Let us pray.
You reply—Hello Hossman.
I know all the actual serial numbers of every Enterprise. And yes Shorty, there is more than one Enterprise. Most forget about the one that was destroyed defending the Klingon base on Kitymar because it had only a short run.
I have had serious debates over who is the better captain, Picard or Kirk and to a lesser extent the one that Scott Bacula played.
I know the name of the first actual captain of the enterprise and no, it wasn’t Kirk
I know the actual actors names of every major character, including guest appearances.
I know where the science station is located compared to the weapons or navigation. On both shows.
You reply—we still love you Brother!
I know what the T stands for in James T. Kirk.
I know where Picard was born.
Every cell phone that I buy MUST flip open so I can imagine that I am using a communicator.
I was once disappointed because when I got my new toy phaser, it didn’t actually stun anyone.
I know that Tasha Yar once had relations with an Android and I thought that was cool.
You Reply—Sing to Jesus, Brother
When I realized that Star Trek didn’t really exist, it was worse than finding out the truth about Santa Claus.
I know exactly how fast “Warp 1” is.
I know who is the inventor of the Warp Drive Engine.
I know the physics behind the “Picard Maneuver”
You Reply—We forgive you!
I know the age at which Spock’s Father died, and I know his name.
I know his mother’s name and place of birth.
My brother once punched me for telling him that I thought Star Trek was stupid. I agreed with him punching me.
When a fellow Trekkie showed up for jury duty in her official star trek uniform, I thought that was a great idea.
You Reply—Bring it home Father Hossman
Bring up any episode, of any show, and I can tell you what it is about based on one line of dialog.
I judge people that are fans of Deep Space Nine or Voyager, because they have gotten away from the roots that is Star Trek.
I truly believe that you can time travel if you sling shot around the sun.
I can tell you in what movie or show you are watching based on the style of uniform that is being worn.
I avoid wearing tight red shirts and black pants so I won’t be the first crew member killed.
You Reply—Preach to us, convert us!
I know how to play Star Trek chess with three levels.
I was disappointed when I discovered that I couldn’t Mind Meld with the dog.
I named my dog Kahn, after the Wrath of Kahn.
Wrath of Kahn is my fantasy football name.
I considered naming my child Tiberius.
I know what frequency of phaser is best suited to slicing through the atmosphere of a planet to dig a hole on the ground.
You Reply----I feel the spirit of the Kirk, I feel the spirit of the Kirk!
I describe my address in terms of which Quadrant of the Neutral Zone I live in.
If in your campaign you mention anything about Star Trek, you will get my vote.
I believe the Prime Directive could fix the BCS.
I am afraid that other Trekkie’s will not think that I am Trekkie enough.
You Reply—Have no fear, have no fear.
My secret ambition is to learn to read and write Kligon fluently.
I celebrate the future birthday of James T. Kirk.
I know that when I meet a green skinned hot alien, I will have to make out with her
I think that fans of Battlestar Galatica are rip off copy cats.
You reply—let them burn, let them burn.
I say “engage” everytime I press the gas pedal on my car.
I let people know that “I’m a doctor damit, not a faith healer” every chance I get.
I wish I had green Vulcan blood.
I wish I had a convention costume.
You reply—come join us, come join us.
I do believe that there is an alien world out there where the super hot aliens where nothing but loin clothes and are in open marriages.
I can sing the theme song.
I boldly go where no man has gone before.
You reply-We will follow.
Let us pray.
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