A man has his limits and I have reached mine.
I’m paying the price for my actions and I deserve your pity and respect. I woke up this morning with a bad case of heartburn. The heartburn was the result of a Pizza I had the night before. So here is my first admission: I got tired of turkey burgers, vegetables and other assorted healthier food. So yeah, I got a Pizza and I loved every minute of it.
Until this morning. I thought my stomach lining had revolted and was going to come out my mouth. Take my warning on this. If this is how your day begins, screw it. Climb back into bed, call in sick and be done with it. I should have done this. Now that I have had the experience, the next time I will do this.
It is my wife’s normal parental duty to take the kiddo to the daycare each morning. Superdad does the pickups. There is a good reason for this, mainly because I am a whimp when it comes to dropping off my daughter. I always feel like a bad parent leaving my kid alone. I have separation issues already, I don’t want to know what they are going to be like when she’s 18. My wife will dress the kiddo, feed her and then off they go.
I get to do the pickups, this is where the money is. She runs to me as soon as she sees me walking toward the door. She’s got a big grin on her face, I am Superdad and this is my #1 fan. We will then go home alone because Hossmom works late and we will watch some Star Trek and growl at some Klingons. I usually love my life.
But this morning Hossmom had a big meeting that was early so I had to take over the duties. No problem, I am Superdad.
I opened my daughters door and the stench hit me like a dozen kidney punches. I wanted to puke. I was not ready for the stink and it got into my open mouth. I know that this is not good. I know that this is going to be bad. I don’t want to even look at the crib, the carnage will be great. But my daughter is ready to get up and decides to show me what’s going on whether I want to look or not.
She stands up and puts two poo covered hands on the rail of her crib. We have a 2319, it’s time to move. I call out the alarm and the only ones that come are the dogs. Granted, they will eat the poop if I let them and there is a part of Superdad who just might. This would certainly take care of a big chore for me this morning.
I spring into action before it can get any worse. There is poo everywhere and my daughter thinks it is funny. She’s laughing at seeing me run over to her. She wants to be hugged. Sorry kiddo, you are going to have to take a rain check. I pick her up by her armpits and we head straight for the bathroom sink. You may think that the bathtub is a better option. Bathtubs are for fun cleaning. This has got to be industrial strength cleaning. We can’t fool around here, it’s up her back, in her hair. The clothes, I pitched them. I didn’t even want to take the care to wash them.
In my book, that’s a lost cause. I know that a lot of mothers out there judging me for this. I assure you, the next time this happens, you are welcome to come over and clean up the poop. Give me your number and you will be the first person that I call. Until then, the PJ’s get he garbage.
20 minutes and 30 gallons of soap and water later we are done with the cleaning. I had to pick the poo out of her hair with my hands. I love my daughter very much and if that means touching some crap with my bare hands, then so be it. My daughter was not very happy during this moment of poo cleaning. She wanted to splash and I made it very clear that there would be no splashing until the poo is gone or the dogs have eaten as much as they can. Until then, no go.
But I can’t resist her so before I take her out we have a little splashy time. I’m a whimp when it comes to her, I make no apologies.
We finally get her dressed in her best homeless looking outfit that I can fit together. I swear to god I have no idea how my wife dresses her every morning. I can never find anything. My wife said that all the clothes were clean and that she would have plenty to choose from. I could only find 1 pair of hippy looking pants and a white T-shirt. So that is what she got. If there are clothes in there besides onsies, I can’t find them.
In the car we go to finally head to the sitter’s. I can still smell the poop on my hands. We get there and it’s raining. Of course it would be, God loves to mock me. I am his number 1 joke. He’ll call it overcoming adversity, I’ll calling it getting crapped on. You decide.
I attempt to drop off my daughter but she won’t let go of my hand. She knows the routine and she loves her Dad. I am her #1 toy. My little girl climbs me every day like I a her Mount Everest. She thought that this was a special day and that I would be coming to play with her. So despite everything today, I have to break my daughter’s heart. I am no longer Superdad. I am a chump who doesn’t deserve her.
She starts crying and I’m pulling away. Each tug and she steps closer to me. The sitter has to come over and pry her off my finger. My little girl can’t understand why I won’t take her with me. I almost quit my job, then and there.
So, as Superchump, I run from that house like it’s the plague. In the rain, I get drenched but I don’t even care.
I want some tobacco so bad right now I can almost feel it. I have done more than anyone should do in the morning. I’m still headed to work because…. Well I don’t know why at this point. I just want a dip. I want it more because I am stressed.
But I persevere. I get into traffic and start my daily 45 minute commute. Normally I am ok in traffic. It doesn’t bother me. I don’t get road rage and I don’t usually flip people off. But like I said at the beginning, this is not a good day.
Mr. Bobby Asshole behind me decides that 10 miles an hour is just not fast enough for him. I hate this guy so much, I wish him nothing but the worst. He gets on the shoulder of the road and decides that he wants to cut only 4 car lengths ahead. I have no idea why people do this.
If you are going to be a jackass, at least take it all the way. If you are going on the shoulder of the road, don’t try to get back into line after 4 cars. For fucks sake, just go ahead and speed all the way up. At least that way those people won’t take you for the total jackass you are. Maybe they’ll let you in after assuming that your car broke down and you just now got it working again.
But not us. We are not going to let you cut in after that stunt that we all saw. He tries to merge and we won’t let him. He comes to my car and tries to turn and I speed up. I’m hugging the bumper like a mothers tit. Then he honks at me. At me! So I do like most people do in this situation.
I look directly ahead and pretend that, humph, I can’t hear you. I can’t see you. You are a ghost to me. I know, not very Hoss. I should have rammed my car into his 1982 Ford Rape Me Van and then proceeded slash all four of his tires. But Superchump does not want to get shot today. I have to redeem myself to my daughter.
Finally I make it to work and the unthinkable reaches my brain.
I forgot to take all the crapped on sheets out of my daughters room. I forgot to clean the railing where she smeared pooped. All of this will be waiting for me when I get home. Hossmom won’t be home until late and there is no one else but Superchump who must pay his penance.
And that was my limit. That was the specific moment that I reached it.
I have a dip in right now. It is everything that I remembered it to be.
6/28/07
6/25/07
Rule #6
I am a man of habit. I am a man that craves routine. I am a man, a handsome one at that, that runs my castle the way that castle’s should be run—with approval from the wife and complete disregard for all my rules and regulations.
And for the most part, my house runs pretty smoothly. The natives seem to get along reasonably well with the exception of the fat cat and the fat dog. The dog constantly chases the cat. Honestly, I have no idea what the Fat Belly Newt thinks that she is going to do when she catches the cat. Because the cat is mean. It’s the difference from dealing with the normal Mafia to dealing with the Columbian Cartel—Theez betches are crazy, mang.
I have no doubt that if my cat was actually caught, she would turn around and rip my fat dog to shreds. And there would be a big part of me that would stand back for a second as the Fat Belly Newt chased her in the first place. She brought this on herself, let her deal with the consequences. It’s like your coach in highschool football. He was never in to much of a hurry to break up a fight and if you watched him, he would be in the corner watching for a few seconds before throwing people around.
So besides the cat chasing marathon that is the daily event, my house is pretty solid. And it is solid because I am a good leader. It is solid because we are principled and follow rules of the household. There are a few rules that I have dictated in the past but my experience as a married man has taught me that approach does not work.
That incites rebellion and I can’t spend all my time putting down the peasants. I’m sure that when my daughter comes of age she will join forces with my cat and I will have a coup on my hands. Unless I get to her early and show her how things are going to be.
Rules 1-4 mainly deal with my daughter. These were essential to my wife and I making it through my daughters first 4 months. For the first month, we fought a lot more than we ever did. We were tired and cranky and the only person there to take that out on was the other spouse. I think next time I am going to hire a woman who’s only job is to get yelled at. She will be known as Helga.
Rule 1: No fighting after 11:00pm. This saved my marriage. If you don’t have something positive to say at 3:00am, keep your mouth shut. For you new parents, try this, it works like a charm.
Rule 2, also known as the Dad Rule: If you have a diaper blowout, then whoever put the diaper on last has to change it, regardless of the time. Ok, granted, this was a rule that was dictated to me but it was deserved. I had a problem making diapers leak proof without the use of my caulking gun. But once you are woken up once or twice at 4:00am, you learn real quick my friends.
Rule 3, the 23-19: This rule also applies to diapers. For new parents, trust me, you want a lot of diaper rules. This occurs when you have a diaper blowout that is not the fault of anyone as there is just to much poo and whiz that the diaper couldn’t contain it. This is a 2 person job diaper. You yell “23-19” and every one comes running. If you are in my house and you hear this, it’s code blue time, drop what you are doing and go help. Why 23-19? Watch Monster’s Inc. and you’ll get it.
Rule 4: Dad does the 3 am feeding. This was my own rule for several reasons. It allowed my wife to sleep and re-coup from a kid sucking on her boobs all day and gave me the best time to spend with my daughter. No one gives you any shit at 3 am. No one tells you what to do. It’s your show, run it how you like. Mothers, wives, Mother in laws and in fact any woman alive always feels the need to give “advice” to new Dads. Hey, we can figure it out, it just might be a little different than yours. Where you will use a baby wipe, I may use a belt sander. But the job gets done and guarantee she has more fun with me.
Those cover the baby rules but as leader of this family when my wife is not around, I have had to implement several other rules. This is because I am a benevolent leader.
Rule 5: My wife makes all social plans. Unfortunately some of our friends and family don’t take this rule to seriously but it is at their own peril. So look everyone, don’t cake plans with me. Chances are that 1. I will forget, 2. I have no idea what other plans my wife has made and 3. I will not offer to bring anything to your dinner party. This is not on purpose but just because my brain isn’t wired that way. Apparently, this is a very bad thing to do. Eventually, and I mean about 10 minutes before we are to leave, I will tell my wife that we have to be at someone’s house for dinner. She will ask what we need to bring and I will look at her with a blank stare. Then I will say that I don’t know. At which point she will get mad as we run to the grocery store and pick up a tomato just so we can bring something.
I have no idea why this is the way it is, but you always have to bring something. Go figure. I don’t have high society manners, I do not know. But my wife assures me that we will be judged and if we are, then I will have to pay for it later. So everyone pay attention to Rule #5.
Finally, we get to Rule #6 and one of my most important rules. It’s a newer rule, I admit, but it is a rule that must be adhered to. By everyone. That means mother’s and mother in laws. Yes, I love you two and yes I am going to be grateful that you are helping out with the baby. But just keep this rule in mind, it will save me a lot of grief and thus make my family happy.
Rule #6—No yelling upstairs for me.
Sounds pretty simple doesn’t it. You might be saying, why does this have to be a rule. Let me tell you why. Because I am not a butler. I am not a dog. I am not someone who can be beckoned like some cheap spirit at a séance. This is where this rule comes from. We have a two story house. My wife spends a lot of time downstairs. I spend a lot of time upstairs because that is where the computer and Xbox are. It was easy enough at first. My wife would call “Hossman” and then would continue to call until I poked my head over the railing. 9 times out of 10 it was for something simple—like she needed something or wanted me to come downstairs. I pointed out that maybe I wanted her to come upstairs, but this was a no go. But then this started getting abused……by everyone. I won’t point any names, but let’s just say that I am now full on ignoring anyone who calls me from downstairs unless I am reasonably sure that a bear is in the living room.
What was the tipping point is that when I wouldn’t hear someone calling for me so that eventually they would have to walk upstairs and talk to me, like a normal human being. Somehow they would always get mad. “Why didn’t you hear me?” they would angrily say.
“I don’t know, I am not the master of physics and decibel levels” I would reply. This would, as you can imagine, get me in more trouble.
But I would be defiant. Why the hell am I getting attitude when you can’t yell loud enough. And on that subject, I am not a genie for you to call down for you wish. I would assume that the burden would be on the person making the request rather on the person receiving it.
Which brings us to the Rule #6 Addendum: I will ignore you. I had the opportunity to do this this weekend and it was all worth it. Sure, I got crap later but wouldn’t I get the same treatment if I didn’t hear you? And it’s not like I didn’t try to find a solution. I actually bought Walkie Talkies to use for the upstairs and downstairs. Let’s at least pretend we are part of the A-team and have a little fun. My code name is Bravo Charlie Echo Eagle base.
Otherwise, well, I’m afraid I just can’t hear
And for the most part, my house runs pretty smoothly. The natives seem to get along reasonably well with the exception of the fat cat and the fat dog. The dog constantly chases the cat. Honestly, I have no idea what the Fat Belly Newt thinks that she is going to do when she catches the cat. Because the cat is mean. It’s the difference from dealing with the normal Mafia to dealing with the Columbian Cartel—Theez betches are crazy, mang.
I have no doubt that if my cat was actually caught, she would turn around and rip my fat dog to shreds. And there would be a big part of me that would stand back for a second as the Fat Belly Newt chased her in the first place. She brought this on herself, let her deal with the consequences. It’s like your coach in highschool football. He was never in to much of a hurry to break up a fight and if you watched him, he would be in the corner watching for a few seconds before throwing people around.
So besides the cat chasing marathon that is the daily event, my house is pretty solid. And it is solid because I am a good leader. It is solid because we are principled and follow rules of the household. There are a few rules that I have dictated in the past but my experience as a married man has taught me that approach does not work.
That incites rebellion and I can’t spend all my time putting down the peasants. I’m sure that when my daughter comes of age she will join forces with my cat and I will have a coup on my hands. Unless I get to her early and show her how things are going to be.
Rules 1-4 mainly deal with my daughter. These were essential to my wife and I making it through my daughters first 4 months. For the first month, we fought a lot more than we ever did. We were tired and cranky and the only person there to take that out on was the other spouse. I think next time I am going to hire a woman who’s only job is to get yelled at. She will be known as Helga.
Rule 1: No fighting after 11:00pm. This saved my marriage. If you don’t have something positive to say at 3:00am, keep your mouth shut. For you new parents, try this, it works like a charm.
Rule 2, also known as the Dad Rule: If you have a diaper blowout, then whoever put the diaper on last has to change it, regardless of the time. Ok, granted, this was a rule that was dictated to me but it was deserved. I had a problem making diapers leak proof without the use of my caulking gun. But once you are woken up once or twice at 4:00am, you learn real quick my friends.
Rule 3, the 23-19: This rule also applies to diapers. For new parents, trust me, you want a lot of diaper rules. This occurs when you have a diaper blowout that is not the fault of anyone as there is just to much poo and whiz that the diaper couldn’t contain it. This is a 2 person job diaper. You yell “23-19” and every one comes running. If you are in my house and you hear this, it’s code blue time, drop what you are doing and go help. Why 23-19? Watch Monster’s Inc. and you’ll get it.
Rule 4: Dad does the 3 am feeding. This was my own rule for several reasons. It allowed my wife to sleep and re-coup from a kid sucking on her boobs all day and gave me the best time to spend with my daughter. No one gives you any shit at 3 am. No one tells you what to do. It’s your show, run it how you like. Mothers, wives, Mother in laws and in fact any woman alive always feels the need to give “advice” to new Dads. Hey, we can figure it out, it just might be a little different than yours. Where you will use a baby wipe, I may use a belt sander. But the job gets done and guarantee she has more fun with me.
Those cover the baby rules but as leader of this family when my wife is not around, I have had to implement several other rules. This is because I am a benevolent leader.
Rule 5: My wife makes all social plans. Unfortunately some of our friends and family don’t take this rule to seriously but it is at their own peril. So look everyone, don’t cake plans with me. Chances are that 1. I will forget, 2. I have no idea what other plans my wife has made and 3. I will not offer to bring anything to your dinner party. This is not on purpose but just because my brain isn’t wired that way. Apparently, this is a very bad thing to do. Eventually, and I mean about 10 minutes before we are to leave, I will tell my wife that we have to be at someone’s house for dinner. She will ask what we need to bring and I will look at her with a blank stare. Then I will say that I don’t know. At which point she will get mad as we run to the grocery store and pick up a tomato just so we can bring something.
I have no idea why this is the way it is, but you always have to bring something. Go figure. I don’t have high society manners, I do not know. But my wife assures me that we will be judged and if we are, then I will have to pay for it later. So everyone pay attention to Rule #5.
Finally, we get to Rule #6 and one of my most important rules. It’s a newer rule, I admit, but it is a rule that must be adhered to. By everyone. That means mother’s and mother in laws. Yes, I love you two and yes I am going to be grateful that you are helping out with the baby. But just keep this rule in mind, it will save me a lot of grief and thus make my family happy.
Rule #6—No yelling upstairs for me.
Sounds pretty simple doesn’t it. You might be saying, why does this have to be a rule. Let me tell you why. Because I am not a butler. I am not a dog. I am not someone who can be beckoned like some cheap spirit at a séance. This is where this rule comes from. We have a two story house. My wife spends a lot of time downstairs. I spend a lot of time upstairs because that is where the computer and Xbox are. It was easy enough at first. My wife would call “Hossman” and then would continue to call until I poked my head over the railing. 9 times out of 10 it was for something simple—like she needed something or wanted me to come downstairs. I pointed out that maybe I wanted her to come upstairs, but this was a no go. But then this started getting abused……by everyone. I won’t point any names, but let’s just say that I am now full on ignoring anyone who calls me from downstairs unless I am reasonably sure that a bear is in the living room.
What was the tipping point is that when I wouldn’t hear someone calling for me so that eventually they would have to walk upstairs and talk to me, like a normal human being. Somehow they would always get mad. “Why didn’t you hear me?” they would angrily say.
“I don’t know, I am not the master of physics and decibel levels” I would reply. This would, as you can imagine, get me in more trouble.
