Little Hoss Headbanger

I am the astro creep, a demolition style hell America’s Freak!

I am rocking out. I feel like once again I am 20 years old with hair. I am in good shape and it no longer matters that I am actually 32. I am young and hip. Yes, I am more human than human. I am the astro creep, I am that perfect image of what I thought I would be when I got older.

I am drumming on the steering wheel like I am a member of Guns and Roses. Yes, that’s the beat baby, that’s the beat. My bottom lipped is tucked up under the teeth in what can only be described as the Rock and Roll Sneer. I grunt with each sound of the bass. White Zombie rules all.

I refuse to care that anyone can see me in the car and that brings on the head bob. I am a rock god. I’m singing and bobbing. I can imagine myself in front of the sold out crowd of the Mega Rock Theater, fans going wild, the guitar riff that I do on the steering wheel is silhouetted by the spotlights that just are not bright enough to contain my rock glory.

I look in my review mirror and see the most amazing beautiful site during my single man rock out concert.

Little Hoss is doing the rock and roll head bang right along with me.

Thank you Jesus for all that you have given me.

This is to great. Does my 15 month year old daughter actually have a taste for the hard stuff. Is she Mini-Metallica, only being held back by the fact that she doesn’t know the words to Enter Sandman? I have been blessed.

Little Hoss is starting to do the head bob even more than me. My singlet has become a duo of Rock Stardom. We are the Juke Box Hero. We are the next American Idol that comes in a SUV. She lacks only a baby arm band and a tattoo and she would be good to go. Maybe even get her a chain wallet, complete with an extra set of guitar picks.

That’s it Little Hoss, become one with Korn. Come undone baby, let it all go. See the heaven that you have given your father who couldn’t take much more of The Ants go Marching On. Screw the Ants and stopping to tie their shoe, this is Twisted Transistor. Head bang Little Hoss, head bang with Daddy! If you are happy and you know it, rock out with Tool.

But maybe this is to good to be true. Maybe I am just seeing things. Maybe she is just hungry. I switch the song to a Neil Diamond tune that we used to listen to. The rocker’s lungs come out and wail in protest. I change it to a Little Mermaid ditty that I keep on the Ipod. Again, she wails as if to tell me that if I can’t be the rocking father that she deserves she will quickly find someone who can.

I switch on a little Disturbed and Land of Confusion. This is a remake of a Phil Collins song, only with a hard edge and a couple of grunts. Yup, that’s the beat that she has grown to like. She looks at me when I am no longer doing the head bob and gives me a scowl. Time for Dad to nut-up. Ok, Little Hoss, let’s see how far down the slide you want to ride.

We put on some Spacelord and she goes nuts. Not only is she doing the head bob, she is banging side to side in her car seat. It’s a mosh pit in my back seat and toys are being crushed. Mr. Bear can’t handle it and gets tossed over to the side. Little Barbie paramedics come to drag him off before he gets trampled. Octi the Octopus—you are a wimp, see ya later.

I throw up the horns and start the sign of the Devil, every rockers sign that we are going overboard into the land of sweet oblivion. Follow my lead Little Hoss, trust in Daddy.

I see her stop and look at me. She smiles, then laughs, and up goes the right hand. It’s like Little Hoss was born to do this. The head and the hand are in perfect unison. She can’t quite get her fingers up, but no matter, the intent is there. She is a two foot tall rock god and I am her roadie.

I have no idea how I have managed to stay on the road as we are traveling back from the day care where I pick her up. Between the head bobbing and the rearview mirror watching I am amazed that I haven’t rear ended someone at this point. This can only mean that this has been ordained by god.

Some fathers have teach their children how to save money. Some give them advice on how to work hard. I have taught my daughter how to growl, give high fives, and rock out. I am superdad once again, the greatest father to ever live.

Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Led Zepplin, and even some Elvis because he is still fucking cool and relevant. My life has just changed for the better and I can’t wait to tell my wife about our head banging mosh pit that is the back seat of my Hyundai.

I get home and I am full of excitement. “Honey” I exclaim, “Guess what Little Hoss did today!”

I tell her the story and then she lays a bomb down on me.

“She did that yesterday when we were listening to EVE.” It takes me a minute to realize who she means. The hip/hop female star? The one that sang with Gwenn Stephani? The one that doesn’t wear many clothes and short, short, short shorts?

My world has changed once again in a span of less than 10 minutes. I have visions of my daughter wearing hooker shorts and having a nose ring while a pasty covers her nipples. I imagine my daughter talking like an idiot singing about how good it is to have sex like Christina Aguilera. I can hear my daughter rocking out about how she wants a “candyman”.

Nope, not in this life time. Not while I have breath is this going to happen. I will do everything in my power so that my daughter does not become a LISA.

You know LISA, you have met her. She is that slutty looking girl at all rock concerts that dresses like she is a tramp and actually gives groupies a good name. She is the girl that will flash her boobs when confronted by peer pressure at a concert. She has black makeup on that you know isn’t going to last long backstage. You seen this girl and if you have talked to her, her name is always LISA. Always.

Screw it, bring back the Ants go Marching on and on. Hopefully they can march up some morals. There will be no more devil signs in this house young lady. Now go to bed and think about what you have done today.

Scratch off my broken skin, tear into my heart and make me do it again. O White Zombie, your wisdom knows no bounds.

My Fat Feet

We all have our secrets.

We all have those things that we do in private when no one is around that there is no way in hell we would ever tell anyone what we just did. This is human nature. They may be gross, they may be vain, they may be even a little dangerous, but we can’t help but to do them. It’s like picking you nose when you are alone and then being a little proud of what you brought out. It’s disgusting and not a conversation that you would have with anyone, anywhere, at anytime. Unless you write a blog.

But someone always finds out what your little secret is and Dear God you hope they just keep on walking and ignore it. Please do not ever bring it up and save me from my disgusting weirdo self.

I’ve written a lot of stuff on here about other people, some good, some bad. I have painted myself in usually the lovable loser role or the hero while ignoring some of the very things that make me a weirdo. Well, I’m going to come clean on one today. Mainly, because later this week I’m going to write about my mother in law so I need to show that I ripped on myself first.

I have fat feet. I am obsessed with it. I have been this way since about 10. I have no idea why. I have deleted that sentence about 10 times all ready because of the embarrassment.

Now a lot of people don’t like their feet, so no big revelation right? It’s a little different with me. I love my feet. They are troll/hobbit feet and I am very proud of them. It just looks like I’m standing on a couple of pancakes, that’s all. What makes this truly odd is that I’m a dude. In fact, I’m a pretty manly dude. I crop my hair short, have a goatee and this weekend I even lifted a table over my head for the sure joy of it. I do not usually give a rat’s ass what I wear. My wife has picked out all my clothes for the last 10 years so if she says it looks good, then I’m good. But it’s my feet man, I just can’t get over it.

I had a report due when I was 10. I was good to go, I was going to give the best damn report that Ms. Quick had ever seen. I was handsome with a spike haircut that drove the young ladies crazy. I was going to get an A on this thing, no problem. Everything was going good until I realized that we were going to videotape the report. This one little act changed my life forever.

It was at that moment, while sitting in my radical Jams that I decided that man, I have fat feet. Look at how wide those bastards are. It’s like whale feet man. If I step on someone, I’m going to squash them. I should go into the grape crushing business, because I would be an allstar.

I have no idea why I thought this or what about a video taping it made the thought come about. It’s not public speaking. Hell, I’m a damn good public speaker and don’t usually get nervous at all. In fact, all day today I have been speaking in front of a group as part of my job, so that wasn’t it.
In order to take the soon to be gawking stares off of my gargantuan feet, I pulled up my socks to my knees. I gave my report, on the Texas Rangers by the way, with knee high white socks, Jams, and fat feet. It classifies as one of the top 10 embarrassing moments in my life. Number 1 being that I farted in front of a pretty girl in class when I bent over to get a book when I was 13. It was so loud that the whole class heard it and stopped what they were doing. It was so bad that I froze. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I just did nothing. I did not move for a good hour. I prayed to god that people would just forget that I existed.

But unlike that moment, I can just move on and never talk to those people ever again. My feet are with me always, like a reminder that it is possible that I am some genetic freak.

In college I had to take 3 semesters of dance class. I am a 230 pound uncoordinated bit of sexiness, so this was not good. As it was college, were all a little hippie and very much into sandals and flip flops. Let me give you a piece of advice now: Do not where sandals to do the Polka in. It’s a very bad idea.

Feel free to ask my partner, who had her big toenail ripped off by my humongous feet. It was during the 3 count in dance and my foot ripped that bastard right off. She was so hot to. Those things bleed like a bastard. She went down hard and fast, and not in a good way. I panic when this happened. I picked her up like I was superman and she was Lois Lane. I have no idea where I was going to take her but anything just to get her to calm down. She was bleeding all over me and since I had to take her farther than I thought, I had the meat sweats going to. This is just one example of how my fat feet have tried to ruin me. She would Polka no more and it was my fault.

She eventually forgave me and ripped me for being such a big uncoordinated lug. Which was fine by me as long as she didn’t know about my secret of my fat feet. Sure, whatever you say baby, I’m a lug. Let me give you a cute smile so you’ll forgive me.

However, like I said at the beginning, all secrets get out.

My wife took me shoe shopping. For me, normally this is the equivalent having an ice pick jammed in my eye. It ranks right up there with purse shopping and having a mobster knee cap me. It is mind numbing and I hate it. I will intently jam a steak knife into my thigh just so I can get the medical discharge. I have no shame.

But my wife insisted that I needed new shoes so I insisted that I go with her. This set her off as she was not used to me actually volunteering to go. She had no idea about how I felt about my feet.

We tried on three pairs. The last pair she looked at me and could see that I was miserable. She was having a great time because Hossmom loves her some shoe shopping. It’s like crack in a box. She asked me what was wrong with this pair, after having me walk that gimp walk with one shoe down the aisle. It was like being a kid again.

“These shoes make my feet look fat” I said. And I waited for it.