But I would be defiant. Why the hell am I getting attitude when you can’t yell loud enough. And on that subject, I am not a genie for you to call down for you wish. I would assume that the burden would be on the person making the request rather on the person receiving it.
Which brings us to the Rule #6 Addendum: I will ignore you. I had the opportunity to do this this weekend and it was all worth it. Sure, I got crap later but wouldn’t I get the same treatment if I didn’t hear you? And it’s not like I didn’t try to find a solution. I actually bought Walkie Talkies to use for the upstairs and downstairs. Let’s at least pretend we are part of the A-team and have a little fun. My code name is Bravo Charlie Echo Eagle base.
Otherwise, well, I’m afraid I just can’t hear
Escape Plans
All Dads have to do chores. All Dads have to clean up poop. All Dads have to deal with mother in laws and the occasional lynch mob. It’s part of the job description, it’s just what we do.
We all know that mowing the yard or cleaning the garage is a massive pain in the ass. It is not golf and it’s not quality time with your kiddo. It’s grunt work and frankly, a little below us Dads. We have major responsibilities, we are the protectors of our family. By default only are we the cat box cleaners.
At times, this does not seem fair to me. It offends my sensibilities. We do the things that we have to do because there is no one else to do them. This is not the American Dream. This is not Communist Russia. I am not a pack mule. I am not the designated bathtub poop expert and I am not Mr. Gee I sure do wish someone would weed the backyard because it’s looking horrible. Ok, got it, I get your hint, the back yard flower garden needs to be weeded. Fine, I’ll get right on that.
Yet, we are all those things. We are all those things because we love our families and we love our children. Our main goal is to give our families a life that is enjoyable and safe. Which means at times we have to weed the backyard because the wife is 6 months pregnant and can’t bend over anymore. We usually do it with a little grumbling and mumbling, but we eventually do it.
But sometimes, dear lord, just sometimes we need to escape. We need to find a way out of doing these things. We need to find a way to cut and run, yet in a very manly way. We could always trying to cry our way out of it, but we just can’t do it. That’s a tad bit on the sissy side and I would expect my father to show up and whack me on the side of the head the first time I tried it. And let’s be honest here wives: You do not want a man like that. Oh, you may say you want a sensitive man but you are only saying that because it is the fashionable thing to say. You really don’t want a man that shares feelings and cries at a sunset. Come on, how is that guy going to protect you?
Say you are in the woods hiking, as families do, and a bear attacks. Do you want the guy that is tough and can make a spear out of a branch or do you want the guy who is going to throw some dolphin safe tuna at it? I rest my case.
But back to the story, how to escape the unpleasantly of chores, mother in laws and a lynch mob and other assorted dangers that are faced in daily life. I have researched thousands of movies, books and my own imagination to bring you the best and sure fire escape plans. I am an expert on the subject, the Dr. Phil of escape plans.
Escape Plan #1—The river, a waterfall and some mud.
You may find yourself running from different threats, like an alien hunting your skull or the media. You may find yourself making a difficult choice, like to answer the reporter’s questions or do you get into the elevator with a pedophile. But wait, there is a third option. That’s what you always have to realize when trying to escape. Jump out the nearest window and begin to run. Don’t worry about initial speed, you are looking for distance so pace yourself. Find the nearest river and jump in. It’s current will do all the work now. Eventually you will come to a waterfall, as all rivers do. Gleefully go over. Don’t worry, you won’t get hurt. Your pursuers may decide to go over as well, this works to your advantage. Because in every movie where this happens, the hero comes away clean while at least 1 or 2 bad guys crash on the rocks. So if they follow, you are already up a stroke.
After you go into the waterfall you will be tempted to swim toward a beach. This is the worst thing you can do. What you must do is instead is swim toward the muddy bank and then collapse, face first, into the mud. You will exhale and feel almost like going asleep. You will then hear someone swimming behind you. You may not see them but don’t worry, they have invisibility technology. Quickly turn on your back in the mud, making sure to fling some bugs around as you do it. Then crab crawl backwards to the nearest tree roots and grab the sides of them. By this time your shirt is ripped off from your ordeal and you are covered in mud. Remain motionless until your purseror walks right past you, you have now blended in. Wait 30 minutes, then go home and cook dinner. Crisis averted, escape successful.
Escape Plan #2: The burning house and bad guys out front.
A house on fire is a very bad situation. A town full of bounty hunters and an evil railroad boss out front is even worse. But there is a way out of this if you will just take a moment to listen. When the house begins to burn, get everyone into the attic. You will need to invite some buddies over before this because you will need the extra hands. Wait for a moment until smoke can be seen from the street and the bounty hunters are well dug in behind the curb. Then start throwing assorted junk outside through the attic window. Don’t worry if you don’t have a window in the attic, there will be one there when you arrive as I have never seen an attic in a movie that didn’t have one for escapes.
Throw out this window whatever you happen to have. Books, clothes and those board games you haven’t played in 10 years. Think of this as spring cleaning. You are setting the mood and getting the bounty hunters outside used to seeing stuff being thrown out. Then cram yourself into your clothes trunk because every attic also has one of these. It might be a tight fit, but trust me you’ll make it in there.
Then have your buddies throw this trunk out the window. The bounty hunters will assume that it is more assorted junk and will have no idea that you are in their with your peace makers. When you hear “the word” jump out of the trunk, which has not splintered from your fall, and start shooting. Every bullet you shoot will hit someone bad so no need to aim. Your buddies will come out the door blazing and Chavez will ride up with horses. Mount your horse, turn around in the street and say “Reap the whirlwind Murphy, reap it!” and fire one shot at the evil Railroad boss. It will hit, now go to your daycare and pick up your daughter.
Escape Plan #3—The Pit and Stab
There are various interpretations of this escape plan floating out there. So be creative with this one, have a little fun. I’ll put my own spin on it and give you several options. Option one: Let’s say you haven’t mowed the yard at all this summer and your wife is getting a tad bit upset. What you need is to become incapacitated for a short period of time. Not enough that you can’t play video games, but enough so that you can’t walk. Use this old Platoon trick. Take your K-bar knife and quickly jamb it into your thigh. You should aim for the middle of your thigh and not accidentally the inside of your thigh where your femoral artery runs. That’s a rookie mistake and we lose a lot of rookie Dads that way. Also, make sure you jamb it in with a downward angle, like someone is attacking YOU. Trust me, wives can be very forensic. Finally claim that Charlie attacked you and you need to be discharged from you duties.
If this doesn’t work, you may need to hide out for awhile. If so, jump out to your backyard and find your nearest uncovered mass grave. Don’t be squeamish, just jump right in. Pull a body or two on top of you and then hide. It sounds simple enough, but DON’T MOVE! This is the number one give away from a live body and a dead body. When your mother in law comes over to look for you, she will mistake you for a dead body and you won’t have to do any chores. When asked later you can just say you were outside in the backyard, I can’t believe you didn’t see me, didn’t you look very hard? Then get disgusted and walk away.
I hope this helps everyone out there. I know that this is a lot of common sense stuff but it may help when you get your words down on paper. Just remember in these situations, stay calm, stay focused, and always blame the dog.
We all know that mowing the yard or cleaning the garage is a massive pain in the ass. It is not golf and it’s not quality time with your kiddo. It’s grunt work and frankly, a little below us Dads. We have major responsibilities, we are the protectors of our family. By default only are we the cat box cleaners.
At times, this does not seem fair to me. It offends my sensibilities. We do the things that we have to do because there is no one else to do them. This is not the American Dream. This is not Communist Russia. I am not a pack mule. I am not the designated bathtub poop expert and I am not Mr. Gee I sure do wish someone would weed the backyard because it’s looking horrible. Ok, got it, I get your hint, the back yard flower garden needs to be weeded. Fine, I’ll get right on that.
Yet, we are all those things. We are all those things because we love our families and we love our children. Our main goal is to give our families a life that is enjoyable and safe. Which means at times we have to weed the backyard because the wife is 6 months pregnant and can’t bend over anymore. We usually do it with a little grumbling and mumbling, but we eventually do it.
But sometimes, dear lord, just sometimes we need to escape. We need to find a way out of doing these things. We need to find a way to cut and run, yet in a very manly way. We could always trying to cry our way out of it, but we just can’t do it. That’s a tad bit on the sissy side and I would expect my father to show up and whack me on the side of the head the first time I tried it. And let’s be honest here wives: You do not want a man like that. Oh, you may say you want a sensitive man but you are only saying that because it is the fashionable thing to say. You really don’t want a man that shares feelings and cries at a sunset. Come on, how is that guy going to protect you?
Say you are in the woods hiking, as families do, and a bear attacks. Do you want the guy that is tough and can make a spear out of a branch or do you want the guy who is going to throw some dolphin safe tuna at it? I rest my case.
But back to the story, how to escape the unpleasantly of chores, mother in laws and a lynch mob and other assorted dangers that are faced in daily life. I have researched thousands of movies, books and my own imagination to bring you the best and sure fire escape plans. I am an expert on the subject, the Dr. Phil of escape plans.
Escape Plan #1—The river, a waterfall and some mud.
You may find yourself running from different threats, like an alien hunting your skull or the media. You may find yourself making a difficult choice, like to answer the reporter’s questions or do you get into the elevator with a pedophile. But wait, there is a third option. That’s what you always have to realize when trying to escape. Jump out the nearest window and begin to run. Don’t worry about initial speed, you are looking for distance so pace yourself. Find the nearest river and jump in. It’s current will do all the work now. Eventually you will come to a waterfall, as all rivers do. Gleefully go over. Don’t worry, you won’t get hurt. Your pursuers may decide to go over as well, this works to your advantage. Because in every movie where this happens, the hero comes away clean while at least 1 or 2 bad guys crash on the rocks. So if they follow, you are already up a stroke.
After you go into the waterfall you will be tempted to swim toward a beach. This is the worst thing you can do. What you must do is instead is swim toward the muddy bank and then collapse, face first, into the mud. You will exhale and feel almost like going asleep. You will then hear someone swimming behind you. You may not see them but don’t worry, they have invisibility technology. Quickly turn on your back in the mud, making sure to fling some bugs around as you do it. Then crab crawl backwards to the nearest tree roots and grab the sides of them. By this time your shirt is ripped off from your ordeal and you are covered in mud. Remain motionless until your purseror walks right past you, you have now blended in. Wait 30 minutes, then go home and cook dinner. Crisis averted, escape successful.
Escape Plan #2: The burning house and bad guys out front.
A house on fire is a very bad situation. A town full of bounty hunters and an evil railroad boss out front is even worse. But there is a way out of this if you will just take a moment to listen. When the house begins to burn, get everyone into the attic. You will need to invite some buddies over before this because you will need the extra hands. Wait for a moment until smoke can be seen from the street and the bounty hunters are well dug in behind the curb. Then start throwing assorted junk outside through the attic window. Don’t worry if you don’t have a window in the attic, there will be one there when you arrive as I have never seen an attic in a movie that didn’t have one for escapes.
Throw out this window whatever you happen to have. Books, clothes and those board games you haven’t played in 10 years. Think of this as spring cleaning. You are setting the mood and getting the bounty hunters outside used to seeing stuff being thrown out. Then cram yourself into your clothes trunk because every attic also has one of these. It might be a tight fit, but trust me you’ll make it in there.
Then have your buddies throw this trunk out the window. The bounty hunters will assume that it is more assorted junk and will have no idea that you are in their with your peace makers. When you hear “the word” jump out of the trunk, which has not splintered from your fall, and start shooting. Every bullet you shoot will hit someone bad so no need to aim. Your buddies will come out the door blazing and Chavez will ride up with horses. Mount your horse, turn around in the street and say “Reap the whirlwind Murphy, reap it!” and fire one shot at the evil Railroad boss. It will hit, now go to your daycare and pick up your daughter.
Escape Plan #3—The Pit and Stab
There are various interpretations of this escape plan floating out there. So be creative with this one, have a little fun. I’ll put my own spin on it and give you several options. Option one: Let’s say you haven’t mowed the yard at all this summer and your wife is getting a tad bit upset. What you need is to become incapacitated for a short period of time. Not enough that you can’t play video games, but enough so that you can’t walk. Use this old Platoon trick. Take your K-bar knife and quickly jamb it into your thigh. You should aim for the middle of your thigh and not accidentally the inside of your thigh where your femoral artery runs. That’s a rookie mistake and we lose a lot of rookie Dads that way. Also, make sure you jamb it in with a downward angle, like someone is attacking YOU. Trust me, wives can be very forensic. Finally claim that Charlie attacked you and you need to be discharged from you duties.
If this doesn’t work, you may need to hide out for awhile. If so, jump out to your backyard and find your nearest uncovered mass grave. Don’t be squeamish, just jump right in. Pull a body or two on top of you and then hide. It sounds simple enough, but DON’T MOVE! This is the number one give away from a live body and a dead body. When your mother in law comes over to look for you, she will mistake you for a dead body and you won’t have to do any chores. When asked later you can just say you were outside in the backyard, I can’t believe you didn’t see me, didn’t you look very hard? Then get disgusted and walk away.
I hope this helps everyone out there. I know that this is a lot of common sense stuff but it may help when you get your words down on paper. Just remember in these situations, stay calm, stay focused, and always blame the dog.
6/22/07
Ms. 2000
Everyone take a look to your right. Everyone see the numbers. Everyone notice that the number is now above 2000! Yes my friends, we have reached another milestone on the road to Hossman Greatness. I have 2000 hits on my blog and thus my ego is soaring and I am sure I could teach a monkey how to act like a proper lady for the dollar bet.
So who is this mystery person that was number 2000? Who do we owe all our gratitude to? Who shall receive our honors and our constant love? I know because I am a sneaky bastard which I think I have well proven over the course of my blogs. I have a secret government tracking device that lets me know exactly who and when looked at my blog.
It lets me know what time of day, which stories they read and how long they were on the blog. Now most of you that keep coming back for some Hossman Love usually just read the last story. I’m ok with that as most of you have read the others as they were posted. But, and not to judge here, you might want to start leaving some comments so that I know that someone thinks I’m funny besides my daughter. She thinks it’s funny to poop in the tub, a little low brow if you ask me.
This is supposed to be a blog people, which means open discussion and an exchange of ideas. It’s supposed to be a digital church that worships Hossman and Hossman Principles. I will never achieve non-profit status unless I can show a following and a multitude.
That is not to say that I don’t love my readers as over the last two weeks I continue to set records over and over for daily readership. Kos can kiss my ass.
And for you new people that visit the site. Seriously, read more than just the top story. Maybe I’m just having a very bad, unfunny day? There’s some treasures in there, little nuggets of comedy that will make your day brighter. Get to know my blogs and thus get to know me, its win win for all.
But back to our point, giving praise and worship to Ms. 2000. Yes, in my mind the person who was the 2000th visitor to my site is a woman. I do this because it makes me feel less gay. Not that I have a problem with anyone being gay. I just have a problem sharing my feelings and opening up without embarrassment and a non-disclosure agreement. So to all my gay readers, I love you to, please just don’t bring that into the open.
Ms. 2000, and the person who deserves all the credit for making me feel good today is……………………………………………………………….
Ft. Worth, Texas.
Please, let us all applaud all that is great about Ft. Worth Tx.. Ms. 2000, please stand up and take a bow. Bask in the sunshine that is you as you, and only you, have attained a very special place in this blog. We love you. We adore you. If you are a dude, please don’t tell me that. Let me have my fantasy that you are really from Sweden and in the states currently on a Student Visa.
I don’t know what to say. I am speechless. But I am creative and I’m feeling it now. In tribute, the entire blog, it’s readership and it’s many fans, will now serenade you, Ms. 2000. The way we can feel can best be described in a song by Kelley Clarkson.
Lights please. Ms. Clarkson, could I have a back beat?…………………………….
You’ve got your mother and your brother every other undercover telling you what to say.
Chorus Chicks sing (that’s you, dear readers): “Say” Sing along!
You think that I’m stupid but the truth is that it’s cupid baby loving you has made me this way.
Chorous Chicks sing “Way”
So before you point your finger, get your hand off my trigger, oh yeah, you need to know that this situation is getting old and the more you talk the less I can say.
(My hips start shaking at this part, can you feel it!)
I’m looking for attention, not another question, should you stay or should you go. Well if you don’t have the answer why still standing here, hey hey, heyyyyyyyJust walk away.
Chorus Chicks sing: Just walk away
(Get your lighters out!)
I’ve waited here for you like a kid waiting afterschool so tell me why you never showed.
Chorous Chicks: Showed
I gave you everything and never asked for anything and look at me I’m all alone.
Chorus Chicks: Alone
(Are you feeling it Ms. 2000?!)
So Before you start defending, baby, stop all your pretending. I KNOW YOU KNOW I KNOW SO WHAT IS THE POINT IN BEING SLOW! Let’s get this show on the road today.
I’m looking for attention, not another question, should you stay or should you go. Well if you don’t have the answer why still standing here, hey hey, heyyyyyyy Just walk away
Chorus Chicks Just walk away
(The lights dim, fog rolls around our feet, the atmosphere is electric, my sexiness is high)
I want a love I want a fire to to fill the burn my desires, I want a reader by my side not a boy who runs and hides. Are you going to fight for me, die for me, LIVE AND BREATH FOR ME, DO YOU CARE FOR ME BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T JUST LEAVE!!!!!
(I collapse on stage, but then, I’m on my feet again, O Ms. 2000, this is for you!)