There it was. The laughter. She thought I was joking. I had been writing these stories for her for a while, so she thought I was just doing a bit. It took me a moment to convince her that the shoes made my feet look fat and where not slimming enough in the middle. That’s the key for me, my shoes need to have that hour glass shape like I am a hot blonde.

My secret was out and I was just sure as shit that everyone in the store had heard what I had just said. Dear God do not let me freeze again. I swear to god that I will rip out every toenail here if anyone so much as makes a comment.

After her laughter died down a little bit she found me a pair of shoes that fit just fine. I kept those same shoes for about 4 years, refusing to go back. Hell, the shoes I’m currently wearing are a good 3 years old for the same reason. Picking out shoes for me is like picking which crewman has to go underwater to release the valve before we all die, knowing that he will never make it back. It takes that kind of bravery.

Everyday with my daughter, I say the same prayer. Please don’t let her have fat feet. Please. If she does, then I guess I have to teach her the Polka Defense.


Arkansas Stories--Our Mount Everest

The mud pile was about 10 feet high and had been sitting there for about a day.

How could we not want to climb that? I ask you, how many 5 year olds living in the country could resist such temptation. You might as well have sprinkled it with ice-cream and chocolate—that thing was meant to be climbed. I was going to be Sir Edmond Hillary and climb my Everest.

Of course, this grand mountain did not start off as a huge gigantic pile of mud. It started out as fill dirt. My father had taken it upon himself to actually build our own house to live in. I know it sounds very pioneer to some and to others it will sound like very hick. Don’t worry, we didn’t use an outhouse during construction. We stayed with my grandmother until it was livable.

During the weekends and summers my brother and I were drafted to help build the house. It may sound tough now but it is a constant source of pride, who helped build their own house for their mother and sister? And it was nice house, 2 stories and plenty of land. Our nearest neighbor was a good mile away and sold plums on the side of the road. They did not have an outhouse. They had a hole in the woods. I’m not making a good case for the pioneer angle, am I.

My brother and I were drafted to do the various manual labor jobs of small importance required on a job site. Things like stacking bricks, mixing concrete, carrying shingles, stacking wood, picking up broken bricks, and sometime later—caring for the hogs and chickens. I swear to god we were pioneers.

But what kid wouldn’t love to grow up like this? I had acres and woods to play in. I had a older brother to play with and a real fort. When you live out that way, you actually build honest to god forts with structures, turrets and punji sticks. It was great.

But part of building your own house means that you need dirt. I don’t know exactly why, but you need it. I don’t know why we couldn’t just dig up some dirt and use that but instead had to have some trucked in. So it was trucked in and left on our property.

Then the rains came and turned this ordinary pile of dirt into one of my greatest accomplishments of my childhood. 10 feet high, a 20 foot circumference and nothing but glory on the top. That glory would be mine, even though it wasn’t my decision to climb it in the first place.

It was my older brother that decided that today we would cease to be mere mortals and would instead become explorers for the benefit of the Hossman Family. But like any good expedition we needed it to be state sanctioned, maybe get some funding or some grants for supplies.

I was charged with going and asking my father if we could climb this colossal mound of dirt. To a 5 year old, this is a completely legit question. Why would he say no? Has he seen the pile of dirt? Of course it needs to be climbed.

So I went and found my father. He was in the living room and on the phone. Very slowly, and very quietly, I asked if my brother and I could obtain glory.

He said yes.

Sometimes in the pursuit of victory you need to know when to bend the rules and manipulate the situation. Even in my 5 year old mind I knew this.

My father had not said yes to me. My father was on the phone and said yes to someone else. However, I heard the yes and took it as my own. I was now dually protected against any unforeseen consequences of my actions. I could reasonably argue that I had infact come for permission and it had been given. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could, no need to wander around and bring suspicion.

With the sanction in hand, my brother and went to the mountain and came up with a plan. This plan did not include my 3 year old sister. She decided that she would have none of that once she saw where we were going. She’s always been a very independent chick so I guess this is where it started. Besides, that just gives us one more member to the expedition, someone to chronicle our glory.

Now we were three and ready to go.

We started up the great mud pile. It was easy going at first. Then our feet started to suck down a little to far in the mud.

The first person to get stuck was my sister. Being shorter, the mud was already up to her thighs. I wish to that I could say that we went back for her, but we didn’t. This expedition could not afford to lose anytime, my father might come out any second. We pushed on, leaving my sister struggling in vein.

Each step became harder and harder as our feet sunk deeper and deeper into the mud. Each time I pulled one leg out of the mud, I could feel the pressure trying to pull loose my shoes.

Undeterred, we pressed on. The wind was sweeping hard across the Mountain’s arc and provisions were running low. We had already lost one of our party. Then tragedy struck. I tried to pull my foot out of the mud and it wouldn’t budge. The strength of a 5 year old was not enough. I was stuck up to my thigh. My journey was in jeopardy.

I called to my brother. I yelled for help. He looked at me and I could see the decision in his eyes. I too would be left behind. I had been discarded as another victim to the ultimate goal. He was leaving me. I called out louder but he ignored me. Why should I think I was more valuable than my own sister who I had left myself at the summit. This is where my journey ended.

My brother was getting closer and closer to the top. Victory was near, but sadly, it was not to be. He to became stuck and glory was ripped from our hands.

Now what to do? We wait. All three of us couldn’t move and we were no more than 5 feet away from each other. The wolves would come soon and then this tale would take an even more grisly turn. We struggled in vein, there was no hope to free ourselves from the thigh high mud.

The wolves did not come. But my mother did. This was seriously not good and she was seriously not pleased. She saw us stuck and filthy, a mother never wants to see that. Ok, she was a little pissed and we might be in some trouble here.

She had to climb to the top and pull my brother out. Atleast one member of the Hossman family reached the summit. She then did the same with my brother and I. The true unfortunate part of this was that when she pulled on me, my legs moved but my shoes didn’t. They sucked right off my feet, as they did with my brother and my sister.

Years later my mother would explain that these were infact our new shoes that we got for the year. We didn’t have much money back then so this took a financial tole on our family as well. As we didn’t actually discover anything, the money could not be made back through the spice trade with new cultures.

My father came out and I thought for sure there would be licks. I was about to get beat and I deserved it. But my brother, being truly devious and forever prepared, reminded my father that we had asked for permission and he said yes. I then told my story of asking while he was on the phone.

He could not argue with that. He knew that I had asked him something but wasn’t paying attention. I had followed the rules, although I had bent them to my needs. My mom glowered at him. I had found the technicality in the law and it had saved us.

The mud pile was soon dried out and my father made a point to move it very quickly to it’s intended use. But atleast we had attempted the impossible. Atleast we had climbed because it was there. We lost some good shoes on that mountain ridge and they will forever be remembered in the Hossman Clan. God speed Converse, god speed.


The Fall of Team Beer

It wasn’t the ball that hurt so much, it was the smacking of this ball into the side of my neck. I now have a very fashionable indent of the seams of a softball that I wear like a prison tattoo. I’ve been there man, I’m hood.

Team Beer was fighting for it’s playoff life this last weekend. The softball Gods had decided to throw some adversity our way by giving us a double header day to make it into the playoffs. We only had to win one of these.

The fans showed up, the Laker Girls sent their regrets and Balco reps were everywhere. It was time to play ball.

That’s when I got hit in the side of the neck by a softball. Honestly, how does this happen? It happens because I am a coward that likes to protect my face. Everyone has done this dance at one time or another, so don’t judge.

The ball was hit hard towards second base. This shocked me because how many people can hit a hard ball that way? It’s not natural and I’m pretty sure that the guy that hit it was juiced. The ball took a bad bounce and up it went, straight for the money maker. I’m a handsome man and I do not relish breaking my nose for Men’s Sunday Night D League Softball. My wife stays with me only because of my pretty mug, I’m sure of it.

But there is something in me that will not let me dodge out of the way of a ball. This comes from when I was a kid when the most constant advice you get is to “Stay in front and Knock it down!” It’s a matter of honor. To jump out of the way likes it’s a runaway 18 wheeler would no doubt cause my father to come out of the stands and call me a sissy. I do not want to be a sissy.

So I stayed infront when it took that physics defying bounce. I did not want to. I wanted to curl into the fetal position and cry for mamma. But as I said, I had no choice. At the last minute I realized that my glove was not infront of the ball as I had envisioned in my head. Instead, my glove was playing jacks on the dirt infront of me. I turned my face to the side and Whammo, I have a new birthmark.

And this is the way the day would go for Team Beer.

We tried everything in our collective brains to stop the bleeding, but sadly it was a gusher that no tourniquet could hope to abate. The doctor just looked at us like a dying patient and then went to tell our wives, that I’m so sorry for your loss but I don’t see them making it.

Errors began happening like it was a B-movie production. There were several missed balls in the outfield that normally we catch with no problem. This was usually followed by a faint “Fuck” that could be heard from centerfield. If there were puppies out there, they would have been kicked.

Bad throws were everywhere. Even when we made a play at the plate, which our very nature demands that we do, we were not even close.

Ok, so defense was not our strong suit this day. Let’s try the bats. We even had a cheerleader going, yelling at the top of his lungs at first base. Yes, it was one of our own guys and he sounded mighty gay, but we appreciated the effort.

The bats did us no better as once again we were plagued with pop outs. There is nothing worse than the pop out in softball. It lets you know that, no Delores, you can’t hit a homerun because you are an old bastard. In fact, it’s not even going to come close and barely go over second base. Hang you head in shame, you have received the Scarlet Letter.

Injuries once again gave it’s ugly head as our first baseman is out with a messed up ankle and one of outfielders is out with a knee injury. It’s always a knee injury with this team. We should be sponsored by Johnny’s Knee Brace Supply. They were hurt doing other activities other than softball. This sends our manger into a rage as he clearly states in our contract that we are not allowed to do anything on the outside that would jeopardize our softball playing abilities. So this loss is squarely on their shoulders.

I live for the Sportscenter moment when I’m in the field. I have daydreams about it. I dream that I will make a great play that will land on the top 10 plays of Sportscenter and then, god willing, be nominated for an ESPY. This may be a long shot as our games are not broadcast nor are they even taped to my knowledge, but the dream lives on.

Another shot came to second, toward my backhand. This is it, this is my Sportscenter moment. Could I have moved fast enough to actually get infront of the ball and make a normal play? It’s possible, but I am fat, so I try not to push myself. My deadeye focused on the ball and I stretched out. I watched that thing all the way and had no doubt that I was going to make this play and then gun the man out from my knees. I should have my shoe contract by the end of the week.

But it was not to be. Down I went, a look of determination on my face, and stretched out my glove. The ball hit the heel of my glove and rolled away. The only thing I would be doing from my knees today is laying tile. I know everyone was waiting for a perverted joke there, but sorry, just to obvious.

I got up and dusted the failure off me. I got back to my disgraced position and waited for this nightmare to be over. Sadly, the very next hit was another chopper toward me. However this time instead of my face, it was aiming for my sack of groceries. I make no apologies for what I did next. Anyone who has had a bad hop coming toward their nuts will understand this. I know that I have already procreated, but there is still life in those old boys yet.

I squeezed my legs together like I was 2 year old waiting in line for the bathroom. My head jerked up, my eyes went closed, and I made a whimper. It was disgusting. But I once again stayed infront of the ball. I jerked my arm infront of my jumblies. I will sacrifice any body part to save that one. The general must survive. The ricocheted off my arm, into the outfield but I was just relieved that I wouldn’t need any surgery. I now have a very big bruise on my forearm to go with the one on my neck. I am a god dam human piƱata.

And that’s how Teem Bears season ended, with 2 losses and 2 chokes. There will be no Beer in the playoffs, which is another way of saying there is no Santa in Christmas. The children weep and I weep with them.

Maybe our next season, which starts in 2 weeks, will have a different outcome. We probably need to go ahead and talk to that Balco Rep though before he leaves the field.


Love Thy Neighbor

Gather around all you soulless sinners. Open your ears and your hearts to my message this afternoon in the church of blog. Open your wallets and make your offering for salvation can be bought here. We do not judge the color of your money but only the credit score you shall receive.

Everyone look to your virtual right. Then everyone look to your virtual left. Look at your neighbor and open your heart to them. Then take that feeling home and look to your real neighbors, and forgive.

Forgive them when they come over within two weeks of moving in and they tell you that they are recovering Meth addicts. Listen to their story when they tell you how they had to try something different other than the Methadone to get clean. Empathize with them when they pour their soul out about how they haven’t shot up in “months” and that they are getting healthier. And when they tell you that they are both out of work and going for disability instead, do not subconsciously wonder where your mamma’s good silver is. Do not wonder if your home security is tight enough and do not worry if they become to friendly with your dogs who will no longer bark during a home invasion. Offer your neighbor a toothbrush.

Love thy neighbor.

Forgive them when they come talk to you shortly after explaining how, although they are both still in their mid 20’s, they still remember what it is like to be teenagers and have fun. Do not judge them when they tell you that they have been buying beer for the jackass teenagers across the street because their parents don’t understand what it is like to be young. Do not point out that you work for Child Protective Services. Do not point out the stupidity of the statement that they would rather that they get drunk here rather than elsewhere. Do not point out that you have a daughter and you would just like to thank them in advance when they get drunk and drive up in your lawn. Offer your neighbor some common sense instead.

Love thy neighbor.

Forgive them when your wife is out of town and you are alone in your boxer’s and socks. Do not rush to assumptions when the neighbor’s wife knocks on your door at 12:30am. You rush as you think there must be an emergency only to find that she is holding your cat in her nightgown. Do not be dismayed when she “just wants to talk” about how her husband is not the same man she married. Do not rush to judgment as this conversation takes longer than the standard 3 minutes and she keeps scooting closer. Do not assume that this is how porno’s start and you are just waiting for her to ask for a cup of coffee and some company. Take your cat and give a “thank you” for bringing him home, even though he is an outdoor cat and everyone knows it. Offer your neighbor your wife’s telephone number instead.

Love thy neighbor.

Forgive them when the bumper falls off their car and they use this as yard art. Forgive the fact that tulips and axel grease really doesn’t go together and is not very fung shui. Do not try and avoid conversations with them because you just know that you have to bring that up and it will be awkwardness for everyone around. Accept that they may just be meth head addicts that can’t afford to fix a bumper at the moment because the street price of the Crystal has gone up since the crackdown at the boarder. Offer your neighbor a passport and a Greyhound bus ticket to Juarez instead.

Love thy Neighbor.

And when their fence blows down and they use police tape to erect a temporary fence for their dog, forgive them. Do not silently drive by everyday, each time looking at orange plastic tape like you are looking for a crashed skier. Do not peer in each time you drive by looking for their hydroponics collection that you are pretty sure is there. Offer them some fertilizer instead.

Love thy neighbor.

Forgive them when they finally decide to build a new fence that instead of atleast fixing the bumper yard art, they opt instead of putting up a 10 food privacy fence with a gate that now covers there driveway as well. When you learn that this gate is actually manual instead of motorized, do not make a face like you just took one in the pooper. And when they explain that they much prefer to park in the street rather than their driveway or garage, do not point out that is why we have an alley to begin with. Offer them some nails instead.

Love thy neighbor.

Forgive them when construction on that new fence occurs and you walk out on your unexpected day off to see a guy hammering away at your fence without talking to you first. And when he explains that he is building a new fence and wants to use some of your posts, do not get upset that no one talked to you about this first. And do no get even more upset when you calmly explain that you do not, in fact, share a fence line at all with your neighbor and there fore there will be no post sharing as you need your fence. Do not have a coronary when you discover that their new plan for the fence means that now you do share a fence line, but only about 15 feet of fence, which is now 10 feet tall and looks like ass from your backyard. Offer them code enforcement guidelines instead.

Love thy neighbor.

Forgive them when you smell pot coming from that backyard in the middle of the night. Do not start counting how many people are coming in and out of it and deciding that there is now a meth house in your once quiet neighborhood. Do not forget about the benefit of the doubt, that maybe instead they are very popular, unemployed, x-meth addicts that have cleaned up their way. Offer them a dime bag of oregano instead.

Love thy neighbor, people. And give forgiveness at every turn. For one day it shall be you that hasn’t mowed the yard in three weeks and soon discovered that that milkweed that is growing in your flower garden actually has a distinctive 5 leaf pattern and that every time you try to mow it, your neighbor asks you not to.

Love thy neighbor and love thy self. Amen.


The Comfortable Life.

I am a man that likes to be comfortable. That is my fashion statement.

I do not care who makes what when it comes to my clothes. My wife, thank Allah, handles all that. I just want to be comfortable. And for the most part, I don't much care what it looks like. So when you see me walking down the road in a tube top and hot pink golfing pants, please do not call the crazy wagon, I'm just rolling comfortable. I'm not a pedifile crusing down your street, there is no need for me to be rousted.

It is in this vein of thinking that led me to one of my greatest adult discoveries.

Each morning I roll out of bed, step on a stupid dog bone, cuss at myself for not avoiding that land mine yet again, and head to the shower. For my lady readers, that is where I glisten and contemplate.

Shave and brush the teeth next and head to the cats den, which is our closet. I pick out whatever clothes have been preapproved by my wife and get dressed for work. I put the opressive clothes on and head out. You would think that I would do some baby stuff here, but the wife takes care of all that for me in the morning. Otherwise, my daughter and I would just call in sick all day.

In the car I have a 45 minute commute. Think of this, 45 minutes stuck in a metal box surrounded by those that I trust about as much as sludge. And I'm stuck in work clothes, which for me means a standard issued govermental approved collared shirt and khaki pants. 45 minutes both ways. 1 1/2 hours a day, 7 1/2 hours a week, and a full 30 hours a month. Then it hit me, this is primo comfort time that we are missing.

Why make myself even more uncomfortable than I have to be? Why give up that 30 hours? I'm driving in my work clothes, which can't match jeans and a T-shirt, not even close when it comes to comfort.

Being that I am a very enterprising young man, I came up with a plan. I love plans. Plans are my favorite. I am the king planner. I am planning my next sentance right now, ahhh.

I decided that I would start wearing my sandels to drive in. Yes, it is everything that you thought it would be.

My toes are free to move. No oppressive work shoes on the drive thank you. Sometimes, just for fun, I turn on the A/C to blow on my feet. It is greatness. It is the small good thing in life that makes the rest not seem so bad. It's like watching that jackass that just cut you off get a flat tire. Suck it Mr. Johnny Take Advantage.

But nothing that is good lasts forever.

I was halfway to work, enjoying the freedom that I have and wondering if my next step would be to drive in my PJ bottoms when I looked at my feet. Still great. Then I looked at the seat next to me, where I normally have my work shoes. They were not there. The socks where not there. There was nothing there but a melted kit-kat bar. Yes, I ate it later.

Crapola, I had forgotten my real shoes. This is not good. I forget so many things in the morning--cell phone, wallet, wedding ring, baby, general knowledge that I am actually married with a kid and one on the way.

Now I had forgetton my shoes. If I turn around now, I'll have to fight traffic all the way back and be massively late for work. I silently considered peeing myself and there for have a real excuse other than my own stupidity for going back. What boss can't believe that excuse? But then I realized it was stupid to pee myself. I should pour water on my pants and then say I peed myself. Again, I love plans. I am diabolical.

Screw it, I'm going to work and we'll make due. Will anyone notice my shoes?

Think about it, you are behind a desk most of the day. I also have the luxary of having my own office. I am not a cube jockey like so many of you out there. And yes, this is also as great as you think it is.

I get to work and take the stairs. There is no more mindless chatter than with people you don't know on the elevator. Sure, I could use the exercise. Thanks Mom, thanks for calling me fat.

Like a Ninja, I sneak into my office and close the door. Victory is mine. Until I decided that when I normally sit in my office I put my feet up on my desk. Should someone walk in, I'm screwed. Ok, can't do that today and we'll just complain about it later.