I’m looking for attention, not another question, should you stay or should you go. Well if you don’t have the answer why still standing here, hey hey, heyyyyyyy Just walk away
Chorus Chicks Just walk away
Just leave! Walk away
So who is this mystery person that was number 2000? Who do we owe all our gratitude to? Who shall receive our honors and our constant love? I know because I am a sneaky bastard which I think I have well proven over the course of my blogs. I have a secret government tracking device that lets me know exactly who and when looked at my blog.
It lets me know what time of day, which stories they read and how long they were on the blog. Now most of you that keep coming back for some Hossman Love usually just read the last story. I’m ok with that as most of you have read the others as they were posted. But, and not to judge here, you might want to start leaving some comments so that I know that someone thinks I’m funny besides my daughter. She thinks it’s funny to poop in the tub, a little low brow if you ask me.
This is supposed to be a blog people, which means open discussion and an exchange of ideas. It’s supposed to be a digital church that worships Hossman and Hossman Principles. I will never achieve non-profit status unless I can show a following and a multitude.
That is not to say that I don’t love my readers as over the last two weeks I continue to set records over and over for daily readership. Kos can kiss my ass.
And for you new people that visit the site. Seriously, read more than just the top story. Maybe I’m just having a very bad, unfunny day? There’s some treasures in there, little nuggets of comedy that will make your day brighter. Get to know my blogs and thus get to know me, its win win for all.
But back to our point, giving praise and worship to Ms. 2000. Yes, in my mind the person who was the 2000th visitor to my site is a woman. I do this because it makes me feel less gay. Not that I have a problem with anyone being gay. I just have a problem sharing my feelings and opening up without embarrassment and a non-disclosure agreement. So to all my gay readers, I love you to, please just don’t bring that into the open.
Ms. 2000, and the person who deserves all the credit for making me feel good today is……………………………………………………………….
Ft. Worth, Texas.
Please, let us all applaud all that is great about Ft. Worth Tx.. Ms. 2000, please stand up and take a bow. Bask in the sunshine that is you as you, and only you, have attained a very special place in this blog. We love you. We adore you. If you are a dude, please don’t tell me that. Let me have my fantasy that you are really from Sweden and in the states currently on a Student Visa.
I don’t know what to say. I am speechless. But I am creative and I’m feeling it now. In tribute, the entire blog, it’s readership and it’s many fans, will now serenade you, Ms. 2000. The way we can feel can best be described in a song by Kelley Clarkson.
Lights please. Ms. Clarkson, could I have a back beat?…………………………….
You’ve got your mother and your brother every other undercover telling you what to say.
Chorus Chicks sing (that’s you, dear readers): “Say” Sing along!
You think that I’m stupid but the truth is that it’s cupid baby loving you has made me this way.
Chorous Chicks sing “Way”
So before you point your finger, get your hand off my trigger, oh yeah, you need to know that this situation is getting old and the more you talk the less I can say.
(My hips start shaking at this part, can you feel it!)
I’m looking for attention, not another question, should you stay or should you go. Well if you don’t have the answer why still standing here, hey hey, heyyyyyyyJust walk away.
Chorus Chicks sing: Just walk away
(Get your lighters out!)
I’ve waited here for you like a kid waiting afterschool so tell me why you never showed.
Chorous Chicks: Showed
I gave you everything and never asked for anything and look at me I’m all alone.
Chorus Chicks: Alone
(Are you feeling it Ms. 2000?!)
So Before you start defending, baby, stop all your pretending. I KNOW YOU KNOW I KNOW SO WHAT IS THE POINT IN BEING SLOW! Let’s get this show on the road today.
I’m looking for attention, not another question, should you stay or should you go. Well if you don’t have the answer why still standing here, hey hey, heyyyyyyy Just walk away
Chorus Chicks Just walk away
(The lights dim, fog rolls around our feet, the atmosphere is electric, my sexiness is high)
I want a love I want a fire to to fill the burn my desires, I want a reader by my side not a boy who runs and hides. Are you going to fight for me, die for me, LIVE AND BREATH FOR ME, DO YOU CARE FOR ME BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T JUST LEAVE!!!!!
(I collapse on stage, but then, I’m on my feet again, O Ms. 2000, this is for you!)
I’m looking for attention, not another question, should you stay or should you go. Well if you don’t have the answer why still standing here, hey hey, heyyyyyyy Just walk away
Chorus Chicks Just walk away
Just leave! Walk away
6/21/07
Pregnancy Brain
Listen up, all you future Dads out there. Hossman has advice for you. I never take my own advice, but I love giving it out like a color man during curling. “Boy Jim, Canada should have really played the blue line there, yeah.” I don’t know what that means but I heard it during the Olympics.
I am going to lay down some knowledge that will make your lives easier when you wife is pregnant. Trust me on this, I know, I am your messiah. I am Jesus Jr. Listen to me and you will gain what it has taken me 2 pregnancies and 2 years to learn.
You cannot win. Give up. You cannot win.
I say this with no anger and no bitterness. To my wife, who I know is reading this, this is not a shot at you, please don’t make me sleep on the couch. I say this with an open heart and an understanding that you cannot have. Because, and this is true, you have Pregnancy Brain.
For those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s when a woman tends to, um, forget things and perhaps act a little more emotional than, um, perhaps we are used to. Things that didn’t bother them before may bother them now. Things that they would have normally remembered before they may not remember now. And some of the logical thinking that they did before, um, yep, that has gone out the window.
I am sure that my wife is trying to contact her lawyer for a divorce right now. Lucky for me I’m sure she can’t remember the number so I have some time before the powers that be censer me delete this post. All of you reading this, quickly email your friends before Big Brother destroys this knowledge. Treat it like the plans to the death star and remember we lost some mighty fine people getting this information out. Strength in unity.
I have proof of what I am saying. I have stories, I have the power of the word processor. I have more than one story!
The first pregnancy my wife’s A/C on her car went out. This is a very big deal, it’s hot in Texas. And you don’t want a hot pregnant wife. You will spend the next 2 days looking for a native with a big palm leaf. It’s terrible. So she had to go get his fixed. It was a simple procedure, all she had to do was replace a hose and we were good to go.
My wife comes back and I ask her “How did it go Honey. I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.” When she is pregnant, she needs constant reassurance.
She says “Fine. We didn’t get the A/C fixed. But we got the radiator flushed.”
I spot the problem. Can you?
“Um, why didn’t the A/C get fixed and why did we get the radiator flushed. I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.” I say.
“They didn’t have the hose. I don’t know why the radiator got flushed. It cost 300 bucks”.
Ok. For a moment I forget that we have a child on the way. For a moment I forget that my wife will be on maternity leave and will not have a paycheck. For a moment I forget that the very fabric of my family’s financial well being rests on my shoulder.
“What the hell? Was the radiator broken. I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.”
“The radiator was fine. I don’t know why they flushed it.” She responds and now the reality is starting to sink in.
We just spent 300 bucks on something that our 3 year old car didn’t need. It didn’t even have that many miles on it. This is the reason is took me an extra year to get an Xbox. She realized that the mechanic took her for a ride and got a more expensive job out of her. She says that I should go back up there and complain and get my money back. I point out, what am I going to say? I’m sorry my wife agreed to the work you have already done, pay me?
But you have to let those things go. It’s rough on her, no doubt. She needs a little slack, she just needs one break. And here is the secret of how to handle pregnancy.
IT IS YOUR JOB TO CUT HER A BREAK.
That’s it. That’s how you get through it. You let just about every thing slide. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. You imagine a place where everyone is honest and not trying to screw you over. You imagine a place with 40 virgins and eternal glory. You imagine a place where radiators don’t get flushed. And then you step back, give her a kiss, tell her not to worry and then go get your secret bottle of vodka hidden in the toilet tank. And even when it comes to your physical safety, you cut her some slack.
Last night we were having dinner with a friend. He is about to get an xbox so I was going to show him around the digital world. I am a good leader, people adore me. We were having spaghetti. Well, kind of. It was turkey spaghetti which is like owning a Rolez watch. Not quite the real thing but you appreciate the effort. Actually this has to do with the “Pregnancy Diet” which is a whole other blog.
I was minding my own business by the sink. I was thinking about how I could make the world a better place and wondering how much money I should give to “Bunnies that need a home” foundation run by the Orphans in my town. Birds were chirping on my shoulder and Little Hoss was looking at me with awe. Everything was good in Superdad World.
Suddenly, and unprovoked I might add, I felt a searing pain on my left hand. This was serious pain, not the kind that you fake to get some sympathy from the hot cheerleader. No, this was the kind that shoots straight up your arm and makes even your eyelids hurt. Son of a bitch. That’s the only thing you can think.
“Ow!” scream as I pull back my mangled hand. My wife just looks at me, holding the end of a very hot pan. With an oven mitt on. She feels no pain.
It turns out that my wife didn’t realize a couple of things. 1. I was at the sink, her final destination with said hot pan. 2. My hand was on the corner of the actual sink. 3. Hot pans will sear flesh.
“What” she says.
What the hell do you mean “What”. My hand was just cooked like a deep fried turkey that’s what. What the fuck man! I’m right here! I am right in front of you! I am even wearing bright colors, how could you not see me before you put the near melted its so hot pan on my hand?! That’s what. Do I need to start wearing a little orange vest? How about a hard hat and belt blinkers?!
But I don’t say any of this, because it is my job to cut her some slack. And I may be exaggerating just a tad here. It was actually just a corner of the hot pan that touched a corner of my hand. But there is a blister and it hurts.
“You burned me!” I say.
“Sorry” she says but there is a part of me that thinks that she doesn’t really mean this. It was the way she said it. It’s like saying I’m sorry that you are so stupid to get in my way. I think she is more upset that I got mad at her rather than she is that she almost made me a gimp. It was said with almost a sneer and a flick of the hair. I also wonder, in my moment of agony, if she did this on purpose. Is she so mad that I am not pregnant that she wants me to share some of her pain? I say this is a possibility.
I can’t get water on it because now the hot pan is in the sink. Mumbling, because that is what husbands do, I go to the bathroom to soak my mangled limb. I may have said some sharp words but the pain of the moment prevents me from remembering them. I eventually come back and she says she’s sorry again. For a moment I almost begin to ask her what the hell just happened, do we have a big life insurance policy that I don’t know about?
But you don’t. You can’t. Because she has it rough and you get to play 2 hours of xbox every night. So you cut her some slack and you say:
“I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.”
I am going to lay down some knowledge that will make your lives easier when you wife is pregnant. Trust me on this, I know, I am your messiah. I am Jesus Jr. Listen to me and you will gain what it has taken me 2 pregnancies and 2 years to learn.
You cannot win. Give up. You cannot win.
I say this with no anger and no bitterness. To my wife, who I know is reading this, this is not a shot at you, please don’t make me sleep on the couch. I say this with an open heart and an understanding that you cannot have. Because, and this is true, you have Pregnancy Brain.
For those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s when a woman tends to, um, forget things and perhaps act a little more emotional than, um, perhaps we are used to. Things that didn’t bother them before may bother them now. Things that they would have normally remembered before they may not remember now. And some of the logical thinking that they did before, um, yep, that has gone out the window.
I am sure that my wife is trying to contact her lawyer for a divorce right now. Lucky for me I’m sure she can’t remember the number so I have some time before the powers that be censer me delete this post. All of you reading this, quickly email your friends before Big Brother destroys this knowledge. Treat it like the plans to the death star and remember we lost some mighty fine people getting this information out. Strength in unity.
I have proof of what I am saying. I have stories, I have the power of the word processor. I have more than one story!
The first pregnancy my wife’s A/C on her car went out. This is a very big deal, it’s hot in Texas. And you don’t want a hot pregnant wife. You will spend the next 2 days looking for a native with a big palm leaf. It’s terrible. So she had to go get his fixed. It was a simple procedure, all she had to do was replace a hose and we were good to go.
My wife comes back and I ask her “How did it go Honey. I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.” When she is pregnant, she needs constant reassurance.
She says “Fine. We didn’t get the A/C fixed. But we got the radiator flushed.”
I spot the problem. Can you?
“Um, why didn’t the A/C get fixed and why did we get the radiator flushed. I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.” I say.
“They didn’t have the hose. I don’t know why the radiator got flushed. It cost 300 bucks”.
Ok. For a moment I forget that we have a child on the way. For a moment I forget that my wife will be on maternity leave and will not have a paycheck. For a moment I forget that the very fabric of my family’s financial well being rests on my shoulder.
“What the hell? Was the radiator broken. I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.”
“The radiator was fine. I don’t know why they flushed it.” She responds and now the reality is starting to sink in.
We just spent 300 bucks on something that our 3 year old car didn’t need. It didn’t even have that many miles on it. This is the reason is took me an extra year to get an Xbox. She realized that the mechanic took her for a ride and got a more expensive job out of her. She says that I should go back up there and complain and get my money back. I point out, what am I going to say? I’m sorry my wife agreed to the work you have already done, pay me?
But you have to let those things go. It’s rough on her, no doubt. She needs a little slack, she just needs one break. And here is the secret of how to handle pregnancy.
IT IS YOUR JOB TO CUT HER A BREAK.
That’s it. That’s how you get through it. You let just about every thing slide. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. You imagine a place where everyone is honest and not trying to screw you over. You imagine a place with 40 virgins and eternal glory. You imagine a place where radiators don’t get flushed. And then you step back, give her a kiss, tell her not to worry and then go get your secret bottle of vodka hidden in the toilet tank. And even when it comes to your physical safety, you cut her some slack.
Last night we were having dinner with a friend. He is about to get an xbox so I was going to show him around the digital world. I am a good leader, people adore me. We were having spaghetti. Well, kind of. It was turkey spaghetti which is like owning a Rolez watch. Not quite the real thing but you appreciate the effort. Actually this has to do with the “Pregnancy Diet” which is a whole other blog.
I was minding my own business by the sink. I was thinking about how I could make the world a better place and wondering how much money I should give to “Bunnies that need a home” foundation run by the Orphans in my town. Birds were chirping on my shoulder and Little Hoss was looking at me with awe. Everything was good in Superdad World.
Suddenly, and unprovoked I might add, I felt a searing pain on my left hand. This was serious pain, not the kind that you fake to get some sympathy from the hot cheerleader. No, this was the kind that shoots straight up your arm and makes even your eyelids hurt. Son of a bitch. That’s the only thing you can think.
“Ow!” scream as I pull back my mangled hand. My wife just looks at me, holding the end of a very hot pan. With an oven mitt on. She feels no pain.
It turns out that my wife didn’t realize a couple of things. 1. I was at the sink, her final destination with said hot pan. 2. My hand was on the corner of the actual sink. 3. Hot pans will sear flesh.
“What” she says.
What the hell do you mean “What”. My hand was just cooked like a deep fried turkey that’s what. What the fuck man! I’m right here! I am right in front of you! I am even wearing bright colors, how could you not see me before you put the near melted its so hot pan on my hand?! That’s what. Do I need to start wearing a little orange vest? How about a hard hat and belt blinkers?!
But I don’t say any of this, because it is my job to cut her some slack. And I may be exaggerating just a tad here. It was actually just a corner of the hot pan that touched a corner of my hand. But there is a blister and it hurts.
“You burned me!” I say.
“Sorry” she says but there is a part of me that thinks that she doesn’t really mean this. It was the way she said it. It’s like saying I’m sorry that you are so stupid to get in my way. I think she is more upset that I got mad at her rather than she is that she almost made me a gimp. It was said with almost a sneer and a flick of the hair. I also wonder, in my moment of agony, if she did this on purpose. Is she so mad that I am not pregnant that she wants me to share some of her pain? I say this is a possibility.
I can’t get water on it because now the hot pan is in the sink. Mumbling, because that is what husbands do, I go to the bathroom to soak my mangled limb. I may have said some sharp words but the pain of the moment prevents me from remembering them. I eventually come back and she says she’s sorry again. For a moment I almost begin to ask her what the hell just happened, do we have a big life insurance policy that I don’t know about?
But you don’t. You can’t. Because she has it rough and you get to play 2 hours of xbox every night. So you cut her some slack and you say:
“I love you. You are the greatest thing in the world.”
6/18/07
Goodbye Dear Friend
A fatty. A dip. A pinch of heaven between the cheek and gums. The Spit Maker. Jerry the Wonder Dip. Mint flavored Freedom. Mouthweed. Brown Justice. Alli Baba and His 40 Spitoons. The Real Big League Chew. The Grin Enhancer.
Those are all my knick names for one of my best friends—chewing tobacco. But this week, sadly, we must part ways.
For the last 13 years we have been inseparable. Through the Good and Bad, we have been together. But I have a daughter now and have to take care of myself. So I am quitting. I’m walking away. This will count as the 234,876 time I have tried to quit. But I have allies in this fight. I am taking medication and I am on a “Program” designed to help me find success.
Hossman is not above some new hippie type approach because everything has failed. Which is a backwards way to say that I have failed without actually taking any responsibility. I should be a politician.
But I am on a medication now and the doctor says it will work. I am committed this time, I’m ready to go. Every time my daughter reaches for a spit cup, I judge myself. So she is my reason.
The medication makes the chewing tobacco taste a little different and, as I am finding out, blocking the sweet Jesus buzz and relaxation I usually get from a fatty. And it’s an interesting approach. I take medication for 7 days while continuing to dip. At the end, I’m supposed to go off the dip completely and my body, with the help of medication, will adjust.
I plan to chronicle my trails and tribulations through out this blog so some of these may tend to be a bit mean spirited. I get a little cranky when I’m jonesing so please forgive me. I may hit and scream but your sacrifice will help me, so it’s all worthwhile.