From here on out, my day is filled with the rush of canceling meetings, demanding that I only be contacted via Email, and in general plotting my invisable work day. I can be quite creative when I have to be.

Things are going well and I think that I am going to get away with this. Shit, I should wear sandels everyday. Am I really that much of an un-important person that I never need to see anyone through out my work day? Apparently not.

A co-worker comes in and informs me that the "Big Boss" is in town. If she looks under my desk I'm going to kick her and blame Touretts Syndrome. He's new to his position and hasn't met the rest of the team before. Hello Karma, this is Hossman, and I'm ready to be screwed.

I find myself silently praying that the meeting he is in runs long. I find myself actually wishing for a bad boss that doesn't want to have anything to do with the little people. I find myself getting a cup of water to enact the peed pants routine. I should be a grifter.

Luck is on my side today as he doesn't come around. I sneak out through the stairs again at 4:30, just a tad early but I have a family to provide for, I need the job. When I get to my car, relief swells over me. Victory once again is mine.

I keep the cup of water just incase my wife asks me to mow the yard. No reason to abandon a good plan.

Cast of Characters—Uncle Bricksalesman.

My brother in law can tell you the difference between Cinder block and the brick on your house. Not just the obvious stuff, but what clay it’s made out of, what temperature it was cooked, and what the breaking point it has.

Seriously, how am I supposed to write a funny blog with that material?

When I proposed to my wife, I found that it was the right thing to do to first approach both of her brothers and ask for their blessing. I did this because they were my friends before I dated my wife and it was the hoss thing to do. When I asked Uncle Bricksalesman, he gave his blessing but then decided to threaten me. He kindly let me know that he would end me if I hurt his sister ever.

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. I meant no disrespect, but you have to know Uncle Bricksalesman. He is over six feet and an x-offensive lineman. Sounds tough right? But I know that he has a soft gooey middle.

I know that he had never ever really been in a fist fight before. I know that his older brother, the Hippie, had maybe just punched him once. I know that his family is keener on a good debate than a good asswhip. In my head I think he imagines a good fight to be a couple of guys, in very tight speedo’s, putting their “dukes” up and protecting their handlebar mustaches.

I come from the trenches of southern Arkansas. And yes, I fight dirty. From ages 3 through 14, my life was one beating after another. I once got beat up because I was playing with some other kids tire. There are no roundhouse, karate kid crane kicks involved in real fighting. There is no “bell” to start the round. It usually begins by the sucker punch, and god love him, my brother in law is just not a sucker punching kind of guy.

But this is not to detract from his loyalty or sincereness of the threat. He loves his sister so I can appreciate that the hossness in him demanded that he make the threat, and I respected him more for it.

Besides being a fantastic brick salesman, he is in a cult. We have tried to deprogram him, but it is no luck.

He went to school at Texas A&M. For those that don’t know, you are quickly brainwashed into that society and everyone else should love you more for it. Their “traditions” are really rituals that if the state allowed would involve some goat sacrifice. These guys are fanatic about their school. It’s scary that they know who the fourth leg on their relay team is. Not only do they know, but they have no problems in telling you that they know. When you meet an aggie for the first time, this is how the conversation usually goes:

“Hi, I’m Uncle Bricksalesman. Gigem Aggs”.

“Excuse me?” you say.

“Did you know that Aggies are great and wonderful. Gigem.”

“I’m just trying to pump some gas pal. I don’t have any money”

“Did you go to A&M? Gigem.”

“Seriously man, I think the soup kitchen is just down the road.”

“A&M has the best sports teams in the world and the best academics. Gigem.”

“I need an adult over here! Adult”


But Uncle Bricksalesman is more than a maroon colored brick. He is a single maroon colored brick.

In a time when all of his brother’s and sisters are married and have kids, he is the black sheep that won’t settle down. This has caused quite the uproar with his grandmother, who thinks that he is gay. Don’t worry ladies, I can assure you he is all man.

He just has no game, god love him. I have never seen anyone that can introduce himself so easily to a group of random strangers but fail to close the deal. Watching him in action is like watching a plane crash on the landing. So almost there, it’s just that front wheel that buckles under the strain. Pull up, dear god, pull up.

But it appears that he is enjoying the single life, which gives him time to be superuncle. Seriously, I have 3 nieces and a nephew, but I can’t compete with him. He is superuncle and all his nieces and nephews seem to love him. Our shared niece, the Hippie’s first child, will choose him over me every time. So would I. He has a charm that people seem to gravitate towards. It’s that soft goey middle, it was made for hugging.

Uncle Bricksalesman can be a very complex individual though. Is he Uncle Bricksalesman today or is he going to be Mr. Miss Graduation Deadline guy. Or perhaps he is Mr. Cultmember, Mr. Birthmark Hairy Patch, or Mr. Hey Cow! Mr. Hey Cow is when you are driving in the country and you play a game where you stick your head out the window and yell “HEY COW!” as loud as you can. If the cow looks, you win. I have no idea what you win, but a victory is a victory nonetheless and he is the champ at this game. I understand that this makes us all sound very, very hick, but that’s who we are.

Uncle Bricksalesman’s greatest attribute though is getting in between different warring clans within the Hossman family. He is the peacemaker, which is good for my wife’s family because otherwise I would have ruled all by now. We all feel a little guilty for getting him involved in all our drama when he has nothing to do with it. But he is the Gandhi of our family, calmly fasting in-between 2 competing armies. Hoss vs. My Wife’s nutjob family. Yes, I realize that this may be an unfair characterization of my Wife’s family, but It’s my blog. Don’t make me take my ball and go home.

But I am the outsider coming into my wife’s family and he has welcomed me. Maybe I should have taken his threat more seriously. Maybe he meant that he would set up a debate concerning Aggies Vs. Non Aggies and I would be forced to listen and convert. Ok, that brings a new realm to this. He is a sneaky bastard.



A short break

Not much I can say today as once again, I have the flu.

This massively sucks and I'm a little preturbed that this is the second time I've gotten it on a month. Hopefully, I will be back writing in a day or so.

Until then, everyone look to the right of the post and you will see a link to the Bloggers Choice awards.

The Hossman family has been nominated for Best Humor Blog and Hottest Daddy Blog. I'm not sure about that last one as it makes me sound like a Chip n Dales dancer, but hey, you got to make the money somehow.

Click on the link and give me a vote. Then tell all your friends to vote for me. Then go back to work and send out an email and tell all those people to vote for me. If anyone gives you resistance, tell them that it is what Jesus would want.

Maybe I should lay off the religion jokes until the flu has passed, that's not really good karma.

Currently, I have 1 vote. That's right, I voted for myself. I find no shame in this and freely admit it. So lets make this respectable and atleast get me a top ten finish. I promise, I'll take you all out to dinner.


I Pout Like a Champ

About 30 minutes into my pout, I realized that I was pouting.

What am I, some kind of 3 year old. But there is nothing better than a really good pout. You can just feel the lower lip coming up. You sit there in your own crapulence, just waiting to snap at someone that enters your fortress of solitude. What I really need is an arch enemy but so far I have only a mysterious neighbor that called in a barking complaint. Asshole.

My wife and I are 14 weeks into the pregnancy. I say “we” in this case, but I am currently not doing anything in the department of growing life. Nope, my job is done. I was a consultant and my services are no longer needed in the company. I have been demoted.

When trying to conceive, I was very a very important person. It was up to me whether we were having a boy or a girl. It was up to me to create the spark that would one day become another minion in the Hossman Family. I geared myself up, gave a pep talk to my boys. I let them know that although today they ride off in to glory, never to be seen again, their legacy will live in infamy. I read patriotic magazines like Guns and Ammo. I watched good kick ass movies like Platoon and Predator and Society Sluts 3. I saluted the flag every morning, drank protein shakes and did pushups. Let’s go create some life boys.

So I did. For the second time. I am a fertile bastard. I should be studied to determine how I can create such Hossness.

Then I learned that my role was no longer as important. I have been dethroned and am now nothing more than a figure head for the public. I do not even have a seat in parliament. My representative in this area seems to be a very fat dog that only lobbies for bologna. Poker night, Newt, get me a poker night! She doesn’t listen. So I am reduced to going around the house bringing awareness to the dog poop landmines in the backyard. I do charity work like laundry and cleaning toilets.

I also learned that as I have no voting ability in the realm of baby growing, therefore the final decisions are not mine. And this is what has brought me to my pout.

At week 18 in a pregnancy, you are able to find out the sex of the baby. This is greatness. This is modern technology helping out the Hossman. The first time around Hossmom decided that we would both be better off not knowing the sex of the baby. She wanted the excitement at the end of pregnancy. She wanted to only know boy vs girl when she came out screaming. For the record, my daughter came out screaming like a banshee. She is pure Hoss, right from the beginning.

My wife then reminded me that I really have no choice in the matter because of the great and wonderful HIPPA. Medical privacy is supposed to be a great thing. Keep the big evil corporations out of our lives. Normally I agree. However, there is always one jerky that abuses the rule. That would be my wife.

Without her say so, I cannot know the sex of the baby either. What the hell man! This is my child as well. That’s half me! That’s Hoss JR in there. Where is my HIPPA! The dog ate my HIPPA and I have no choice but to go along with the regime.

But it was fun the first time around. It was exciting. I was so sure that I was having a boy the first time around that the first toy I bought was a hammer. Luckily, Little Hoss loves her hammer.

So I turned to voodoo the first time around. I listened to every old wives tale about how to tell the sex of the baby. If the heartbeat is below 140, it’s a boy. I consulted the Chinese calendar—it said boy. Was my wife carrying the baby all up front or was it more back? I took a string and hung my wedding ring over my wife’s belly and watched which way it spun. Everything said boy, the God’s have decreed it! Then I had a daughter.

This second time around, I was sure that we would find out the sex of the baby. That was the deal that my negotiators had reached on the first pregnancy. We wouldn’t know the first time around but we could the second time around. This is where I mention again that my chief negotiator is a fat dog that is easily bribed with a piece of cheese.

14 weeks in and I ask my wife:
“Are we going to find out the sex of the baby?”


That’s it. There was no discussion. There was no back and forth. There was no movie trailer previewing what was to come.

But I was not deterred. The hell with this, I’m going to push it. I reminded her of the agreement that was signed in the living room. That’s when my wife asked me one of the goofiest questions I have ever been asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

What the hell? What kind of question is that? That’s a question with an obvious answer. It’s like asking someone why they would want a million bucks and ten slutty blonds. What do you think I am going to say? No, I would not like money and women as that would only make my life more enjoyable.

I didn’t know how to answer this question, but I pressed on. Again, I reminded her of her commitment. Then I think I might have went the wrong direction. Sometimes I don’t know when to shutup, much like when I write in this blog.

I explained that not only did I help create that baby, it was probably even going to look more like me. I explained that I do all the god damn cooking, cleaning, chores and dog work. I explained that I get her gas every Sunday just so she won’t have to be around the fumes. I explained that I have never missed a doctor’s appointment or a sonogram.

I quickly went from superdad to martyr. No one wants to be a martyr. It never wins arguments and it didn’t win this one. Let’s see, a nail through the wrist, one through the ankle and could someone please stab me with a spear real quick?

All it did was piss her off and make her feel like the only thing she was doing was growing life. It brought a torrent of everything that she has to go through like back aches, pimples, stretch marks and pooping in front of other people during actual child birth. It was a brutal assault. It was a blitzkrieg and my kingship quickly folded. The dog ran, leaving me alone. Fucking coward. Now she doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby out of spite.

So I did what everyone does when they lose an argument. I pouted. Normally, I don’t do this but screw it, I’m going the Gandhi way. Nonviolent protest. Yup, that’s the ticket. I’m going to stage sit-ins until I get my way. I am a toddler. I am a 2 year old.

But here was my pledge: No more backrubs until I know the sex of the baby. No more making the bed so she will be comfortable. No more foot rubs and defiantly no more going to bed at 7:30 every night so she can fall asleep with me. Give me a guitar and some cum-baya, I’m going hippy.

However, like every good pout you realize that you are an idiot and that maybe I should see this from her side. And besides, who wants to win this way? That’s when I told my wife that I didn’t want to know the sex of the baby and I would be damned if we would find out. That should show her, Hossman taking back the power. That’s when she said we could know the sex, but if I really didn’t want to know then we wouldn’t.

I have been manipulated by the master. I swear to god, I’ve got to get some better foreign policy advisors in this place.


The Mom's Group

I do believe that I may freak out stay at home mom’s.

I’m not really sure why. I’m a pretty average balding handsome type man. I don’t think that I give off any pedophile vibes. I don’t go to the park wearing a bandana over my face. I do not drive a van. I do not give out puppies, so I’m not really sure what it is.

I first noticed this at the park with my daughter. She loves the park. Who doesn’t. If I wouldn’t get so many weird looks, I am sure that I would jump right back on the jungle gym and hang from my knees. Then I would fall and break a hip, so maybe it’s good that I don’t do this.

At the park my daughter desperately wants to play with the other kids. But she’s only 1 and can’t keep up with the older ones. She persistent though and continues to try and chase them everywhere. I think I caught her the other day making a bobbie trap in the sand, ready to trip the next kid that came along so that she would have someone to play with. I was very proud when she laid palm leaves over the tiger pit. She is going to Harvard, donations welcome.

It was a Friday morning when we went to the park. Hossmom was at work and I was just taking the day off to be with Little Hoss. There were about 6 moms there with their kids. They were chasing them and then getting in a group and talking. Some nice grown up talking, that’s good stuff.

My daughter begins to chase one of the other little girls and I’m following her around. She then tries to climb UP the slide. This is a favorite past time for her. I imagine that she already knows how to slide down and finds that there is no challenge in that. She is going to be an astronaut.

But there is another kid about to come down. Being the concerned superdad that I am, I grab Little Hoss and pull her to the side. She growls at me. I am thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have taught her how to growl.

The kid comes down and runs to his mom, which is behind me. I turn around and smile at New Hot Mom. I crack a joke, which is what I do when I don’t know people. If you laugh at my jokes, then you are good people. If you don’t, then you are a communist and I will report you to Homeland security. It’s win win. I’m all about protecting the country.

New Hot Mom gives a small chuckle. Then actually takes two steps back.

It was like she just saw something behind me but couldn’t get the words “look out” out before Jason Vorhes slashed my head off. There would be a scream that I couldn’t hear because my head has been lopped off. She would then run and trip while at the same time accidentally throwing her keys into a pond. This doesn’t end well for our heroine and nor should it, considering that I am now dead.

This is the look that New Hot Mom gave me as she took her two steps back. Granted, I was not looking my normal suave self. I hadn’t showered yet and what little hair I have left was a little crazy. I hadn’t shaved in two days either, so there was a little scraggy beard going. I was wearing a jean jacket and a white T-shirt. I also suppose that it didn’t help that I was wearing sandals with socks. I am very hip.

What I imagined to be a cool James Dean look was apparently interpreted as scary ax murderer.

She quickly scooped up her child and went back to the protective stay at home mother pack. I was on the outside.

I wanted to yell to her “Hey, I’m a safe guy!” In the course of my job, I have actually had around 6 background checks. My job requires that I have not only a clean record but also a “good reputation”. I want to whip out my background check and give it to her and show her what I do for a living. I swear, I protect children! Please come back to me! Don’t make me an outcast!

But that would have just been more creepy. The creepiest guy is the one pining for affection.

Throughout the remainder of our visit to the park the Mom’s group kept a good distance from me. It was like when you chase your sister around the table when you were a kid. One is always directly across the other side. Instead of the table though, the slide was kept between us. I would circle, they would circle.

Every time one of their children would get close to me I could see the mom pick up her Mother radar just a little tad bit more. I was like that lonely penguin that wanted to huddle for warmth with the big group only to be edged out. I was just the fat penguin alone that would eventually get eaten by a polar bear.

I know that I am not a smallish kind of man. With my beard action going, I know that I can look a tad bit scary. But it’s not like I am a lion waiting to pick off one of the little sick ones.

Mom’s say that they want a very involved father. They say that they want a father that spends time with the kids. They want a father that is not afraid to spend time alone with the kiddo. I have made a discovery this day:

That is crap. That’s right, you read that right. It’s crap.

What Mom’s want is for THEIR husband to spend time with their kid. However, as soon as they see a dad out and about with a daughter trying to get some playground time in, they automatically see you as a threat. Why isn’t he at work? Is he a bum? I bet he does meth while littering the playground with dirty AIDS filled needles.

Admit it, that’s what Mom’s think when they see a guy alone with his daughter at the park. Speak the truth here! Do not hide your true feelings, let the sunshine in on your shame and hypocrisy.

So my daughter and I left the park but had to stop at the dry cleaners first. I had to pick up my suit for the next time I go to the park. It has more pockets for my crack pipes.

The Wizard of OZ.

Screw it, sometimes you’ve got no choice but to lay out a rant.

I have lost my one year old daughter’s social security card. Yup, I am that bad parent. But think about it, how often do you need this? You can remember your number, you should not be expected to remember someone else’s. Half the time, I can’t even remember my home phone number.

This is bad because April 15 is fast approaching. That means taxes.

I don’t do my own taxes as my wife may suggest that I am to “moral” and not take off enough deductions. I say nay, this is not the case. I just would like to not spend the next 3 to 5 in prison with my roommate “Shanky Mcstabb”. On a side note, I freely admit that I would become someone’s bitch for protection. I see no shame in that.

So hiring someone to do my taxes has nothing to do with morality, it has to do with my butthole. And I’m sure he could do a better job than I could with it. If he can get just 1 more extra dollar more than his fee, it’s totally worth it. To date, I have not been disappointed.

But now I am ready for the parents dream. The big fat child deduction. She was born in Feb of 2006, so that’s almost a whole year. I would like to say that we are going to do something good with the money, maybe something noble or stable for the family.

We might, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get a new Xbox game or tool. Either one, I’m happy with it. I know that detractors will say that I spent much more on actually having a child. Yup, you’re right. But think of this of a rebate and there you go.

Unfortunately, you cannot file your taxes with the child deduction without a SSN for your child. I lost hers. We are in the process of moving so it has got to be somewhere in the bottomless boxes, most likely next to the 1999 computer parts that my wife won’t let me through out because she is worried about identity theft.

I want my money. I want my game. I am going to get my money like a loan shark in Philly. They owe me, man.

So I visit the Social Security Administration website to figure out how to get a new card and the number. This is problem number one. No government agency should be allowed to design it’s own website. I don’t care what the 2002 legislature said jerky, I just need basic how to info.

I eventually find the page. There is some good information but I am concerned. I am concerned because it appears to deal with only that section of the population over the age of 16. To get a new card, you have to fill out a governmental form then provide ID.

I hope everyone sees the inherent problem with that. My daughter is one. She lost her ID in a bar fight. Seriously, I cannot find anything that relates to this problem.

I work for the government, so I should be a master at working through the system. I call the number given.

Hello Ms. Recorded Sexy voice, how are you today. If I am fine, please press 1. If you are not fine, please press 2.

It’s amazing how quickly the frustration sets in so quickly. I am jamming 2 like it’s the abort button to a nuclear launch.

I go through a series of prerecorded messages, none of which have to do with the problem of no ID that I am facing. No, I am not applying for a new SS number. No, I am not a resident alien. No, I do not like green eggs and ham Sam I am.

But being a governmental man, I know the tricks. As soon as the voice starts talking I hit 0 or say customer service. That’s the trick and it seems to work well. However, Ms. Recorded Sexy Voice keeps trying to talk me out of it. She keeps referring me back to the website or threatening that I will be on hold for a very long time. Is she with the Mafia? Is she suggesting that perhaps it would be better if she broke my legs rather than talk with someone?

Finally I make it through and talk to a very nice lady. I appreciate this. When I get these calls as a governmental worker, I try to be as accommodating as I can. Otherwise I would hate my ownself.