My wife was able to quit smoking without any troubles. I hate her for this. I know, it’s terrible, but she made it look so easy. Of course, she was carrying life, I was carrying a beer gut. And yes, I know everyone says “we” are pregnant but that just isn’t true. I’m drinking and dipping, she’s eating right and taking vitamins. I know it seems unfair, but I have come to terms with it.
I am also doing a program this time when I quit. Think AA, just not as creepy, as depressing, as pathetic or as fun. Because you know when those guys crack they have a hell of good time. I just end up right where I left off, the lonely guy in his office with the door shut so he can dip in peace without his bosses giving him shit. It’s an interesting approach though. It’s very touchy-feely. I’m a sensitive guy. I have depth. I have layers like an onion baby, completely complicated. I can’t even understand myself. I should be studied, that’s how complicated I am.
There are a few things that I have to do for this program to work, along with the medication. One of the keys is to ask me what my inspiration is and then to throw that in my face every day. As you can imagine, my daughter is my inspiration so every day on the email I get a picture of her looking at me with a caption of “Why don’t you love me?” I think the program is run by my mother.
One of the other things that I have to do in the program is to Write a Good-Bye letter to my chewing tobacco. Seriously. I know, it sounds a bit on the pink side. But with your daughter looking at you, how can you not play along? As always, I’ll post it. Strictly to make fun of myself and this program. But I am going to take a different approach. This is a challenge. A battle to be won, glory to be attained. Please hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic while you read this. It’s a mood setter.
Dear Rat Bastard:
I want my money back. I want all my money back. I want every cent I spent on you. I wanted to take a trip to Hawaii. You wanted to take a trip to the gas station. You have no ambition but to rob me blind, so pony up.
I know, I know, it was all my fault in the first place. But let’s both put the blame on the one that deserves it, our mutual enemy, Kate. That’s right, I’m using names in this blog. Why? Because she is a bitch. There you go. No mystery nickname for her. Screw it, I’m still bitter. No reason to act high and mighty when I’m not.
Kate was a girlfriend before my wife. Kate said she loved me, could not live without me. Kate gang banged my entire dorm.
So I went a little off the deep end. She did not like facial hair and dipping disgusted her. So yes, I grew a monster goatee and started dipping just to piss her off. Not the best strategy, I agree. It would have been easier for me just to walk away and get a shot of penicillin but I was an idiot. And so, I picked up you Mr. Chewing Tobacco and you filled the void left by the whore.
It was rough going at first for us, I understand that. I didn’t like your taste and you didn’t like the way I handled myself. I couldn’t do the cool finger thump when packing you. My spitting was amateurish and my placement needed a lot of work. But you never made me throw up and I appreciate that.
On our first fishing trip I knew that this was meant to last. While my friends tried you and threw up, we held strong. We went out into the middle of that stream and enjoyed the view. It was quiet then, up there in the mountains with a nice crisp cool air. That’s when I knew I loved you. You were not weak like all the others I knew. You were strength, you gave me character and an attitude.
You allowed me to spit menacingly after I had something tough to say. You helped cement the Hossman Legend, how can I hate you for that? And after thanksgiving, you were there ready to send me off to a nice sleep. I could always count on you for a night of drinking. I could count on you for a very special Christmas, you always knew what I wanted. And when that Sucubus Kate was busy giving hand jobs to the midget wrestling team, you consoled me.
Sure, we had our good times but they just can’t continue. I’ve outgrown you. I’m a responsible father now so I must say goodbye. Please, don’t cry and don’t look back. You’ll only see my heart breaking.
Keep the money that I’ve spent on you. Keep the memories and the good times that we had. Keep the cancer that you were going to give me. You see, now I have no choice. It’s either my daughter or you. It’s an easy decision. I have to write you this letter. I do it while listening to Sara McLachlan’s Foolish Games.
I hide my soiled hands behind my back. Somewhere down the line I must have gone off track with you. Excuse me, I think I have mistaken you for somebody else. Somebody that gave a damn, somebody more like myself. These foolish games are tearing me, tearing me, tearing me apart.
But if you ever have the chance to run into Kate, please pass along a little rectal cancer for me. Just for old times.
Yours Forever,
Hossman.
Those are all my knick names for one of my best friends—chewing tobacco. But this week, sadly, we must part ways.
For the last 13 years we have been inseparable. Through the Good and Bad, we have been together. But I have a daughter now and have to take care of myself. So I am quitting. I’m walking away. This will count as the 234,876 time I have tried to quit. But I have allies in this fight. I am taking medication and I am on a “Program” designed to help me find success.
Hossman is not above some new hippie type approach because everything has failed. Which is a backwards way to say that I have failed without actually taking any responsibility. I should be a politician.
But I am on a medication now and the doctor says it will work. I am committed this time, I’m ready to go. Every time my daughter reaches for a spit cup, I judge myself. So she is my reason.
The medication makes the chewing tobacco taste a little different and, as I am finding out, blocking the sweet Jesus buzz and relaxation I usually get from a fatty. And it’s an interesting approach. I take medication for 7 days while continuing to dip. At the end, I’m supposed to go off the dip completely and my body, with the help of medication, will adjust.
I plan to chronicle my trails and tribulations through out this blog so some of these may tend to be a bit mean spirited. I get a little cranky when I’m jonesing so please forgive me. I may hit and scream but your sacrifice will help me, so it’s all worthwhile.
My wife was able to quit smoking without any troubles. I hate her for this. I know, it’s terrible, but she made it look so easy. Of course, she was carrying life, I was carrying a beer gut. And yes, I know everyone says “we” are pregnant but that just isn’t true. I’m drinking and dipping, she’s eating right and taking vitamins. I know it seems unfair, but I have come to terms with it.
I am also doing a program this time when I quit. Think AA, just not as creepy, as depressing, as pathetic or as fun. Because you know when those guys crack they have a hell of good time. I just end up right where I left off, the lonely guy in his office with the door shut so he can dip in peace without his bosses giving him shit. It’s an interesting approach though. It’s very touchy-feely. I’m a sensitive guy. I have depth. I have layers like an onion baby, completely complicated. I can’t even understand myself. I should be studied, that’s how complicated I am.
There are a few things that I have to do for this program to work, along with the medication. One of the keys is to ask me what my inspiration is and then to throw that in my face every day. As you can imagine, my daughter is my inspiration so every day on the email I get a picture of her looking at me with a caption of “Why don’t you love me?” I think the program is run by my mother.
One of the other things that I have to do in the program is to Write a Good-Bye letter to my chewing tobacco. Seriously. I know, it sounds a bit on the pink side. But with your daughter looking at you, how can you not play along? As always, I’ll post it. Strictly to make fun of myself and this program. But I am going to take a different approach. This is a challenge. A battle to be won, glory to be attained. Please hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic while you read this. It’s a mood setter.
Dear Rat Bastard:
I want my money back. I want all my money back. I want every cent I spent on you. I wanted to take a trip to Hawaii. You wanted to take a trip to the gas station. You have no ambition but to rob me blind, so pony up.
I know, I know, it was all my fault in the first place. But let’s both put the blame on the one that deserves it, our mutual enemy, Kate. That’s right, I’m using names in this blog. Why? Because she is a bitch. There you go. No mystery nickname for her. Screw it, I’m still bitter. No reason to act high and mighty when I’m not.
Kate was a girlfriend before my wife. Kate said she loved me, could not live without me. Kate gang banged my entire dorm.
So I went a little off the deep end. She did not like facial hair and dipping disgusted her. So yes, I grew a monster goatee and started dipping just to piss her off. Not the best strategy, I agree. It would have been easier for me just to walk away and get a shot of penicillin but I was an idiot. And so, I picked up you Mr. Chewing Tobacco and you filled the void left by the whore.
It was rough going at first for us, I understand that. I didn’t like your taste and you didn’t like the way I handled myself. I couldn’t do the cool finger thump when packing you. My spitting was amateurish and my placement needed a lot of work. But you never made me throw up and I appreciate that.
On our first fishing trip I knew that this was meant to last. While my friends tried you and threw up, we held strong. We went out into the middle of that stream and enjoyed the view. It was quiet then, up there in the mountains with a nice crisp cool air. That’s when I knew I loved you. You were not weak like all the others I knew. You were strength, you gave me character and an attitude.
You allowed me to spit menacingly after I had something tough to say. You helped cement the Hossman Legend, how can I hate you for that? And after thanksgiving, you were there ready to send me off to a nice sleep. I could always count on you for a night of drinking. I could count on you for a very special Christmas, you always knew what I wanted. And when that Sucubus Kate was busy giving hand jobs to the midget wrestling team, you consoled me.
Sure, we had our good times but they just can’t continue. I’ve outgrown you. I’m a responsible father now so I must say goodbye. Please, don’t cry and don’t look back. You’ll only see my heart breaking.
Keep the money that I’ve spent on you. Keep the memories and the good times that we had. Keep the cancer that you were going to give me. You see, now I have no choice. It’s either my daughter or you. It’s an easy decision. I have to write you this letter. I do it while listening to Sara McLachlan’s Foolish Games.
I hide my soiled hands behind my back. Somewhere down the line I must have gone off track with you. Excuse me, I think I have mistaken you for somebody else. Somebody that gave a damn, somebody more like myself. These foolish games are tearing me, tearing me, tearing me apart.
But if you ever have the chance to run into Kate, please pass along a little rectal cancer for me. Just for old times.
Yours Forever,
Hossman.
The King of Poop
I am the King of Poop. It was not a tittle that I sought but it was a tittle that demanded my unique set of skills. Like most historic leaders, I did not want greatness but it was thrust upon me.
You would think that I would hire this particular job tittle out. Believe me, I would if I could. However many people taking pooping to be somewhat of an embarrassment so only the most trusted souls can be counted on to deal with it. Someone who knows how to provide a little discretion and can be counted on not to ask to many questions. I am the Matre’D of our Hossman Hotel.
Tickets, sure, I can get you tickets. Need a good hooker, I may be able to arrange that for a small fee. Please, let me send up a bottle of our finest bubbily. Need some poop cleaned up. Of course, sir, I can take care of that for you without involving the authorities. Tips are expected.
Hossmom tries to help but she finds herself more in the role of the resident nagger. However, she prefers the tittle of “Tell Hossman What to do.” We have built a 12 year relationship based on this organizational chart. But in this area, there is not a whole lot she can do because she is pregnant. All the experts in the world of Make Hossman Do stuff seem to agree that pregnant women are not allowed to handle poop. There is a loop hole however, she can handle the poop of our first born but just not any of the animals. I am a firm believer that this is a conspiracy that pregnant women got together on just to punish husbands. Worms, right, you will get worms if you handle poop. I guess I’m just expendiable.
Look, I get it, I’m not pregnant and you are. It’s not fun, I know it. Please let me go now. No more punishment. I know, it’s my fault you are this way. It’s my fault that you can’t smoke or drink or stay up past 8. It’s my fault that your back hurts and you gained weight. It’s my fault that you are swollen and everyone short of the Pope is taking a gander at you hoo-ha. It’s my fault that every stranger at the grocery store must man handle your belly like they are buying a new car. I get all this. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get very drunk infront of you.
But first, I must clean the poop. Why? Because you told me to. Granted, you told me 2 days ago but what you fail to realize was that I was ignoring you. I cannot be held responsible because you didn’t make your case strongly enough.
The cat box is my mortal enemy. I will never, ever in my entire life own another cat. It’s not that I hate cats, but they have to lay a deuce where it can’t be ignored. My wife has tried to help me out on this one in the past. We actually bought the motorized cat box that is supposed to “self clean”. I am considering a law suit because it is a piece of junk and the only thing it cleans is my pride which is stripped away. Basically, it would scoop the cat poop into a little box. Then it would retract. When it retracted, the same poop that was supposed to be deposited stuck on the scooper. Come on, did someone test this thing before making it to market. I get it, you just don’t care. We fell for a gimmick and you got your money and I still have poop to clean up.
So I took the thing outside to give it a good spraying. But it being electric and all, well, it no longer worked. This is the best invention ever: a cat litter box that cannot be cleaned and that mashes poop up at the same time. Genius. Take my 150 bucks. I could use a kidney transplant, buy hey, my priorities are straight.
The cats don’t like watching me cleaning there poop. I disagree with this. I want them to feel shamed. Please, be embarrassed that you are a grown cat and can’t take better care of yourself than this. In fact, I’m going to make a YouTube video of this and put it on the net. Maybe then you will learn to take a dump in the alley like the rest of God’s Creatures.
And I very much appreciate that it is sticking to the sides and must be scrapped off. Afterall, I am the King of Poop and must therefore enjoy my job ever so much. I am the Mary Poppins of Poop.
After that chore is done, it’s time to concentrate on the dogs. Atleast with the cats it’s all in one place. And this is one I can’t ignore for long because my daughter plays in out backyard. I know that one day she will go out there, find a piece of poop and eat it. Then it will be my fault as my wife rushes to the ER and explain what a horrible provider she has at home.
My dogs like to spread it around a little, sometimes even hide it. That way, when you step in it, it will be a complete surprise. The big bombs make especially good sandle decour. I have troll feet already, what’s a little poop.
Our fat dog enjoys trying to play when I do this. Everytime I bend down to get a nugget she must jump in my face. I think that she believes that she is playing a cover 2 defense and is blocking so that I can’t see what I am grabbing. Maybe poop, maybe a dead bird. It’s the Let’s Make a Deal of our backyard poop game. Who wants to play POOP! The brand new Hasbro game for those who have no other choices.
And what happens when the toilet is clogged in the home? I swear to god it must be a human rule that only one person in a house learns to use a plunger. It has got to be on the books somewhere that only Dad can use the plunger like it’s the car keys to his brand new porche. This is the main reason I want a son on my next one. As soon as he learns to make up and down arm motions, he inherits the plunger. Yes, before he is even born I am assigning chores. If I have another girl then the job remains mine and I am cursed forever.
Which finally brings me to Little Hoss. Anyone want to guess what she got me for Father’s day? That’s right, a poop in the tub, round two. Just what I always wanted.
And we were having such a good, great Father’s day. She sat in my lap and colored her brand new coloring book. It was great times. She would make random scratches while I had a crayon and tried to add some order to her chaos. This apparently wasn’t going with her abstract idea so she would take my crayon and put it aside while she continued on. We did this for about an hour. It was a great Fathers day. We went out to eat and we even colored at the restaurant.
On the ride home we put her in the backseat. I forgot to take the yellow crayon away from her. Other parents can probably see where this is going. I look back and I see nothing but yellow wax flakes around her mouth. There is no more crayon. She ate it. She ate the yellow crayon.
I thought we were so past this. I thought that we were done with putting non food items in our mouths. She hasn’t done this in a while. But I realize now that she was just getting ready to give me her greatest masterpiece. The crayon eating, tub shitting Picasso.
Later that night we get in the tub and are having a good time. She looks at me, smiles and then grunts. Bam, we have the newest performance artist on the scene. My wife, who detests poop in all it’s forms, quickly scooped up my daughter from the now tainted water. She leaves the room and leaves me.
This time there is no discussion. I know what my job is. There is no division of labor here. There is poop and there is Dad.
I am crowned the King of Poop, my name shall go down in History.
You would think that I would hire this particular job tittle out. Believe me, I would if I could. However many people taking pooping to be somewhat of an embarrassment so only the most trusted souls can be counted on to deal with it. Someone who knows how to provide a little discretion and can be counted on not to ask to many questions. I am the Matre’D of our Hossman Hotel.
Tickets, sure, I can get you tickets. Need a good hooker, I may be able to arrange that for a small fee. Please, let me send up a bottle of our finest bubbily. Need some poop cleaned up. Of course, sir, I can take care of that for you without involving the authorities. Tips are expected.
Hossmom tries to help but she finds herself more in the role of the resident nagger. However, she prefers the tittle of “Tell Hossman What to do.” We have built a 12 year relationship based on this organizational chart. But in this area, there is not a whole lot she can do because she is pregnant. All the experts in the world of Make Hossman Do stuff seem to agree that pregnant women are not allowed to handle poop. There is a loop hole however, she can handle the poop of our first born but just not any of the animals. I am a firm believer that this is a conspiracy that pregnant women got together on just to punish husbands. Worms, right, you will get worms if you handle poop. I guess I’m just expendiable.
Look, I get it, I’m not pregnant and you are. It’s not fun, I know it. Please let me go now. No more punishment. I know, it’s my fault you are this way. It’s my fault that you can’t smoke or drink or stay up past 8. It’s my fault that your back hurts and you gained weight. It’s my fault that you are swollen and everyone short of the Pope is taking a gander at you hoo-ha. It’s my fault that every stranger at the grocery store must man handle your belly like they are buying a new car. I get all this. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get very drunk infront of you.
But first, I must clean the poop. Why? Because you told me to. Granted, you told me 2 days ago but what you fail to realize was that I was ignoring you. I cannot be held responsible because you didn’t make your case strongly enough.
The cat box is my mortal enemy. I will never, ever in my entire life own another cat. It’s not that I hate cats, but they have to lay a deuce where it can’t be ignored. My wife has tried to help me out on this one in the past. We actually bought the motorized cat box that is supposed to “self clean”. I am considering a law suit because it is a piece of junk and the only thing it cleans is my pride which is stripped away. Basically, it would scoop the cat poop into a little box. Then it would retract. When it retracted, the same poop that was supposed to be deposited stuck on the scooper. Come on, did someone test this thing before making it to market. I get it, you just don’t care. We fell for a gimmick and you got your money and I still have poop to clean up.
So I took the thing outside to give it a good spraying. But it being electric and all, well, it no longer worked. This is the best invention ever: a cat litter box that cannot be cleaned and that mashes poop up at the same time. Genius. Take my 150 bucks. I could use a kidney transplant, buy hey, my priorities are straight.