I explain my problem and she promptly lets me know that as long as I have my ID and my daughter’s insurance card it should be no problem. She gives me the address to the nearest office and off I go.

When I get there, it’s not to bad. There are only about 5 people ahead of me so I think I should be out of here in about 20 minutes or so. Mistake number one: never assume that you will be out of a governmental office in less than 3 hours.

There is a new twist on the “take a number” thing. Now its through a computer. You press a number giving the general description of your request and it prints out a receipt. Of course I know that this probably cost around 3 billion bucks to develop and a monkey could have thought of a better way. I guess the straight forward paper number just wasn’t cutting it.

I am number A68. I have no idea what that means. I then soon discover that the number actually doesn’t mean anything. Not a thing, there is no order here. You would think that I would come after A67. Nope. After A67 came B45. These sound like vitamin supplements. What drove me up the God Damn wall was that B45 came in a good 45 minutes after I did. I immediately hate her. So would you. It’s ok, we can all judge here.

Next comes C12, then another B, then an A78. This last one pisses me off. What the hell happened to the rest of us schmoos? I hope that A78 falls and breaks her hip.

Two hours later I am finally called. I go up to the wizard of oz window looking to see the wizard. Please god, this has taken me roughly 8 hours today, please, just make this quick. God is very funny.

I start with a joke and he doesn’t laugh. It was gold and I didn’t even get a smile. This is not going well.

I explain my problem again. The man behind the counter actually rolls his eyes at me. I want to whip out my government badge, let him know that I am one of him. Let him know that I am a current fraternity brother and that I know the secret handshake. I want to pop him.

I guess it is popular to go ahead and start talking without listening because as he is explaining that I need to leave and go get medical records I stop him and give him her insurance card. He seems disappointed. But at this time, I want the number so bad that I am kissing major ass.

He looked up her number and began writing it on a post it note, upside down from my view. I am in full James Bond persona now. I am reading what he is writing upside down. This is my special skill, upside down number reading. I’ll make millions. I’m am sure that he is going to send me away, but damit, I want that number jerkoff. Very nonchalantly, I start writing the number on the inside of my hand. The CIA should hire me.

To my surprise, he gives it to me 30 minutes later. Victory is once again mine. I shall get my child tax deduction!

My daughter can’t count yet, but I guarantee you her first 9 numbers will be her Social Security number.


The Xbox Diaries--The whiner

The Nazi hoard is pouring the assualt on. Friends that I have known for many months are dropping around me. I fire my weapon in desperation. Shrapnel hits the wall beside me as I observe my digital self taking wounds. The end has come and no one will know about my last stand. But everyone will know my final words:

"You fuck head!"

At the end of each match on the Xbox world, the teams come together for some good natured ripping. From around the world, we are all connected in one game. Our headphones I'm sure stink of stale pizza pocket breath.

We go to the load screen where each team comes together to discuss the previous game. I am quite as I am a sissy. If you have read my blogs in the past, you just know that I cannot out smacktalk a 15 year old. But I know the rules of this world, my score can finally speak for itself.

This is not a place for the thin skinned. This is not a place for those that take great offense at the digital T-bagging. Abandon all hope all who enter here.

My team was decimated. We were destroyed by a superior force. The hoard came on strong and without mercy. We could not hold back the assualt. Maybe, one day, they will speak of it as they do the Alamo.

And then, as I listen in my headphones, I hear a baby cub utter a tragic mistake.

"You guys had to many people, that wasn't fair"

I inhale sharply as I know what is coming next. The people that I have heard on the online gaming world do not know the word "Mercy" or "delicate." They are savage hyenas, goading eachother on until the kill is made. To make such a statement has invited the wrath of the faceless demons.

"You suck, that's why you lost, pussy" the first jab comes. I know that it will only get worse.

"Maybe if you weren't so busy jacking off you could have held the controller better." the second insult is hurled. The sharks are circling, they can smell blood in the water.

"Fuck you mamma's boy." "Pansy" "Jerkoff" the insults are hurled like gernades, each one striking it's target.

This poor boy, this poor poor boy. I want to rush into the virtual world and hug his profile. I want to wrap my arms around him to protect him from the onslaught. But there is nothing that I can do because I am to much of a chickenshit to actually talk in the online world.

So I listen. I listen and I am shamed.

"Why don't you go play the Wii" one says. This is a hard insult, basically calling him out on his lack of bloodlust. This is a very high insult. "Maybe then you and the other kiddies can hug at the end". This insult hurts all of us other nameless ones as we feel for the young man who has decided to whine rather than throw his own insults.

But all hope is not lost yet. There is but a glimmer. Come on kid, give them something back. Give them something good. Tell them that you had sex with thier mother in a very undignified way. Tell them that you saw thier sister selling herself for fifty cents. Come on kid, it's in you, you just have to tap into it. Embrace the darkside. Embrace your hate.

"Hey guys, let's play another game and then I can be on your team."

Ohhhhh. A fatal error. He is trying to now suck up and everyone knows it. Tragic. Tragic.

It's a tough thing to see something so innocent and sweet torn apart. What was good is now being destroyed. What once believed that all people were good and trustworthy now discovers that in the online world, those same people are nothing more jackels fighting over a dead carcus.

It starts immediately and it is brutal.

"We should kick you out of our game, fag." The ultimate slight, to be kicked out of the game. It is the real world equivalant of being given a wedgie. I hurt for the kid, who can't be more than 15. Run kid, run.

"No way, then who could we beat the piss out of." another states.

I can almost feel his virtual tears streaming down his digital face. Life is cruel and so is the online life.

I am not the hero in this tale as my own courage left me. I remember when I made the same mistake, and it took me a good 3 days to come back and play. And still, when I see the same guys on, I avoid them. The hurt is still fresh and this brings it all back. The assualt may ruin him. He may decide to read a book rather than play another game, and thus a good soldier is lost to battle fatigue.

"Fucky cocky, motherfucker dickeheads" A british guy responds. His cockney accent is so think, no one can really understand him. The online world is silent. Who is this?

He is Long22, and he is on our team. He alone has the courage to speak when the rest are silent. But no one can understand him, which makes it all the better. I'm not sure that is what he said, but I think so.

"You dickheads, bloody maggots, fucking transvestite mother humping whores." I think that is it, but if not, I think I can be forgiven the misquote as he is talking like Mick Jagger on cocaine.

No one speaks. There is some laughter from both sides, but shock is the atmosphere.

"What?" one says. "I usually say people make no sense, but I have no idea what you just said." says the previous instigator. He is on his heels now.

What followed cannot be written becuase I cannot even guess what he said. The Brit went off full bore. I imigine that there was some more mother insulting but this guy was truly weaving something beatiful that the rest of us mere mortals couldn't understand, just sit back and enjoy the artistry.

"Yeah, fuck you" the kid says. He is now a toadie and I can relate even more to him. It's the kid that gives me the courage to finally speak.

"Blow me, jerkoffs" I scream. O, the rush of joy that comes through me as my pulse quickens and my cheeks redden. I am unleashed and so is my online team.

"Pussies!, Dickheads! Jerkoffs! Motherfuckers!" and my personal favorite said by someone with Boston accent "Crab carrying monkey whores!" I have no idea what this means, but it is so sweet.

Yes, let's play another game. Perhaps this time, it shall have a different outcome.


Concieve a child, Concieve a Name

Lily, Lola, Alanis and Rose.

Finigan, Kirk, Tiberious and Max Power.

These are all the names that my wife has so far vetoed in the constant game of “name our new baby.” And yes, I did try to see if I could name my new kiddo after Star Trek which did not go over well in the Hossman Family Home.

Picking a name is extremely tough. It’s not like naming the dog. That was simple. It was either Kahn or Zeus. We did not pick Zeus because I thought it would be funny to yell “Hey Zeus” when he was outside. That may have been a little blasphemous so we decided to go with Kahn.

But what makes it extremely tough is getting my wife to discuss it with me. She is the prime example of open communication. I have no idea why she doesn’t want to discuss it now. We are 13 weeks in and are due in October. By the way, do the math, it’s still 10 months. I would prefer to get a move on the name calling now, the sooner the better.

She tends to disagree with this view. I’m not sure if she truly feels this way or just likes to drive me slightly crazy. But either way this is the way it works so far:

“Honey, how about Spock?” I say.


“Ok, how about Conan.”


Realizing that she is on to me, I try some normal names to see if I get the same response.

“Lily for a girl?” I ask


“What about Alanis or Carolina?”


It’s at this point I wonder if she is even listening to me. My experiment seems to prove that she is not.

This not the way that it went the first time. The first time, we would come up with a name and write it on the Nursery wall. I was going to paint anyway so this worked out well. When one of us had an idea, we would write it on the wall and then go over everything about the name. To what does it mean to what possible nicknames could be derived from it. Is it a stripper name? Is it a name that will one day be called out by the Pope or by a DJ at Topless Mike’s?

Those are the things you have to think of. Is it Irish? Is it to Irish. Do two names go together? Do I even care anymore.

Of course I do. I do because I have a girls name and I’m a 250 pound balding guy. You’re damn right I care about the right name. I do love my name, but I had to learn to fight early and often so that the school yard wouldn’t be total hell. For people who don’t know me, they usually address their emails to “Ms.” Instead of Mr. I usually call them on the phone after that to freak them out.

But even the first time around we fell flat. We didn’t know our daughter’s middle name until the night before her birth. My wife completely gave up and decided that the baby didn’t need a middle name. I was ecstatic. Because not only do I have a girls first name, I have no middle name. I am unique.

That was always my dream. My daughter not having a middle name would be cool. It’s the next best thing to naming her Hossman JR. I decided that then and there, I would be ok with that and stopped talking about it as it was decided.

So the next time around actually feels a little bit harder than the first time. Maybe it’s because we used all of our good names already and have nothing left. Or maybe it’s because she read the blog on the honey do list and this is how she exacts her revenge.

Either way, we are not getting anywhere. I’m looking for a name that has some strength to it. A name that will make others stop and gasp when they hear it. They will say “My, My, what a powerful name. Let’s follow this person and make him President or the starting linebacker of the Chicago Bears.” That’s the name I’m looking for if it is a boy.