The cats don’t like watching me cleaning there poop. I disagree with this. I want them to feel shamed. Please, be embarrassed that you are a grown cat and can’t take better care of yourself than this. In fact, I’m going to make a YouTube video of this and put it on the net. Maybe then you will learn to take a dump in the alley like the rest of God’s Creatures.
And I very much appreciate that it is sticking to the sides and must be scrapped off. Afterall, I am the King of Poop and must therefore enjoy my job ever so much. I am the Mary Poppins of Poop.
After that chore is done, it’s time to concentrate on the dogs. Atleast with the cats it’s all in one place. And this is one I can’t ignore for long because my daughter plays in out backyard. I know that one day she will go out there, find a piece of poop and eat it. Then it will be my fault as my wife rushes to the ER and explain what a horrible provider she has at home.
My dogs like to spread it around a little, sometimes even hide it. That way, when you step in it, it will be a complete surprise. The big bombs make especially good sandle decour. I have troll feet already, what’s a little poop.
Our fat dog enjoys trying to play when I do this. Everytime I bend down to get a nugget she must jump in my face. I think that she believes that she is playing a cover 2 defense and is blocking so that I can’t see what I am grabbing. Maybe poop, maybe a dead bird. It’s the Let’s Make a Deal of our backyard poop game. Who wants to play POOP! The brand new Hasbro game for those who have no other choices.
And what happens when the toilet is clogged in the home? I swear to god it must be a human rule that only one person in a house learns to use a plunger. It has got to be on the books somewhere that only Dad can use the plunger like it’s the car keys to his brand new porche. This is the main reason I want a son on my next one. As soon as he learns to make up and down arm motions, he inherits the plunger. Yes, before he is even born I am assigning chores. If I have another girl then the job remains mine and I am cursed forever.
Which finally brings me to Little Hoss. Anyone want to guess what she got me for Father’s day? That’s right, a poop in the tub, round two. Just what I always wanted.
And we were having such a good, great Father’s day. She sat in my lap and colored her brand new coloring book. It was great times. She would make random scratches while I had a crayon and tried to add some order to her chaos. This apparently wasn’t going with her abstract idea so she would take my crayon and put it aside while she continued on. We did this for about an hour. It was a great Fathers day. We went out to eat and we even colored at the restaurant.
On the ride home we put her in the backseat. I forgot to take the yellow crayon away from her. Other parents can probably see where this is going. I look back and I see nothing but yellow wax flakes around her mouth. There is no more crayon. She ate it. She ate the yellow crayon.
I thought we were so past this. I thought that we were done with putting non food items in our mouths. She hasn’t done this in a while. But I realize now that she was just getting ready to give me her greatest masterpiece. The crayon eating, tub shitting Picasso.
Later that night we get in the tub and are having a good time. She looks at me, smiles and then grunts. Bam, we have the newest performance artist on the scene. My wife, who detests poop in all it’s forms, quickly scooped up my daughter from the now tainted water. She leaves the room and leaves me.
This time there is no discussion. I know what my job is. There is no division of labor here. There is poop and there is Dad.
I am crowned the King of Poop, my name shall go down in History.
6/16/07
A Tribute to Dad
I have always wanted a motorcycle but no female in my life that I am beholden to will let me get one.
I have visions of myself cruising down some straight and narrow road, wind cascading off of my perfectly round nogin, chicks in convertables winking at me as I pass them. That was the dream when I turned 16. I would have a motorcycle and I would speak of engine power in the terms of "CC"s even though I have no idea what that means.
I would most likely be riding with my shirt off and only wearing some cool leather vest. It would have a viper on the back, possibly a dragon. I'm sure that whatever it would be, there would be flames coming off it. I would get home from a long day of riding my "hog" and would crash until the next dawn and my wild adventures would continue. Feel free to add you own theme music here, Malboro Man.
Instead my parents got me the Blue Cow. A 1980 extended bed pick up that you would have to pray to god that it would make it up the next hill.
My mom shot down my idea for a motorcycle. She would have none of it. Of course she wouldn't let her precious son go galivanting around on a death machine, how dare I even bring up the subject. "What are you" she would exclaim, "Some sort of hooligan?!".
"No ma'am" I'd answer as my head cascaded down.
But I could see the look in my dad's eyes. He wanted me to have that motorcycle as bad as I wanted it. Softly, so mom couldn't hear, he told me that he once had a motorcycle and it was great. I listened as the respect for my father went through the roof. Before he was just the guy that gave me licks. Now however he had a cool edge to him. A rebel that still lurked underneath the cloak of respectability.
He could understand the need for a motorcycle like only dads can. Not the bike in and of itself, but the need for something that is slightly less than safe but a hell of alot of fun. These are Dads. Take a good look, they ain't much different from me and you. They understand on a level that moms don't that sometimes you gotta do it just because it will be fun.
This is not to say that they don't care about safety, they do. But they are also a tad bit more realistic than moms are when it comes to phsyical safety. Moms tend to get a bit overprotective about thier little babies. They tend to poo-pah anything that could remotely cause any physical pain what so ever. It's in there nature. Ah, but Dad, he knows my friends, he knows.
A quick show of hands out there. Who was the very first person to take you to get your very own fire works? I'm guessing that only a very few of you are saying your mom. That's right, this is a Dad job. Because Dad can understand the desire, no the pure physical need to blow the crap out of an anthill.
And while you are doing it you may think you are alone but you are not. Your Dad is hiding somewhere watching you light that string of fire crackers and rooting you on. He won't ever admit it but he's thinking how great that is because we all damn well know that if he could get away with it, he would be right there with you.
He gives you the safety speech, tells you to be very careful, then gives you matches. Wet blanket mom would call the cops on you and try to "scare your straight" as she is sure that you are now going to turn into an arsonist. Your dad has visions of you being the greatest pest control guy ever.
My first BB gun was from my Dad. My first Pellet gun was from my Dad. My first hunting knife was from my Dad. You may be getting the impression that my family and I like to hunt. Not even close. I went hunting only once in my entire life, when I was 6, I hated it. I haven't been since.
But Dad understands how cool and great it is to shoot shit. He understands that in your mind you are Butch Cassady and all he wants is to be your Sundance Kid. He will show you how to load it, how to put the saftey on, and how to give your very own Clint Eastwood sneer. He will tell you "Little Hossman, the buzzards gotta eat the same as worms." You have no idea what that means but it is one hell of a cool catch phrase right before you knock down those coke bottles. He KNOWS this and he LETS you do it.
He can understand that you are not made out of glass and that perhaps, sometimes, when mom is not looking, maybe you can have a little danger in your life.
He will tell you the truth of the world without to much sugar coating. He will tell you that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do because no one else can do it better. And then he will remind you that you do the job right even when no one is looking because it's the right thing to do.
Mom on the other hand will tell you that Bambi's mom didn't die, old yeller wasn't shot and that Where the Red Fern Grows is about puppies who love bunnies. Dad will tell you that Bambi's mom had to feed a family of 4, that Old Yeller had gone bat shit crazy and had to be put down, and that the Red Fern is growing because decaying dog carcus makes for good fertilizer. It may be harsh, but you gotta respect the honesty.
He is an honest man but he is also a man that understands you need to have fun just to have fun and sometimes that means getting some bruises. When you fall down, he'll tell you to pick yourself up. When you scrape your knee, he'll show you his own scars and when you get in that first fight, on the sly, he'll ask you how you did.
He is the man that will in one moment tell you to act civilized but in the next will teach you how to spit. Because Mom's won't do this.
He'll teach you how to give High Fives and he'll teach you how to make fart noises under your arm. He'll teach you how to properly throw a punch and then will show how tough he is by letting you punch him to no effect.
He'll teach you to love his sports team and to follow them for the rest of your life. He will pass on that legacy so that when you are 32 you are still cheering for the same team you did when you were 4. He'll teach you how to climb a tree and not freak out when you get to high. Mom will be busy calling the fire department but Dad will be wondering how much farther you can go.
He is the stunt coordinator in the movie that is your life. Your mom is the Occupational safety inspector.
If you have ever taken your homemade sled, made out of a cardboard box and some pillows, down the stairs, chances are it was Dad that gave you that first push off.
If you have ever swung from a vine, anywhere, chances are that your Dad lifted you up to grab it in the first place.
If you have ever held a hatchet and thought you were Paul Bunion, I'm betting your Dad was the one that gave it to you.
If you have ever been on a roof before the age of 10 money says it was your dad that you went up there with. Because all Dad's know how freaking awesome it is to be on a roof for the first time and to see into everyones back yard.
Your first stack of nudie mags--yup, they belonged to someones Dad first. When you get caught, and you will, you get a lecture. But your Dad will also know that hey, boys will be boys.
That one statement will get you out of more trouble than Johnnie Cochran. First fight--boys will be boys. First time you break your mothers fine china because you were "roughing housing"--boys will be boys. First time you get arrested for doing something stupid--boys will be boys, now you can sit you ass in jail for 24 hours while you think about that.
And this all goes further. Your mom may not want you watching to much TV. You Dad will agree, but somehow he always find a way to keep him and your Mom busy on Sat. Morning Cartoon day while you are amazingly allowed to sit in your Hulk Underoos watching Dungeons and Dragons.
Dad can put it all into prospective, he can look at the larger picture and realize that hey, this isn't really a big deal. For example, I happen to have 2 very cool tattoos. I got my fist one when I was 18. I was still in Highschool but getting ready to go to college. I took my parents out to eat the night before I was going to leave. I chose this moment to show it to them.
My mom almost went down in a swoon. My dad asked me if I was still going to college. I said yes. He then looked at the tattoo and said "It's pretty cool." My mother looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders. He knew that a tattoo didn't mean anything in the big picture. I was still going to college, let the boy go.
I am 32 now and I have still yet to get my motorcycle. Shortly after I left home I met my wife. She made it very clear that there would be no motorcycle riding in this house mister. So the dream is dead.
But not really. Because I have a kiddo of my own now and another one on the way. One day they will come to me and ask me for that motorcycle or show me that tattoo. They will plead with thier mother not to be upset and not to make a scene.
I will lean over, check it out and say "That's pretty cool".
Happy Father's day Pops, I love you.
I have visions of myself cruising down some straight and narrow road, wind cascading off of my perfectly round nogin, chicks in convertables winking at me as I pass them. That was the dream when I turned 16. I would have a motorcycle and I would speak of engine power in the terms of "CC"s even though I have no idea what that means.
I would most likely be riding with my shirt off and only wearing some cool leather vest. It would have a viper on the back, possibly a dragon. I'm sure that whatever it would be, there would be flames coming off it. I would get home from a long day of riding my "hog" and would crash until the next dawn and my wild adventures would continue. Feel free to add you own theme music here, Malboro Man.
Instead my parents got me the Blue Cow. A 1980 extended bed pick up that you would have to pray to god that it would make it up the next hill.
My mom shot down my idea for a motorcycle. She would have none of it. Of course she wouldn't let her precious son go galivanting around on a death machine, how dare I even bring up the subject. "What are you" she would exclaim, "Some sort of hooligan?!".
"No ma'am" I'd answer as my head cascaded down.
But I could see the look in my dad's eyes. He wanted me to have that motorcycle as bad as I wanted it. Softly, so mom couldn't hear, he told me that he once had a motorcycle and it was great. I listened as the respect for my father went through the roof. Before he was just the guy that gave me licks. Now however he had a cool edge to him. A rebel that still lurked underneath the cloak of respectability.
He could understand the need for a motorcycle like only dads can. Not the bike in and of itself, but the need for something that is slightly less than safe but a hell of alot of fun. These are Dads. Take a good look, they ain't much different from me and you. They understand on a level that moms don't that sometimes you gotta do it just because it will be fun.
This is not to say that they don't care about safety, they do. But they are also a tad bit more realistic than moms are when it comes to phsyical safety. Moms tend to get a bit overprotective about thier little babies. They tend to poo-pah anything that could remotely cause any physical pain what so ever. It's in there nature. Ah, but Dad, he knows my friends, he knows.
A quick show of hands out there. Who was the very first person to take you to get your very own fire works? I'm guessing that only a very few of you are saying your mom. That's right, this is a Dad job. Because Dad can understand the desire, no the pure physical need to blow the crap out of an anthill.
And while you are doing it you may think you are alone but you are not. Your Dad is hiding somewhere watching you light that string of fire crackers and rooting you on. He won't ever admit it but he's thinking how great that is because we all damn well know that if he could get away with it, he would be right there with you.
He gives you the safety speech, tells you to be very careful, then gives you matches. Wet blanket mom would call the cops on you and try to "scare your straight" as she is sure that you are now going to turn into an arsonist. Your dad has visions of you being the greatest pest control guy ever.
My first BB gun was from my Dad. My first Pellet gun was from my Dad. My first hunting knife was from my Dad. You may be getting the impression that my family and I like to hunt. Not even close. I went hunting only once in my entire life, when I was 6, I hated it. I haven't been since.
But Dad understands how cool and great it is to shoot shit. He understands that in your mind you are Butch Cassady and all he wants is to be your Sundance Kid. He will show you how to load it, how to put the saftey on, and how to give your very own Clint Eastwood sneer. He will tell you "Little Hossman, the buzzards gotta eat the same as worms." You have no idea what that means but it is one hell of a cool catch phrase right before you knock down those coke bottles. He KNOWS this and he LETS you do it.
He can understand that you are not made out of glass and that perhaps, sometimes, when mom is not looking, maybe you can have a little danger in your life.
He will tell you the truth of the world without to much sugar coating. He will tell you that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do because no one else can do it better. And then he will remind you that you do the job right even when no one is looking because it's the right thing to do.
Mom on the other hand will tell you that Bambi's mom didn't die, old yeller wasn't shot and that Where the Red Fern Grows is about puppies who love bunnies. Dad will tell you that Bambi's mom had to feed a family of 4, that Old Yeller had gone bat shit crazy and had to be put down, and that the Red Fern is growing because decaying dog carcus makes for good fertilizer. It may be harsh, but you gotta respect the honesty.
He is an honest man but he is also a man that understands you need to have fun just to have fun and sometimes that means getting some bruises. When you fall down, he'll tell you to pick yourself up. When you scrape your knee, he'll show you his own scars and when you get in that first fight, on the sly, he'll ask you how you did.
He is the man that will in one moment tell you to act civilized but in the next will teach you how to spit. Because Mom's won't do this.
He'll teach you how to give High Fives and he'll teach you how to make fart noises under your arm. He'll teach you how to properly throw a punch and then will show how tough he is by letting you punch him to no effect.
He'll teach you to love his sports team and to follow them for the rest of your life. He will pass on that legacy so that when you are 32 you are still cheering for the same team you did when you were 4. He'll teach you how to climb a tree and not freak out when you get to high. Mom will be busy calling the fire department but Dad will be wondering how much farther you can go.
He is the stunt coordinator in the movie that is your life. Your mom is the Occupational safety inspector.
If you have ever taken your homemade sled, made out of a cardboard box and some pillows, down the stairs, chances are it was Dad that gave you that first push off.
If you have ever swung from a vine, anywhere, chances are that your Dad lifted you up to grab it in the first place.
If you have ever held a hatchet and thought you were Paul Bunion, I'm betting your Dad was the one that gave it to you.
If you have ever been on a roof before the age of 10 money says it was your dad that you went up there with. Because all Dad's know how freaking awesome it is to be on a roof for the first time and to see into everyones back yard.
Your first stack of nudie mags--yup, they belonged to someones Dad first. When you get caught, and you will, you get a lecture. But your Dad will also know that hey, boys will be boys.
That one statement will get you out of more trouble than Johnnie Cochran. First fight--boys will be boys. First time you break your mothers fine china because you were "roughing housing"--boys will be boys. First time you get arrested for doing something stupid--boys will be boys, now you can sit you ass in jail for 24 hours while you think about that.
And this all goes further. Your mom may not want you watching to much TV. You Dad will agree, but somehow he always find a way to keep him and your Mom busy on Sat. Morning Cartoon day while you are amazingly allowed to sit in your Hulk Underoos watching Dungeons and Dragons.
Dad can put it all into prospective, he can look at the larger picture and realize that hey, this isn't really a big deal. For example, I happen to have 2 very cool tattoos. I got my fist one when I was 18. I was still in Highschool but getting ready to go to college. I took my parents out to eat the night before I was going to leave. I chose this moment to show it to them.
My mom almost went down in a swoon. My dad asked me if I was still going to college. I said yes. He then looked at the tattoo and said "It's pretty cool." My mother looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders. He knew that a tattoo didn't mean anything in the big picture. I was still going to college, let the boy go.
I am 32 now and I have still yet to get my motorcycle. Shortly after I left home I met my wife. She made it very clear that there would be no motorcycle riding in this house mister. So the dream is dead.
But not really. Because I have a kiddo of my own now and another one on the way. One day they will come to me and ask me for that motorcycle or show me that tattoo. They will plead with thier mother not to be upset and not to make a scene.
I will lean over, check it out and say "That's pretty cool".
Happy Father's day Pops, I love you.
6/15/07
Hell's Kitchen
For tonight we have a very special dinner planned. If everyone will please direct their attention to our main oddity, the Volcano Cornbread.
There is not your ordinary cornbread, no my Hossman Family, this is superdad’s special concoction of bad cooking. What, Spices? No my dear family, superdad does not use any spices because they confuse him. I do not know the difference between oregano and basil. Does it have fire sauce, perhaps some jalapeños?
No my dear family, don’t be silly. That type of cooking would be way to complicated for superdad. How much would I put in? How would I know. Peppers of some sort—I wouldn’t no where to begin.