For a girl, I want a name that is sophisticated and independent. I want a name that will spark images of Helen of Troy if she were the CEO of Exxon. Names like Circe or Aphrodite, just without the sexual connotation of those names. Something that a DJ at a strip club would never, ever be able to pronounce, like Penelope.

But I want to stay away from weird names. No names that are not pronounced as they are spelled. For example, the name spelled “Mikkeel” but is pronounced “Mike” doesn’t work for me. I would have to punch myself for that one. Back in my teaching days I had a girl in my class whose last name read like it was pronounced “whore”. I kid you not. I could not say it so I asked her to say it. Yup, it was pronounced different than the spelling.

My daughter’s middle name was finally picked out the day before her birth. By me. I ruined my own dream. But I couldn’t help it. I heard a name in a song and that was it, that was going to be my daughters name. It was Juliet. That’s my little hoss. That’s the kind of name that I am looking for again this time.

If I could convince my wife to name our new kiddo Juliet Conan Steel I would be very, very happy.

The Duece

I have decided that I need a phone booth to be installed in my living room so that when I change into my superdad costume I will have some privacy.

Not that I mind people knowing that I am superdad. This is another reason why I would be a terrible superhero. I would not keep my secret identity secret. That sucks balls. Of course I would want everyone to know that I am the one who saved the world and kept the sun from exploding. I could turn that into a shot on Oprah and then a great book deal. I would then retire and spend my time constantly reminding the world how supercool I was.

The other night I was sitting in my God Father chair. I bought this solely so that I could look imposing when making family decisions. When my daughters future dates come in, I want them to be shaking as I sit in my power chair and decided their fate. I want them to be so nervous that they flub their words as I stroke my hairless cat. Live or die young man, it’s your choice.

It’s a great leather chair, deep seated and overstuffed. Dark brown leather, with the smell of power coming from it. Yes, yes, the world is mine.

This is where I was at while I was watching basketball. I’m normally not an everyday fan but the local team is gearing up for the playoffs, thus I sit. I find it odd that as soon as the word “playoffs” are introduced into any sport, I will watch. I may have not watched the cricket team all year, but damn it if I’m not going to support them in the playoffs.

That’s when I hear a scream from upstairs. It’s chilling. It’s filled with fear. Superdad quickly leaves his chair of power and rushes upstairs. It is my very secret fear that something will happen to my daughter and my wife. Are scream is the usual indication that this might be happening. However, those two are very screamy and love to see me scramble up the stairs during a playoff game. 99% of the time it is crap.

My cat left a dead bird in the bed once. My wife picked it up thinking that it was a stuffed toy. Yup, she screamed her head off. I got there with a golf club in my hand, ready to deliver protection to any foes foolish enough to invade my sanctum. When I saw it was a dead bird that could not hurt anyone my wife and I had to have a talk about control our reactions and thus saving superdad from a heart attack.

So with this new scream the worst came to my mind. My daughter was having a bath time which is filled with potential danger.

I raced into the hallway, my imaginary cape flapping wildly in the make believe wind. I saw my wife clinging to Little Hoss, fear in my wife’s eyes. My daughter on the other hand, had a shit eating grin on. I was intrigued.

“Go look in the bathtub!” my wife ordered.

I grabbed my machete from the closet. I don’t believe in guns, but knives are cool.

I stepped into the bathroom not knowing what to expect. Had a snake slithered up the toilet like that old urban legend? Was there a tarantula that had gotten in and had slowly wrapped up the cats in a silk web of death? Where was my dog, my trusty sidekick?

My sidekick is a coward. He is afraid of baths so won’t come in with me.

Everything is quite, I see nothing moving. I am on heightened alert, defcon 5, maximum perimeter defense.

There is no sound but the slow drip of the tub faucet. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, stopping to admire the chiseled chin. Closer to the tub I get, the anxiety raises. I peer in. What demon is there? What danger lurks yonder.

A turd. There is a turd floating in the bathtub. There is a turd floating next to another turd in my bathtub.

Using my extensive investigative skills I quickly deduced what produced the deuce. My daughter, in her bathtime playtime, decided to go lay a number 2 in the tub.

According to my wife, my child smiled and stood up. She then squatted like she was about to splash, then grunted. My wife then saw the complete little baby poop float past her leg. The rest is a blur, just a scream and a laugh by my daughter.

So this is why I am here. I have no idea why this has become my job. But on occasion, superdad doesn’t get to save anyone, he gets the grunt work.

I have no idea how to remove 2 pieces of baby poo from water. I have never done this before, have never wanted to do this before, and have never even thought about the problem before.

I take stock of the tools that I have next to me. Not good. I grab the plunger thinking that I can balance the poop on top of it and do a quick fling to the toilet. I quickly discover that this isn’t happening. It’s slimy.

Plan B: I could drain the tub. Of course, that means that I have to stick my hand in it. Ok, that’s a last resort kind of option. Not to keen on that one.

Plan C: Toilet paper. Ok, this is going to work. I use roughly 2 rolls of toilet paper to make a toilet paper mitten. Completely impervious to any actual contact.
I take a deep breath, hold it, and make the grab. It’s not easy. Things start to fall off. The toilet paper soaks up a lot of water. It’s like trying to grab an eggshell out of scrambled eggs.
Finally, victory is mine. The whole mess goes in the toilet. I grab the plunger as I flush waiting for the eventual clogging. But it does not come, superdad catches a break. I take the plunger and eventually trip the stopper to the tub and all the water goes out. I will need to call the maid to see if she could come early.

I walk into my daughters room where by now my wife and child are laughing. It appears that they could hear my cussing as I was doing this chore. Superman never cussed but he never had to fish poop out of a tub like it was a mackerel. They see the sweat on my forehead and can’t help but laugh more.

I am disappointed that my weapon of choice for the day was a plunger and not my machete.

But once again, superdad saves the day.

Ms. Honey-Do

My life is basically controlled by women.

Not by the 50 foot women in the scifi film although that would be cool. She does not keep me in a glass jar with airholes punched at top and she does not keep me on a leash in the backyard.

I’m not just talking about my wife here. Let’s do the tally—I have a daughter, a wife, a little sister, a mother and a mother in law. On the flip side, I have a dog who I have refused to get neutered. This is my one battle that I will not abandon. My dog is not going out having mysterious one night doggy stands so there is no reason for his junk to be cut off. He’s with me night and day and damit, we will show him some respect.

It’s not that all the women in my life boss me around or force me to do chores for them. It’s not that all the women in my life beat me with a tire iron until I submit. It’s not that all the women in my life threaten me with calling the police and making up stories. None of these are the reasons that I am beholden to them.

It’s the way I was raised. As a good southern boy, I was taught to protect all the women in my life. If you are going to yell at my wife or my baby sister, chances are that I am going to punch you. If you scream at my mother, that’s a punching. If you shame the honor of my daughter, you better believe that that’s a punching. And if you break the nose of my mother in law while dancing at my wedding, well, I’ll let that slide.

So what does this mean for me, a man that cannot say no to any of his ladies, who strives to be the hero for them? It means that I get taken advantage of, that’s what that means. I can’t help it and I know it. The great thing about it, I don’t care either. Not one bit. I love it when they come to me, I am superdad.

However, they do seem to go a little over board on occasion with the Honey-do list. Every guy that is married has had this list. It’s a list of weekend chores that you are supposed to do. Some repair work, some garage cleaning, and hopefully some baby making with the wife at the end of the day.

The Honey-do list is the bane of my existence. No one ever gave Superman a list of things he needed to do, why me? Yes, let’s see. Clark, first you need to stop the earthquake, then save Lois, and pick up some milk on the way home. I don’t need written orders thank you. I do not need prior authorization from management. I’m a grown man with a very important job.

But they still come on from everywhere, although less from my sister as she is now married. My brother in law has my eternal gratitude for that. But I still get them from primarily my wife. Unless I’m visiting my mother in law, who’s always got one. And she says “just one more thing” every time I finish something else. Fix my garage. Ok, done. Oh, one more thing, I need you to hang the shelves. Ok, got it. One more thing, lay some carpet it will you.

So yeah, it’s gets a little busy and a little frustrating. I try not to wonder aloud why I have to get the car inspected when anyone can just drive over to the garage.

But being superdad also means that I am supercrafty. Take heed you other husbands out there, and listen to Hossman’s advice. This is how to beat the Honey-do list. When all you want to do is just watch the damn game, pull out this blog and your problems will be solved.

My wife and I are in the process of moving which means a lot of Honey do. I’ve had a major list for the last two weeks. This is how you handle it.

1. Get her out of the house. I don’t care how you do it, but do it. Trust me, this will make your life much, much easier. Suggest that she go buy some new shoes or get her a massage. Then tell her that as you are going to be so busy doing the list that it would help if she took the baby as well. The 400 bucks she will spend should be considered adequate payment for you relaxation time.

2. Make the list yourself. Seriously, take her suggestions and then make the list yourself. Take control of it. If you were in the space shuttle coming in on a tough reentry, you wouldn’t want a monkey behind the wheel would you? Winner’s always ask for the ball, be a winner.

3. Break down each task on the list to it’s most essential functions. If re-caulking the tub is on your list, divide it like this: 1. Buy caulk at home depot. 2. Buy caulk gun. 3. Buy rags for extra caulk. 4. Clean out old caulk. 5. Apply new caulk. 6. Check back in three hours to see if new caulk is dry. Why do this you may ask? Simple perception boys, simple perception. It’s about quantity, not quality. If she sees that you have 6 things on your honey-do list, she may think that you are busting your ass. Multiply that by only 3 true tasks and all of a sudden you have 18 things on your list. Genius, pure genius.

4. Never, ever let her examine the list. She should only observe it from a long way away. It’s like the nuclear football. Chain it to your wrist and never let it out of your site. This is essential.

5. Mark things off with a red pen. This is for a visual effect so that she can see how much you are accomplishing. Think about it. You hold up the list after re-caulking the bathtub and you have 6 things marked out. This gives the impression that you are uber worker even though it only took you 30 minutes. She won’t know, you sent her to buy a new purse.

6. Make it a very big deal about how much you have accomplished. Not with specifics, that’s a rookie mistake. Say things like “man, I’ve done 22 things off my list today, I’m tired.” Do that constantly. What this will remind her is that while you were busting your ass, she was taking it easy. Enter the guilt factor.

7. Always take her suggestions about what goes on the list. If she wants you to clean the garage, say “Honey, that’s a great idea, I’ll put it on the end of the list.” Then hold up the list so she can see how much is on it thus buying you more goof off time.

8. Add to the list any crap, quick tasks that bug her. Like changing the batteries in the smoke alarms. This takes less than 2 minutes but it’s another thing on the list. Remember, it’s about impression. For example, I put on my list “Fix Blinds” when all that was needed was to put the border up on top of it. Less than a 50 second job with a chair. This will give her something to look at while inspecting your work giving the impression that you have been busting your hump all day.

So that’s it. That’s how you beat the system. I know, it’s a little underhanded, but it’s necessary if you are ever going to watch the playoffs. This is how it really works.

You go buy the caulk and the caulk gun from the store. A 20 minute trip. You have just marked off 2 things from the list. You come home, play some xbox for about 30 minutes. Next step, you tear up an old t-shirt for rags, no need to buy something new and waste time. That’s one more from the list. Play more Xbox. Rip out the old caulk from the tub. This does take some time, take frequent breaks. Mark it off the list, start watching the game. Pause after 5 minutes of game time has elapsed. Put new caulk in, mark it off your list, watch the rest of the first half of the game. Half time, check on new caulk, make touch ups, play more Xbox. Clean up any mess left over by throwing it away, you can always buy more new caulk for 2 bucks and waste more time. Play more Xbox, make nachos, watch second half. Fix 2 easy things, like declogging the drain (draino—just pour and stare, less than a minute to do) or washing the dishes (place them on the floor first for the dogs then straight to the dishwasher, very easy).

She will come home and then you take her on a tour of all the things that you have done. Tell her that you are exhausted while you listen to her shopping trip. Ask her how the massage was, work the guilt.

Then exhale, slump your shoulders and say:

“Babe, I’m kinda beat, do you mind if I go upstairs and play some xbox for about an hour?”


A Redo, Please

I feel that I must apologize for the last blog. My wife read it when it went up. Her initial response was "It's fine."

Which is how my wife says that it wasn't very funny. She tries to be delictate with me as I am what we refer to as "the talent". She is a little afraid that my ego will be so crushed that I would walk away from my blogging contract and hold out for more. She is right which is a tad bit shameful. Eggshells people, we are walking on eggshells.

I get most of my ideas on the ride home from work. An idea will hit and then I will mull it over a little bit. Hopefully by the next morning, I've got a good piece to work with. Just fill in the gaps here, add an adverb there, and whamo--Hossman classic. The line for autographs start at the right.

However, as you can see from the last post, not all are the gold that they start out to be in the amber waves of grain of my mind. I swear to you, when I was thinking about writing a state sponsered biography of myself in a spoof of the Wiki dictators I read, it was much, much funnier. In fact, I actually laughed out loud several times.

My wife's first criticism was that there was a political slant to it. She pointed out that most blogs seem to have a political underside. I took this to mean that my blog has become ordinary, uninspired and drab.

Hossman's ego takes a left hook and staggers.

It was also pointed out to me that once again, my spelling is dreadful. For the uptenth time I explained that I write what I think, and what I think is usually in the form of pictures. It's enough for me to actually get this down on cyberspace without worring how to spell. Did George Washington have to do this? What about Thomas Jefferson? Ok, bad example, but still, my point is that great men cannot be bound by the rules of an arbitrary dictionary. I'm a very complex individual.

When she told me all of this, my initial response was "Did you read the blog?" Which is always the first question anytime I ever see or talk to her. "Yes honey, it was fine, it was just a little............" I cannot write the next word, but it rhymes with flooring.

Hossman's ego takes a shot to the ribs, he stumbles, but stays up. The ref should stop this before someone gets killed.

I then remind her of everything that I thought was funny. "Did you read where I said that I invented the sun and the toaster. C'mon, that's comic gold."

"Yes dear, that was very funny."

Her lack of enthusiasm as she says this comment is not good. After 12 years together, I can read my wife like a properly spelled book. This is where she is trying to spare me but can't help it. What that means is that she barely laughed. She laughed like you would when you see a cutsey cat email about "hang in there." "Hmm, that's cute, ha ha, hmmm." What you really want is for people to stop forwarding you stuff like that so you can get back to your porn.

Hossman's ego takes another shot to the face followed by kidney punches, he may be going down.

Her final criticism was that intellectual pursuits, while self fulfilling, do not really make good funny material. She pointed out that while I may find that contrasting the roots of good versus evil is good reading, my core audience may get bored with the subject matter. That is her way of calling all of you stupid pop culture drones sitting there in your underwear eating your cookie dough straight from the tube while failing to recognize the subtle humor presented.

Are you really going to take that? Man, if she called me stupid, I would show her. I would get as many friends as I could to read this blog and show her up. What are we, wimps? But the point is made, we do enjoy reading all about who's really Anna's baby's daddy. I admit, I read US weekly as soon as it comes in.

Hossman's ego takes a brutal combination and hits the canvas. The ref starts the count down.

It's then that she reminds me of the type of things that I write about that most find funny. Being a dad, teaching my daughter completely useless things because it is funny, growing up part hick in Arkansas, middle aged softball or describing what is going on in the new pregnancy. And poop, because that's always funny. I did notice that she didn't mention anything about Xbox, which is one of my favorite things to write.

Hossman's ego lays motionless. 1,2,3,4, 5.............

And that's when I hear it. My motto whispered slowly in my ear.

Get up you son of a bitch, because Mickey loves ya..............


My State Authorized Biography

It has been a great Wikipedia week.

I started with Gandhi. He never won the Nobel Peace Prize by the way. Henry Kissinger did though. Go figure that one.

That led me to another question: What are the differences between universal good and universal evil? Not on the individual level. But those that affect millions and shape the world.

Which lead me to read about Mother Theresa. But you got to have a contrast to that, which lead me to read about Joseph Stalin, Pol Pot and the massive nut job Kim Jong il—the North Korean Dictator.

I started feeling a little creepy after that and had to go take a shower.

Ok, so I went back to the goodness. I read about Amnesty International, MLK and that guy in India that gives out 100 dollar loans and won the Nobel Peace Prize for it.

But I couldn’t stay away from the nut job. I went back to Kim Jong il—massive tool. This guy is so crazy he’s in a different world. The one basic connection between all the nut jobs is that they create a cult of personality. Think of it as brainwashing millions so that they believe anything you tell them. Between those three, they’ve killed about 50 million people on the conservative estimate. Every aspect of their citizens lives are controlled totally by the government. Imagine if your choices were to believe that I created gravity or death, which do you think you would choose?

Everything that is written or spoken must come from them, including science. For example, if Kim Jong-il says that there is no moon, people will say yes, he is right, there is no moon. There are actually teams of people that go around and photoshop old pictures so it conforms to his their views. Say that one day I decide that my best friend is to uppity and have him killed. They would then go around and take him out of all state pictures. And people buy this. They believe this.

My absolute favorite tactic though is the state sponsored biography. This is where you jazz up your life a little, make yourself into a 007. Stalin didn’t actually have much to do with the Revolution. Read his bio though, and it’s a different story. And that’s it, it’s the official line. Sure, I believe that you once lifted 2000 pounds Mr. Pat Robertson, as long as it is in your bio.

So in tribute to that, I offer the Hossman official bio as I am dictator of this blog:

Birth: I was born from the union of a Tulip and a Goat on a great mountain. My mother slowly wilted away as I grew only days old. In order to survive, I ate my father.

Early Years: I was self educated, teaching myself calculus, physics and Quantom Mechanics through the cunning use of sticks and dirt. I graduated from Oxford at the mature age of 5 having received every honor that could be given. From there, I decided that I must make the world a better place and therefore entered a life of public service. I was mayor of New York a year later, having won by a vote of 500 million to 0. The people loved me and I tolerated them.

Inventions: After tiring of running a perfect city, I decided that I should invent things as well. The following inventions are attributed to me: The sun, mathematics, the toaster, open heart surgery, the segway, and Muppets.

Continuation of Political Life: My heart could not stay away so I rejoined political life to become Supreme Commander of the Crazy in 1985. I loved the people so much that I hated them. I had to send everyone with a “Y” in their name to caves in Montana so that they wouldn’t contaminate my society. I also banished anyone with a vowel in their name after realizing that they too are not desirable. I then decried that the letters “O” and “A” are not vowels when used in the term “Hossman”.

Public Works: It was about this time that I decided to build the Pyramids in Egypt and the Grand Canyon. Both projects were finished in a day and cost 3 dollars to build. We needed more schools so I started the Hossman Institution of Higher Learning. It is now the most attended university in the world and highly sought after. It is mandatory that everyone attend the Hossman Institution of Higher Learning.

Scientific advancement: The sciences flourished under my golden rule. I proved that there was no such thing as blood pressure or cholesterol and instead found that ill health is due to not worshipping me. Therefore, anyone who was sick is denied treatment as they do not worship me enough. Thus, if you worship me, you live longer. It’s scientific fact.

Economic Development: I also decided that you should work for free and make everything that I wanted out of gold. Profits soared as overhead plummeted thanks to my new economic scheme of not paying people. Production of golden Nike’s quadrupled as I now have 4 pairs.

Military Leadership: As head of the arm forces of the Nation of Hossman, I lead an uprising against my neighbors. I annexed their driveway and their big tree. I allowed them to remain and tend to my land. I remade the army in my image, everyone has to be bald.

Legacy: Many peoples around the world have dedicated statues to me and my picture is everywhere. Through my good deads I decided that I was a God and temples were built in my honor. I will live forever and even if my body does not continue, I will be reincarnated in the form of a hot blond.

Welcome to my world.