My dear family, take a closer look at my wondrous offering. Notice how the right side of the cake pan has almost no cornbread batter in there. Do you notice how all the batter has actually gone to the far side. And do you see that it is black on top. No, of course I don’t know how it got that way. Our oven is not slanted but yet, that’s the way it cooked.
And please notice the nice bubbling crest right in the middle of our slanted cornbread. You see how it has cooked so that there is almost a volcano like cylinder protruding, I did that. And that stuff bubbling out of it, it’s not some special cornbread sauce or crème de la French. It’s just plan old uncooked cornbread batter. For some reason, and I am completely clueless as to why, the outside of our special Volcano Cornbread is as crisp and blackened as rock heroin, but the insides remain as gooey as a jelly donut. You see, superdad cooks without the laws of physics. I defy all of the constraints that hold men down because I watch Star Trek and expect a replicator to produce all my food in it.
And this is how, me, Hossman, has continued to cook our family dinners for the last several months.
I tend to get home with Little Hoss around 5:30 or so while Hossmom gets home at about 7. With this arrangement, cooking the family meals has fallen to me.
And why shouldn’t it. Am I not a man of the millennium. Housework and child rearing do not scare me. I eat 500 yards away from 1000 Cubans trained to kill me, so why would I be afraid?
So I have taken on this chore but admittingly, without much enthusiasm. Because I do not like to cook. I find nothing relaxing about. I find that I do not care about it enough. I do not want to put the effort in to learn more about it. My 16 month old daughter could probably do as good a job as me. And I am oddly comfortable with that. I cook on Monday – Thursday and then on Fridays, I make my wife take me out to dinner. I will not be ignored, Dan.
But I do like to plan. Yes, planning and upper management. That is more my style. I will plan the week’s meals each Monday morning and then go shopping with Little Hoss. But what goes with what. Should we have mashed potatoes with tacos? Perhaps we should have salsa with steaks. The point is, I don’t know and I have never had to give it much thought.
Yes, I was one of those males that my mother cooked for me. She still will when I come over. She will make all my favorites, cooked just right. But sadly for me, I have never paid attention what side dishes she makes. I just knew that they were always there. It was mystical delivered by the fairy princess of dinners.
My wife can actually cook when she wants to and it is pretty good. She is a hell of a baker and makes some of the best desserts that I have ever tasted. Don’t ask me to reproduce them because we might have a trip to the ER as I may just add some rat poison thinking that it is powdered sugar. I am putting my whole family at risk.
But I do help out around the house and that means having a cooked dinner for my family every night so we stay away McCrap food. So tonight, I give you fajitas.
I was very focused on cooking the meat on the grill. Yes, this is where Hossman needs to be, in front of an open flame. The flame of power, cook my meat and bow down before me all those in the food chain. I am the meat master, succumb to me. I turned it over and I didn’t even burn myself.
And I have gotten smarter than my first couple of tries. This time I bought prepackaged seasoned meat. I know that there are health nuts out there that will want to stand in my way of using mass packaged meat as unhealthy and so uncouth. Blow me. Seriously, get down and blow me because this is what works for me. And as I am doing the cooking, blow me.
The meat went off without a hitch. This meal was going to be great. I spent a lot of time cutting up the chicken breasts with tender loving care. Until my wife asked me the following:
“What are we having with it?” she asked.
“It’s meat, what do we need with it.” I said.
“Did you get tomato, sour cream sauce, cheese.” She said.
“It’s meat, what do we need with it” I again responded.
So that night my family and I had fajitas without cheese, sour cream sauce, salsa, guacamole, or even tortilla chips.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the Hossman Chicken Tortilla sandwich. It is healthy because it has nothing on it. That’s my reasoning. Yes, the chicken was slightly completely overcooked. But I guarantee no one will get worms from one of my meals.
I try and I try but I just can’t seem to get it right. Last night we had pork chops but for some reason I forgot that Little Hoss is now eating with us. What I used to cook for just my wife and I will no longer cut it. We had 4 of those really thin boneless pork chops. I love those things. Here’s some meat enjoy. I even took the time to marinate them in soy sauce, at the urging of my brother in law. But my fatal flaw came when I put them on plates.
Little Hoss gets one because she loves pork chops. Hossmom gets two because she is pregnant and eating for my next minion. So what does Hossdad get? 1 thin boneless pork chop. That’s it. I am the man of the house I demand that I treat myself better than that. And the mashed potatoes that were to come with it? There was a slight problem. I bought pre-made mashed potatoes. Apparently, they were supposed to be defrosted before they were cooked. After 35 minutes of duke nukem in the microwave we were left with an inedible paste and a huge rock of still frozen potatoes. They were inedible.
And the green beans, should superdad at least get some green beans? Well, there was an “accident” with the green beans. I suspect a conspiracy from Hossmom and Little Hoss. After they both got their helpings, the rest mysteriously were “dropped” on the floor. So I had my meat stick, that’s it.
But superdad has a trick up his sleeve. It is a trick that every child will love him for. It is a technique that I learned many years ago in college. It is a trick that Little Hoss will one day come to know as I will pass this secret knowledge down to her.
Hello Mr. Fruity Pebbles. Why yes, I would like two bowls full thank you. I am Gordan Ramsey. Move your arse.
There is not your ordinary cornbread, no my Hossman Family, this is superdad’s special concoction of bad cooking. What, Spices? No my dear family, superdad does not use any spices because they confuse him. I do not know the difference between oregano and basil. Does it have fire sauce, perhaps some jalapeños?
No my dear family, don’t be silly. That type of cooking would be way to complicated for superdad. How much would I put in? How would I know. Peppers of some sort—I wouldn’t no where to begin.
My dear family, take a closer look at my wondrous offering. Notice how the right side of the cake pan has almost no cornbread batter in there. Do you notice how all the batter has actually gone to the far side. And do you see that it is black on top. No, of course I don’t know how it got that way. Our oven is not slanted but yet, that’s the way it cooked.
And please notice the nice bubbling crest right in the middle of our slanted cornbread. You see how it has cooked so that there is almost a volcano like cylinder protruding, I did that. And that stuff bubbling out of it, it’s not some special cornbread sauce or crème de la French. It’s just plan old uncooked cornbread batter. For some reason, and I am completely clueless as to why, the outside of our special Volcano Cornbread is as crisp and blackened as rock heroin, but the insides remain as gooey as a jelly donut. You see, superdad cooks without the laws of physics. I defy all of the constraints that hold men down because I watch Star Trek and expect a replicator to produce all my food in it.
And this is how, me, Hossman, has continued to cook our family dinners for the last several months.
I tend to get home with Little Hoss around 5:30 or so while Hossmom gets home at about 7. With this arrangement, cooking the family meals has fallen to me.
And why shouldn’t it. Am I not a man of the millennium. Housework and child rearing do not scare me. I eat 500 yards away from 1000 Cubans trained to kill me, so why would I be afraid?
So I have taken on this chore but admittingly, without much enthusiasm. Because I do not like to cook. I find nothing relaxing about. I find that I do not care about it enough. I do not want to put the effort in to learn more about it. My 16 month old daughter could probably do as good a job as me. And I am oddly comfortable with that. I cook on Monday – Thursday and then on Fridays, I make my wife take me out to dinner. I will not be ignored, Dan.
But I do like to plan. Yes, planning and upper management. That is more my style. I will plan the week’s meals each Monday morning and then go shopping with Little Hoss. But what goes with what. Should we have mashed potatoes with tacos? Perhaps we should have salsa with steaks. The point is, I don’t know and I have never had to give it much thought.
Yes, I was one of those males that my mother cooked for me. She still will when I come over. She will make all my favorites, cooked just right. But sadly for me, I have never paid attention what side dishes she makes. I just knew that they were always there. It was mystical delivered by the fairy princess of dinners.
My wife can actually cook when she wants to and it is pretty good. She is a hell of a baker and makes some of the best desserts that I have ever tasted. Don’t ask me to reproduce them because we might have a trip to the ER as I may just add some rat poison thinking that it is powdered sugar. I am putting my whole family at risk.
But I do help out around the house and that means having a cooked dinner for my family every night so we stay away McCrap food. So tonight, I give you fajitas.
I was very focused on cooking the meat on the grill. Yes, this is where Hossman needs to be, in front of an open flame. The flame of power, cook my meat and bow down before me all those in the food chain. I am the meat master, succumb to me. I turned it over and I didn’t even burn myself.
And I have gotten smarter than my first couple of tries. This time I bought prepackaged seasoned meat. I know that there are health nuts out there that will want to stand in my way of using mass packaged meat as unhealthy and so uncouth. Blow me. Seriously, get down and blow me because this is what works for me. And as I am doing the cooking, blow me.
The meat went off without a hitch. This meal was going to be great. I spent a lot of time cutting up the chicken breasts with tender loving care. Until my wife asked me the following:
“What are we having with it?” she asked.
“It’s meat, what do we need with it.” I said.
“Did you get tomato, sour cream sauce, cheese.” She said.
“It’s meat, what do we need with it” I again responded.
So that night my family and I had fajitas without cheese, sour cream sauce, salsa, guacamole, or even tortilla chips.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the Hossman Chicken Tortilla sandwich. It is healthy because it has nothing on it. That’s my reasoning. Yes, the chicken was slightly completely overcooked. But I guarantee no one will get worms from one of my meals.
I try and I try but I just can’t seem to get it right. Last night we had pork chops but for some reason I forgot that Little Hoss is now eating with us. What I used to cook for just my wife and I will no longer cut it. We had 4 of those really thin boneless pork chops. I love those things. Here’s some meat enjoy. I even took the time to marinate them in soy sauce, at the urging of my brother in law. But my fatal flaw came when I put them on plates.
Little Hoss gets one because she loves pork chops. Hossmom gets two because she is pregnant and eating for my next minion. So what does Hossdad get? 1 thin boneless pork chop. That’s it. I am the man of the house I demand that I treat myself better than that. And the mashed potatoes that were to come with it? There was a slight problem. I bought pre-made mashed potatoes. Apparently, they were supposed to be defrosted before they were cooked. After 35 minutes of duke nukem in the microwave we were left with an inedible paste and a huge rock of still frozen potatoes. They were inedible.
And the green beans, should superdad at least get some green beans? Well, there was an “accident” with the green beans. I suspect a conspiracy from Hossmom and Little Hoss. After they both got their helpings, the rest mysteriously were “dropped” on the floor. So I had my meat stick, that’s it.
But superdad has a trick up his sleeve. It is a trick that every child will love him for. It is a technique that I learned many years ago in college. It is a trick that Little Hoss will one day come to know as I will pass this secret knowledge down to her.
Hello Mr. Fruity Pebbles. Why yes, I would like two bowls full thank you. I am Gordan Ramsey. Move your arse.
6/14/07
Just a Cool Quote--I am a Sapp.
"Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express." -Joseph Addison
The 100th Post
100 posts. I am a writing god.
There are times when I am successful that one of my pitfalls decides to rear its ugly head. Sometimes, and completely on accident, I assure you, I tend to get over confident. The word cocky could almost be used to describe my attitude at times. I get to the point where I feel that I know what the hell I’m doing and if you don’t, well, then you are not as great as me.
This can be both a good and bad thing. I’m not afraid of a challenge but also I would not be as open to criticism as a good well rounded person should.
So I am taking this opportunity on this special post to correct that mistake before I go any further. I am going to eat a little crow, humble myself, and perhaps go to the bathroom for an hour. But first, let’s deflate the ego a little bit.
When Little Hoss was born my wife and I had taken every class that you could imagine. I was CPR certified, I knew how to change a diaper, give baths and went to every Lamaze class that was offered. I was the Chuck Noris of child birth and baby care, hi-ya.
I could do it all. Black poop, I’m on that. Burping, give me the kid, I’ll get it out of her. I read every book that there was out there. Not only did I read the dad books, which I found very disappointing as far as the how to portion, but I also read the “What to expect when you are expecting.” I was ready, I was genius and this genius would pass down to my daughter.
One of my biggest fears was that I wouldn’t be able to bond with my daughter. That because she had been with her mother for those 10 months that I would be a side character, the guy in the red shirt that never has a last name. I was afraid that there would be so many people around us in the first 2 weeks that they would snatch my child out of my arms and tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing, go have a fruit cup and relax.
I didn’t want this. I WANTED the experience of her crying and me coming to the rescue. I WANTED the experience of fighting with her over the bottle. I WANTED her to know that you can always count on Dad, no matter what. I am superdad, pleased to meet you.
If we didn’t do this, how would she believe that I am better than everyone else. How could she give a character reference for me if I ever needed it. “My dad was a pretty good guy, but my Aunts, now there’s good people.” I couldn’t have that, nope. So I told everyone that for the first two weeks I didn’t want anyone at the house that much. I stated that I wanted the grandmothers to show but only between certain hours and that my wife and I would be caring for our daughter and bonding as a family.
I.
Am.
An.
Idiot.
I am nothing short than the dumbest father that has ever graced this Earth.
For those that heard that speech so many months ago, please feel free to ridicule me in the comments. I deserve every bit of shit that I get for making those dumb ass, knee jerk statements. I ask for your forgiveness, I ask for you understanding, and I ask for your mercy.
I never liked when parents would tell me “It’s so hard”, “It’s so hard.” It sounded like complaining to me and the Hossman Family does not suffer complainers very well. Look, you asked for this, now you have it, suck it up. That was my thought process.
And in the truth of it, now that I have some experience, is that raising a child is not to difficult overall. Sure, we had some of our bad times but on the whole it’s been peaches and cream. She gives high fives, listens to Metalica with me, watch’s Star Trek with me, it’s greatness. In fact, there is no one else that I know other than my brother and father that will watch Star Trek with me. So I’m loving fatherhood.
But with that said, that first month sucks massive balls. All I can say is that I didn’t know. All the books, which you should immediately throw away, down played those first two weeks. They talked about bonding and how you will enjoy your new bundle of joy.
So let me tell you, I didn’t enjoy my bundle of joy at all that first month. I couldn’t sleep more than 2 hours at a time. When I was 18 I did this all the time, I was out with the ladies. At 31, not so much. Breastfeeding was causing major headaches, I was to tired to cook so I ate everything raw. My wife had the baby blues, had stitches and then had to have gallbladder surgery thereafter. Superdad was forced into the impossible situation and I have no problem now saying that I was overwhelmed and regret everything I told everyone, ever. Come on, even Superman had the Justice League.
Luckily, my mother and mother in law ignored me completely, like they tend to do, and came over anyway to offer help. I am forever in their debt because they didn’t even give me shit for the whole “bonding” thing. That first month isn’t roses and you gently holding your baby. That first month is you sleeping in a rocking chair, robe open because you are to tired to put on underwear or tie it, drool coming down your chin and a kid that will only sleep if she is sucking on your pinky finger. That’s fatherhood, that’s the creation of superdad.
Look, you will have time to bond with the kiddo over the next year. She’ll run to you before anyone else. She’ll pull on your pants leg until you pick her up. She’ll snuggle in your lap as Klingons overtake the Enterprise. So those times will be there. And even with help, who do you think is getting their ass up at 3:00am to do the feeding? You are chump because even the hired help requires their time off. You get nothing, no time.
But after that first month, and what we call the 60 diaper change, things got much, much better. We took Little Hoss to the emergency room the second week at home because I thought she wasn’t peeing. No one told me that girls pee and it seeps all to the back and not to the front like I expected. Fucking books.
But things did get easier and the bonding thing happened without even trying. Now that we have kid number two on the way, I am much more experienced. I know what I am doing and I know what to expect. And like always, I have a plan.
1. A week before the birth I am going junk food shopping. Chips, little Debbies, anything microwavable. I’m going to buy 300 bucks of this stuff because I know that between eat and sleep, I’m taking sleep every time.
2. I hereby invite everyone I know over. I don’t care when you come over. You don’t have to call. Just come, please god, just come over. I need some socialization and if you happen to keep an eye on Little Hoss while I sleep on the princess Barbie couch, I would very much appreciate it.
3. I am officially, in this post, asking both my mother and mother in law to move in with me. Mother in law, will you please be there the first week and Mom, will you please be there the second week. I would love for both of you to come at the same time but I am trying to prolong the help as long as possible.
4. My brother in laws—I am asking, no I am begging—please come over and cook a meal for my family. I know that you both like to cook so whatever you would like to feed me, I will pay you for it. I’m not a proud man, I will eat whatever vegetable you come up with as long as it’s hot. I don’t care what it is, so get as fancy as you want. I will eat each meal like it is steak and will probably cry that you cared enough to come over at all.
5. I am buying a mini-fridge for the upstairs and also bringing up the bottle warmer. Why? Because we will probably have a C-section which means my wife will have stitches. That means that she can’t go up and down the stairs that we have which means it’s my ass getting up every time for water or a bottle. Last time Hossmom popped a stitch. We are not having any of that this time. Hossmom, stay your ass upstairs!
That’s it, that’s the superplan for superdad. Once again I am confident that this will go off without a hitch as Junior comes into this world. I have been humbled but I have learned from my mistakes. That is the true sign of greatness. October 8 is go day, let’s get ready.
And Little Hoss—you are in charge of looking cute. That and answering the phone.
There are times when I am successful that one of my pitfalls decides to rear its ugly head. Sometimes, and completely on accident, I assure you, I tend to get over confident. The word cocky could almost be used to describe my attitude at times. I get to the point where I feel that I know what the hell I’m doing and if you don’t, well, then you are not as great as me.
This can be both a good and bad thing. I’m not afraid of a challenge but also I would not be as open to criticism as a good well rounded person should.
So I am taking this opportunity on this special post to correct that mistake before I go any further. I am going to eat a little crow, humble myself, and perhaps go to the bathroom for an hour. But first, let’s deflate the ego a little bit.
When Little Hoss was born my wife and I had taken every class that you could imagine. I was CPR certified, I knew how to change a diaper, give baths and went to every Lamaze class that was offered. I was the Chuck Noris of child birth and baby care, hi-ya.
I could do it all. Black poop, I’m on that. Burping, give me the kid, I’ll get it out of her. I read every book that there was out there. Not only did I read the dad books, which I found very disappointing as far as the how to portion, but I also read the “What to expect when you are expecting.” I was ready, I was genius and this genius would pass down to my daughter.
One of my biggest fears was that I wouldn’t be able to bond with my daughter. That because she had been with her mother for those 10 months that I would be a side character, the guy in the red shirt that never has a last name. I was afraid that there would be so many people around us in the first 2 weeks that they would snatch my child out of my arms and tell me that I didn’t know what I was doing, go have a fruit cup and relax.
I didn’t want this. I WANTED the experience of her crying and me coming to the rescue. I WANTED the experience of fighting with her over the bottle. I WANTED her to know that you can always count on Dad, no matter what. I am superdad, pleased to meet you.
If we didn’t do this, how would she believe that I am better than everyone else. How could she give a character reference for me if I ever needed it. “My dad was a pretty good guy, but my Aunts, now there’s good people.” I couldn’t have that, nope. So I told everyone that for the first two weeks I didn’t want anyone at the house that much. I stated that I wanted the grandmothers to show but only between certain hours and that my wife and I would be caring for our daughter and bonding as a family.
I.
Am.
An.
Idiot.
I am nothing short than the dumbest father that has ever graced this Earth.
For those that heard that speech so many months ago, please feel free to ridicule me in the comments. I deserve every bit of shit that I get for making those dumb ass, knee jerk statements. I ask for your forgiveness, I ask for you understanding, and I ask for your mercy.
I never liked when parents would tell me “It’s so hard”, “It’s so hard.” It sounded like complaining to me and the Hossman Family does not suffer complainers very well. Look, you asked for this, now you have it, suck it up. That was my thought process.
And in the truth of it, now that I have some experience, is that raising a child is not to difficult overall. Sure, we had some of our bad times but on the whole it’s been peaches and cream. She gives high fives, listens to Metalica with me, watch’s Star Trek with me, it’s greatness. In fact, there is no one else that I know other than my brother and father that will watch Star Trek with me. So I’m loving fatherhood.
But with that said, that first month sucks massive balls. All I can say is that I didn’t know. All the books, which you should immediately throw away, down played those first two weeks. They talked about bonding and how you will enjoy your new bundle of joy.
So let me tell you, I didn’t enjoy my bundle of joy at all that first month. I couldn’t sleep more than 2 hours at a time. When I was 18 I did this all the time, I was out with the ladies. At 31, not so much. Breastfeeding was causing major headaches, I was to tired to cook so I ate everything raw. My wife had the baby blues, had stitches and then had to have gallbladder surgery thereafter. Superdad was forced into the impossible situation and I have no problem now saying that I was overwhelmed and regret everything I told everyone, ever. Come on, even Superman had the Justice League.
Luckily, my mother and mother in law ignored me completely, like they tend to do, and came over anyway to offer help. I am forever in their debt because they didn’t even give me shit for the whole “bonding” thing. That first month isn’t roses and you gently holding your baby. That first month is you sleeping in a rocking chair, robe open because you are to tired to put on underwear or tie it, drool coming down your chin and a kid that will only sleep if she is sucking on your pinky finger. That’s fatherhood, that’s the creation of superdad.
Look, you will have time to bond with the kiddo over the next year. She’ll run to you before anyone else. She’ll pull on your pants leg until you pick her up. She’ll snuggle in your lap as Klingons overtake the Enterprise. So those times will be there. And even with help, who do you think is getting their ass up at 3:00am to do the feeding? You are chump because even the hired help requires their time off. You get nothing, no time.
But after that first month, and what we call the 60 diaper change, things got much, much better. We took Little Hoss to the emergency room the second week at home because I thought she wasn’t peeing. No one told me that girls pee and it seeps all to the back and not to the front like I expected. Fucking books.
But things did get easier and the bonding thing happened without even trying. Now that we have kid number two on the way, I am much more experienced. I know what I am doing and I know what to expect. And like always, I have a plan.
1. A week before the birth I am going junk food shopping. Chips, little Debbies, anything microwavable. I’m going to buy 300 bucks of this stuff because I know that between eat and sleep, I’m taking sleep every time.
2. I hereby invite everyone I know over. I don’t care when you come over. You don’t have to call. Just come, please god, just come over. I need some socialization and if you happen to keep an eye on Little Hoss while I sleep on the princess Barbie couch, I would very much appreciate it.
3. I am officially, in this post, asking both my mother and mother in law to move in with me. Mother in law, will you please be there the first week and Mom, will you please be there the second week. I would love for both of you to come at the same time but I am trying to prolong the help as long as possible.
4. My brother in laws—I am asking, no I am begging—please come over and cook a meal for my family. I know that you both like to cook so whatever you would like to feed me, I will pay you for it. I’m not a proud man, I will eat whatever vegetable you come up with as long as it’s hot. I don’t care what it is, so get as fancy as you want. I will eat each meal like it is steak and will probably cry that you cared enough to come over at all.
5. I am buying a mini-fridge for the upstairs and also bringing up the bottle warmer. Why? Because we will probably have a C-section which means my wife will have stitches. That means that she can’t go up and down the stairs that we have which means it’s my ass getting up every time for water or a bottle. Last time Hossmom popped a stitch. We are not having any of that this time. Hossmom, stay your ass upstairs!
That’s it, that’s the superplan for superdad. Once again I am confident that this will go off without a hitch as Junior comes into this world. I have been humbled but I have learned from my mistakes. That is the true sign of greatness. October 8 is go day, let’s get ready.
And Little Hoss—you are in charge of looking cute. That and answering the phone.
6/12/07
Going, Going, Gone
Last night a very disturbing comment was made to me. It was insulting and it hurt. I don’t know why I had become the target of such hatred and discrimination, but I suppose that to wonder such things will leave a man with no answers.
If you read this blog and I have the opportunity that I get to meet you, the chances are the only thing I will want to talk about is if you enjoyed the blog. I will wait on pins and needles as I devour every word you say regarding this blog. Did you like it, was it funny, did it make you cry, oh please tell me oh please tell me. It defines me as a person, please don’t destroy my very fragile ego.
I’ll try to be very low key about it, maybe even faint like I don’t care. But sweet Picard I do care, I care so very much about what you think about me. If you did not like a blog I will later retreat to my room to play with my care bears until the vision of you bad mouthing me to your friends leaves my tortured mind. Eventually I will come to the point that I realize that you are obviously jealous of me and I will no longer want to talk to you.
This is what happened last night. A couple of friends, at least what I thought were friends, informed me that they had a chuckle at my expense and my blog. They asked the question does Hossman really buy into all the things that he writes about the women loving him, especially when he was younger? Does he really believe that when he was younger in Highschool he could have had the pick of the clicks? They thought I did. They think I have bought into that version of myself, that I have bought into myself.
The first thing that I think is that they have seen the inner core of myself and must be the judgment demons. The next thing I think is that they must not know how fragile my ego is. One poor comment on this blog and I swear I will shut this thing down like the New York Health department as I move into a cabin in Montana and forever swear off technology.
But after several hours with my carebears, especially Lion Heart, I come to the only conclusion that makes sense: They were making fun of me for being bald. I know, it’s horrible making fun of someone’s drawbacks, but there it is. You see, both of these people knew me back in high school, when I had hair. And now it has gone and I suppose their respect has gone with it.
I took it to mean how could women possibly find me attractive with no hair. They both have hair so as they brushed their luscious full manes it was even worse. Why? Why hate me because I am bald. Women like bald men don’t they? It doesn’t seem that I am compensating for a lack of hair by trying be funny does it? Is that how I try to get people past the fact that in the sunlight I have face away from the sun so that my forehead shine doesn’t blind people?
Yes, in high school and even younger, I had great hair. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss it. You would never know this meeting me because on the outside I seem to be uncommonly comfortable with the fact that I am bald. But on the inside a piece of me longs for what was once full and held the promise of forever. I will joke about it but each joke is said with an inner tear.
I will cut the hair that I have left so short that you might not even realize how bald I really am. I will bash on products like Rogaine and Hair Plugs. But when I’m alone, on the internet, I am secretly hoping that these products are not the pipe dreams that they seem to be. I hope beyond hope that they actually do work but I am not an idiot enough to believe that they do. My hope has been crushed so many times that there is none left. I made the decision a long time ago to go bald gracefully. To accept it and embrace it because there was no other choice. I have been the jolly fat bald guy who cracks jokes about it to hide my inner shame. Yes, shame. I have told excuses like men who are bald have more testosterone thus making me more manly than you and your afro of locks. I have been overly macho in certain situations like picking up something heavy to show that not having hair does not make me a sissy.
But that is only a façade, a lie I tell the world as inside I weep for the loss of good friends. I have had to change my life to deal with this. I can no longer go to Vegas or Blockbuster video. I can’t because they have mirror’s on the ceilings. You won’t notice this if you are not bald. I grew a goatee hoping that some of that hair would migrate up top. I have secretly prayed that the baldness stops, please don’t let me lose anymore.
I was the first of all my friends to go bald. I started to lose my hair when I was about 16. That’s when I first noticed it. People would comment on how far back my hair line was and I would joke that all my family was like that. They weren’t, not at 16. By 18 it was getting to the point where I couldn’t ignore it. By 20 my college friends were making fun of the large forehead that comes with going bald. By 24 it was a lost cause, there was nothing to do to stop it.
And it was great hair. I have used the term Brad Pitt hair, because it was. In Jr. High I used to spike it and the girls loved to touch it. I used to put a gallon of hair spray on it so that the spikes could puncture a gas tank. That was the first thing that all the girls noticed about me. It was in the 1980’s and I was very much the trend setter.
In high school I didn’t pay much attention to it, but again that was because of the style at the time. It was full grunge mode then and so my beautiful hair would sit uncombed on my head. It just took an hour to get that way. I would be to embarrassed to buy conditioner or good shampoo because it wasn’t very manly so I would use my sisters. She had some of the greatest stuff that smelled like avacado’s and mint. I would massage my scalp and caress it, beautiful beautiful hair.
At 16 it started to go. I noticed it before anyone else and I noticed that my hair was receding. It was retreating from the forehead like the French under a blitzkrieg. I made the decision then that I would shave most of it off and go what is called “High and Tight”. This is basically a buzz cut. I hoped that by ignoring the problem that it would go away. Well, the hair did go away, goodbye my dear friend.
For years I used the term “going bald” but we all know that is just a cover for actually being bald. Yes, I am bald. I have given up “going bald” as a lie that I could no longer support telling. I went bald from front to back, so I suppose things could have been worse. And luckily, if you can call it that, I have an amazingly round head. Seriously, this thing looks like an over-sized grape, almost perfectly round. So I suppose that is something to be happy about, almost like you are happy that they only took half your pay check in taxes.
I have had to adjust my life because of my secret shame of baldness. I have to put sunscreen on my head in the sun because if I don’t it will sunburn and trust me, nothing hurts worse than a sunburned bald head. But I have to do this in private because it is embarrassing. I avoid ceiling mirrors and looking at security cameras that are placed high. I always stand close to my daughter so that her beauty will overshadow my drive in movie screen forehead.
Yes, my friends, it has been rough. And maybe I do buy into the talk about little highschoolers loving me once when I had hair. But when you lose something close to you, don’t you always remember it more fondly than it actually was? Don’t you forget the bad parts, like when they left your head and instead set up shop on your back? Am I wrong for still believing this part of me?
Do me a favor today—hug a bald man. Go up to him and let him know that “Hey man, you are attractive, I would defiantly have sex with you.” Even if you wouldn’t, just say it to make him feel better. When you are in front of the mirror next time and brushing your wonderful, wonderful hair—let it know how you feel. Don’t hold back because it might not be there tomorrow.
So have I bought into that old image of myself? You bet your sweet ass I have. I will be at the Ballpark in Arlington today, so if you want to hug a gorgeous man who is going bald, come on by.
If you read this blog and I have the opportunity that I get to meet you, the chances are the only thing I will want to talk about is if you enjoyed the blog. I will wait on pins and needles as I devour every word you say regarding this blog. Did you like it, was it funny, did it make you cry, oh please tell me oh please tell me. It defines me as a person, please don’t destroy my very fragile ego.
I’ll try to be very low key about it, maybe even faint like I don’t care. But sweet Picard I do care, I care so very much about what you think about me. If you did not like a blog I will later retreat to my room to play with my care bears until the vision of you bad mouthing me to your friends leaves my tortured mind. Eventually I will come to the point that I realize that you are obviously jealous of me and I will no longer want to talk to you.
This is what happened last night. A couple of friends, at least what I thought were friends, informed me that they had a chuckle at my expense and my blog. They asked the question does Hossman really buy into all the things that he writes about the women loving him, especially when he was younger? Does he really believe that when he was younger in Highschool he could have had the pick of the clicks? They thought I did. They think I have bought into that version of myself, that I have bought into myself.
The first thing that I think is that they have seen the inner core of myself and must be the judgment demons. The next thing I think is that they must not know how fragile my ego is. One poor comment on this blog and I swear I will shut this thing down like the New York Health department as I move into a cabin in Montana and forever swear off technology.
But after several hours with my carebears, especially Lion Heart, I come to the only conclusion that makes sense: They were making fun of me for being bald. I know, it’s horrible making fun of someone’s drawbacks, but there it is. You see, both of these people knew me back in high school, when I had hair. And now it has gone and I suppose their respect has gone with it.
I took it to mean how could women possibly find me attractive with no hair. They both have hair so as they brushed their luscious full manes it was even worse. Why? Why hate me because I am bald. Women like bald men don’t they? It doesn’t seem that I am compensating for a lack of hair by trying be funny does it? Is that how I try to get people past the fact that in the sunlight I have face away from the sun so that my forehead shine doesn’t blind people?
Yes, in high school and even younger, I had great hair. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss it. You would never know this meeting me because on the outside I seem to be uncommonly comfortable with the fact that I am bald. But on the inside a piece of me longs for what was once full and held the promise of forever. I will joke about it but each joke is said with an inner tear.
I will cut the hair that I have left so short that you might not even realize how bald I really am. I will bash on products like Rogaine and Hair Plugs. But when I’m alone, on the internet, I am secretly hoping that these products are not the pipe dreams that they seem to be. I hope beyond hope that they actually do work but I am not an idiot enough to believe that they do. My hope has been crushed so many times that there is none left. I made the decision a long time ago to go bald gracefully. To accept it and embrace it because there was no other choice. I have been the jolly fat bald guy who cracks jokes about it to hide my inner shame. Yes, shame. I have told excuses like men who are bald have more testosterone thus making me more manly than you and your afro of locks. I have been overly macho in certain situations like picking up something heavy to show that not having hair does not make me a sissy.
But that is only a façade, a lie I tell the world as inside I weep for the loss of good friends. I have had to change my life to deal with this. I can no longer go to Vegas or Blockbuster video. I can’t because they have mirror’s on the ceilings. You won’t notice this if you are not bald. I grew a goatee hoping that some of that hair would migrate up top. I have secretly prayed that the baldness stops, please don’t let me lose anymore.
I was the first of all my friends to go bald. I started to lose my hair when I was about 16. That’s when I first noticed it. People would comment on how far back my hair line was and I would joke that all my family was like that. They weren’t, not at 16. By 18 it was getting to the point where I couldn’t ignore it. By 20 my college friends were making fun of the large forehead that comes with going bald. By 24 it was a lost cause, there was nothing to do to stop it.
And it was great hair. I have used the term Brad Pitt hair, because it was. In Jr. High I used to spike it and the girls loved to touch it. I used to put a gallon of hair spray on it so that the spikes could puncture a gas tank. That was the first thing that all the girls noticed about me. It was in the 1980’s and I was very much the trend setter.
In high school I didn’t pay much attention to it, but again that was because of the style at the time. It was full grunge mode then and so my beautiful hair would sit uncombed on my head. It just took an hour to get that way. I would be to embarrassed to buy conditioner or good shampoo because it wasn’t very manly so I would use my sisters. She had some of the greatest stuff that smelled like avacado’s and mint. I would massage my scalp and caress it, beautiful beautiful hair.
At 16 it started to go. I noticed it before anyone else and I noticed that my hair was receding. It was retreating from the forehead like the French under a blitzkrieg. I made the decision then that I would shave most of it off and go what is called “High and Tight”. This is basically a buzz cut. I hoped that by ignoring the problem that it would go away. Well, the hair did go away, goodbye my dear friend.
For years I used the term “going bald” but we all know that is just a cover for actually being bald. Yes, I am bald. I have given up “going bald” as a lie that I could no longer support telling. I went bald from front to back, so I suppose things could have been worse. And luckily, if you can call it that, I have an amazingly round head. Seriously, this thing looks like an over-sized grape, almost perfectly round. So I suppose that is something to be happy about, almost like you are happy that they only took half your pay check in taxes.
I have had to adjust my life because of my secret shame of baldness. I have to put sunscreen on my head in the sun because if I don’t it will sunburn and trust me, nothing hurts worse than a sunburned bald head. But I have to do this in private because it is embarrassing. I avoid ceiling mirrors and looking at security cameras that are placed high. I always stand close to my daughter so that her beauty will overshadow my drive in movie screen forehead.
Yes, my friends, it has been rough. And maybe I do buy into the talk about little highschoolers loving me once when I had hair. But when you lose something close to you, don’t you always remember it more fondly than it actually was? Don’t you forget the bad parts, like when they left your head and instead set up shop on your back? Am I wrong for still believing this part of me?
Do me a favor today—hug a bald man. Go up to him and let him know that “Hey man, you are attractive, I would defiantly have sex with you.” Even if you wouldn’t, just say it to make him feel better. When you are in front of the mirror next time and brushing your wonderful, wonderful hair—let it know how you feel. Don’t hold back because it might not be there tomorrow.
So have I bought into that old image of myself? You bet your sweet ass I have. I will be at the Ballpark in Arlington today, so if you want to hug a gorgeous man who is going bald, come on by.
6/11/07
The Zoo
I wear a very wide brim hat, something that just screams Suburban Safari. It’s even got the cool little strings that I can tie down under my chin should I wish to do so. My shirt is a T-shirt today but only because my trusty Hawaiian weekend superdad shirt could not be found. Made out of the finest polyester, it has a distinctive shine to it that makes the ladies knees weak. My shorts are cargo shorts with about 50 different pockets. I have to wear my belt extra tight so my pants don’t sag as those pockets are currently filled with a camera, batteries, some cheerios, a juice box, Little Hoss’s sunglass, a wallet and baby wipes. My shoes—straight fat feet sandals, no socks. I put on the sunglasses, oh yeah baby, can you get enough of this?
That’s how I roll when we go to the zoo.
Superdad had the opportunity to take the family to the zoo this past weekend and I was very excited. I have this vision of our little family. This vision involves doing all the things that I did when I was a kid. At least the things that my wife will let me do. I doubt she will let my daughter ride a scooter on a dirt road with the brother on the handle bars, no helmets, helmets are for sissies.
But the vacation dreams are there. I can’t wait until our first cross country road trip. I can’t wait to pull over the car and tell them that if they don’t behave we are so going to turn around. I can’t wait until we get to go to the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, The world’s biggest ball of Twine. That is my dream and I can’t wait to make it happen.
But as Little Hoss is only 16 months old, we cant’ do that yet. But we can do the trip to the zoos and this gives superdad a chance to shine. This gives me a chance to put on my super costume.
With the costume comes the diaper bag, which I must say is in no way girlie. It’s as commando as I could find. If someone asks, I call it my demolition bag like I am some sort of Navy Seals Demolition Expert. I just use it for poops. Around the other shoulder comes the video camera, which the essential batman utility belt item that all superdads must carry.
And Little Hoss, where is she? Why, where else would she be but riding high on my shoulders. We are marching to destiny, father and daughter, and we will conquer all who lay in our path. Silly ticket man, my daughter doesn’t need no stinking ticket! She is less than two, she gets in free. Now take your scanner to those who are less worthy!
In my superdad costume I look like nothing short than a pack mule. I know this but I don’t care. I know that I have two primary responsibilities on my daughters first trip to the zoo: 1. Point out what is the huntee and what is the hunter. 2. Carry everything that my daughter and wife put on my back. If I had humps I would be a camel, just without the long tongue and my hump is on the front.
Uncle Bricksalesman decides to put it another way as he sees me gleefully prancing with my daughter on my back.
“I have never met a man more comfortable with the fact that he no longer has to impress anyone or ever date again.”
You got that right, bub. I no longer have to wear tight pants showing my awesome package or shirts that make my arms look huge while at the same time hiding my gut. I don’t have to go to clubs and use a dark mascara pencil to color in some fake hair. I no longer have hide the fat feet.
And talking to that pretty girl now? No problem. Because I am actually not after a damn thing. Whether she likes me or not is totally irreverent. I don’t care. If she thinks I am cute or not no longer matters because inside my own head I think they always find me cute. But I don’t stick around long enough to actually ask them. There is no longer any nervousness to ask them out and the probable rejection that ensues. I just assume that if I was single, they would be all over this Adonis.
It’s all because of my wife. My wife is greatness. I know that I write her in these blogs as the antagonist, maybe the challenge that I have to overcome. But hey, every story needs a hurdle and so she becomes mine. She babies me. I know it and love it. When I’m sick, she makes me soup. She makes me go to the doctor. I haven’t bought a stitch of clothing for myself if 12 years. I just say “Honey, I need pants.” The next day, like magic, I have pants. I have no idea where the money comes from, I think that she may be dealing coke on the side. But the point is, as long as she’s happy, I’m good to go.
Nothing makes my wife happier than seeing me in full on Superdad Mode. So let’s go to the zoo.
First we see the Rhino. I point out to my daughter that this thing isn’t much fatter than out dog. She disagrees, but what does she know. She dismounts me and jumps on the ground. She runs straight to the gate to get a better look. I then realize that these cages are more to keep the animals in and less to keep the people out.
We’ve all heard of the story of the dumbass that jumps in the cage with the lions and gets mauled. No one feels sorry for this guy, he got what he deserved. But should my daughter decide to make a bolt for it and land in their with the 2 ton Rhino, well, that might make me look bad. Could I take down a Rhino if need be? I mean, would he be intimidated by my superdad costume? Would he immediately lay on his side and let me pet his belly? I am sure that is what my daughter thinks as this is the only experience that she has had with animals, in the form of the Fat Belly Newt, our dog.
So I pick her back up and she protests, but superdad is all powerful. I also decide that at this moment, I could take a Rhino down. I would go for his knees. That’s 4 years of football playing for you, hit a knee when the opponent is bigger. I’m sure he would fold like a sack of potatoes. It’s my Safari Hat, it makes me to cool to be harmed.
Next we head to the petting zoo part, which I must say, confuses me. This confuses me that people pay to pet a goat or chase a chicken. This is because I grew up with these things so let me let you know some things. First, chickens are fucking mean. There it is, they are mean little bastards that will peck the crap out of you. Of course at the time I discovered this I was holding a hatchet and it was my job to cut some heads off so we could eat them. But they are mean.
And pigs, come on man, who wants to pet a pig. Hands down, the stinkest creatures on this earth. We had about 5 pigs when I was a kid. Yes, they are good for riding, but they are filthy. So who wants to pet them.
Everyone apparently, including my daughter. But with her short stubby arms she can’t reach. We hossmen are built low to the ground, not much on wingspan. So I hoist her up so she can get some good touching time in. There is a part of me that reverts to my old redneck ways and considers maybe making some sausage with Mr. Big here. We went to the Zoo with the District Attorney in my town, that friendship has got to be good for something. I haven’t asked her to get me out of a DWI or a indecent exposure yet. So I figure I’ve got atleast one good favor to ask, say perhaps, to look the other way while I get my hatchet back out.
Just as I am thinking this I notice another Mom looking at me in my full superdad gear. Yep, I can see it her eyes. Do women want that club going full haired guy? Nope, they want superdad that can commit and takes his daughter to the zoo.
I don’t have to ask, I know what she is thinking.
That’s how I roll when we go to the zoo.
Superdad had the opportunity to take the family to the zoo this past weekend and I was very excited. I have this vision of our little family. This vision involves doing all the things that I did when I was a kid. At least the things that my wife will let me do. I doubt she will let my daughter ride a scooter on a dirt road with the brother on the handle bars, no helmets, helmets are for sissies.
But the vacation dreams are there. I can’t wait until our first cross country road trip. I can’t wait to pull over the car and tell them that if they don’t behave we are so going to turn around. I can’t wait until we get to go to the Grand Canyon, Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, The world’s biggest ball of Twine. That is my dream and I can’t wait to make it happen.
But as Little Hoss is only 16 months old, we cant’ do that yet. But we can do the trip to the zoos and this gives superdad a chance to shine. This gives me a chance to put on my super costume.
With the costume comes the diaper bag, which I must say is in no way girlie. It’s as commando as I could find. If someone asks, I call it my demolition bag like I am some sort of Navy Seals Demolition Expert. I just use it for poops. Around the other shoulder comes the video camera, which the essential batman utility belt item that all superdads must carry.
And Little Hoss, where is she? Why, where else would she be but riding high on my shoulders. We are marching to destiny, father and daughter, and we will conquer all who lay in our path. Silly ticket man, my daughter doesn’t need no stinking ticket! She is less than two, she gets in free. Now take your scanner to those who are less worthy!
In my superdad costume I look like nothing short than a pack mule. I know this but I don’t care. I know that I have two primary responsibilities on my daughters first trip to the zoo: 1. Point out what is the huntee and what is the hunter. 2. Carry everything that my daughter and wife put on my back. If I had humps I would be a camel, just without the long tongue and my hump is on the front.
Uncle Bricksalesman decides to put it another way as he sees me gleefully prancing with my daughter on my back.
“I have never met a man more comfortable with the fact that he no longer has to impress anyone or ever date again.”
You got that right, bub. I no longer have to wear tight pants showing my awesome package or shirts that make my arms look huge while at the same time hiding my gut. I don’t have to go to clubs and use a dark mascara pencil to color in some fake hair. I no longer have hide the fat feet.
And talking to that pretty girl now? No problem. Because I am actually not after a damn thing. Whether she likes me or not is totally irreverent. I don’t care. If she thinks I am cute or not no longer matters because inside my own head I think they always find me cute. But I don’t stick around long enough to actually ask them. There is no longer any nervousness to ask them out and the probable rejection that ensues. I just assume that if I was single, they would be all over this Adonis.
It’s all because of my wife. My wife is greatness. I know that I write her in these blogs as the antagonist, maybe the challenge that I have to overcome. But hey, every story needs a hurdle and so she becomes mine. She babies me. I know it and love it. When I’m sick, she makes me soup. She makes me go to the doctor. I haven’t bought a stitch of clothing for myself if 12 years. I just say “Honey, I need pants.” The next day, like magic, I have pants. I have no idea where the money comes from, I think that she may be dealing coke on the side. But the point is, as long as she’s happy, I’m good to go.
Nothing makes my wife happier than seeing me in full on Superdad Mode. So let’s go to the zoo.
First we see the Rhino. I point out to my daughter that this thing isn’t much fatter than out dog. She disagrees, but what does she know. She dismounts me and jumps on the ground. She runs straight to the gate to get a better look. I then realize that these cages are more to keep the animals in and less to keep the people out.
We’ve all heard of the story of the dumbass that jumps in the cage with the lions and gets mauled. No one feels sorry for this guy, he got what he deserved. But should my daughter decide to make a bolt for it and land in their with the 2 ton Rhino, well, that might make me look bad. Could I take down a Rhino if need be? I mean, would he be intimidated by my superdad costume? Would he immediately lay on his side and let me pet his belly? I am sure that is what my daughter thinks as this is the only experience that she has had with animals, in the form of the Fat Belly Newt, our dog.
So I pick her back up and she protests, but superdad is all powerful. I also decide that at this moment, I could take a Rhino down. I would go for his knees. That’s 4 years of football playing for you, hit a knee when the opponent is bigger. I’m sure he would fold like a sack of potatoes. It’s my Safari Hat, it makes me to cool to be harmed.
Next we head to the petting zoo part, which I must say, confuses me. This confuses me that people pay to pet a goat or chase a chicken. This is because I grew up with these things so let me let you know some things. First, chickens are fucking mean. There it is, they are mean little bastards that will peck the crap out of you. Of course at the time I discovered this I was holding a hatchet and it was my job to cut some heads off so we could eat them. But they are mean.
And pigs, come on man, who wants to pet a pig. Hands down, the stinkest creatures on this earth. We had about 5 pigs when I was a kid. Yes, they are good for riding, but they are filthy. So who wants to pet them.
Everyone apparently, including my daughter. But with her short stubby arms she can’t reach. We hossmen are built low to the ground, not much on wingspan. So I hoist her up so she can get some good touching time in. There is a part of me that reverts to my old redneck ways and considers maybe making some sausage with Mr. Big here. We went to the Zoo with the District Attorney in my town, that friendship has got to be good for something. I haven’t asked her to get me out of a DWI or a indecent exposure yet. So I figure I’ve got atleast one good favor to ask, say perhaps, to look the other way while I get my hatchet back out.
Just as I am thinking this I notice another Mom looking at me in my full superdad gear. Yep, I can see it her eyes. Do women want that club going full haired guy? Nope, they want superdad that can commit and takes his daughter to the zoo.
I don’t have to ask, I know what she is thinking.
Xbox Diaries--I am a Sneaky Bastard
My base was being overrun. The alien horde was coming from all directions. As commander of my slowly defeated armada, my back was against the wall. My digital troops were looking at me as RAW 33 knocked each defensive position out. The society of little army men that I had trained would soon come to an end. God help us all.
In the online gaming world I am an old bastard. But I have found that there are many old bastards out there. However, we tend to get schooled by one of two types of major game players in the Xbox world.
The first type is the 15 year old who is to young to drive. As such, he is at home a great deal. He is able to practice constantly while eating hot pockets yet gaining no weight. He still has all his hair, he doesn’t have to worry about his prostate and on Sat. mornings he is able to watch cartoons without interruption.
The second type is the 19 year old college player. He has even more free time than the 15 year old. Think about it. He doesn’t usually have to go to class until after 10 am. He gets done no later than 2. He is the dorm dweller, having no job and no responsibility. He has no mother so he can stay up until 3 am every night practicing his Hossman Annilation skills. He is usually high.
I on the other hand, have responsibilities. I have an 8 to 5 job. I have a daughter that doesn’t go to bed until 7:30. I have a wife that is pregnant and requires a lot of backrubs. I have 2 dogs that require licking time. It is amazing that I find anytime at all to practice my skills.
But this is not the main advantage that the younger players have over us, the over 30 crowd.
Reflexes. They have been tuned for years. They have grown up in the 24 hours news cycle. They have assimilated information based on 5 second sound bites. They have grown up in a world strictly tailored to train them to whip my ass on online gaming.
For these kids, they have known nothing else but the internet. They have no idea what a dial up modem is. They have no idea that there used to be no internet. They have had email addresses for the same amount of time that they have had their SSN cards. They would not know what a “green screen” computer is.
For these young bastions of our future, pac-man was never a life changing expierence. Galaga was never ground breaking, and Q-bert was never a graphics breakthrough. They have no idea that there was something called a Sega or an Atari 2600. They have no idea that mall arcades used to cost just 25 cents. And they have no idea of how great I used to be.
They have grown up in a world with no respect for tradition. They have grown up in a world with no respect for experience. These young bastards have had the gaming world thrown at their feet and have no sense of history. They have taken it and made it their own.
And maybe this is how it should be. That us old gamers are pushed aside to make room for the quicker ones, the younger ones that have the drive and the time to conquer all. Yes, I have been pushed aside by technology. I let life happen and take me away from gaming. I have let things like family and responsibility take precedence while they have let digital escapades rule all. I have been ignored and discarded. I am yesterday, they are tomorrow. And they are entitled. But………………..
Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men. Whose gonna do it? You, Raw 33? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That my digital base’s death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves digital lives.
You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me in that game, you need me in that game. We use words like honor, code and loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punch line. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a kid that who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very virtual reality freedom that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.
I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a controller and stand a post. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to.
Thank you Jack, let’s give them some truth.
Here is the truth. That while your reflexes and cocky nature has served you well, you lack the experience to determine the beast you are up against. Life experience son, you should pay heed.
So while you are faster than me and can take in more information quicker than me. I can understand it on a level that will take you many years to get to. I am smarter than you, little one. Your very nature refuses to let you accept this possibility. But whether you accept it or not, it is true. It is gospel and you should prepare yourself for the hellfire I’m about to bring down in the digital universe. And as you learn this lesson my son, remember this: The man that knows how will always have a job, but the man that knows Why will always be his boss.
And so you are bringing your armada to my virtual base. All your forces are committed into ridding the online world of someone like me, over 30 but hanging on to my youth like an addict to a needle. The game looks won, you prepare to smack talk—in which way are you going to insult my mother.
But, my friend, you have tunnel vision. You have not seen the bigger picture. For example, you have not noticed that you should probably look to your digital east. If you had, you would have seen the true force I have assembled and not the few token tanks I have left for you to destroy in my base.
And you have not noticed that within that very force, there are some different digital characters there. You see, while you were on your way to attack me, you did not realize that I, the Hossman, have made a truce with another player in the game. We have combined forces just outside of your visual range. As you went south, we assembled in the east with a force strong enough to make it to Berlin by Christmas.
And finally, my young fool, You have neglected your north. Your base is weak to the north. How do I know? Because unlike you, who charge with nothing but brute force, I have done recon. I have sent spies into your base. Oh yes, my young fool, I know ever weakness that you have. And to the north I have sent an armada of engineers that will very soon take over your base that is now unprotected.
As you attack my empty decoy base, you will think that this is to easy. You will not understand why you are getting no resistance. That understanding will dawn on you as soon as you hear the words “Your building’s have been captured.” And “Our base is under attack”. Then you will have understanding dawn on you like a money shot. But it will be to late. Because the instant you realize what is happening, and all your forces begin to turn from my base, I will blow it up myself. Your force will be destroyed and you will have no choice but to look on while I plunder your own base.
I will be safely hidden in my other base, yes, I took the time to build two. My deathstar will be fully operational while your friends on the planet Endor walk into a trap.
Welcome to the dark side, bitch.
In the online gaming world I am an old bastard. But I have found that there are many old bastards out there. However, we tend to get schooled by one of two types of major game players in the Xbox world.
The first type is the 15 year old who is to young to drive. As such, he is at home a great deal. He is able to practice constantly while eating hot pockets yet gaining no weight. He still has all his hair, he doesn’t have to worry about his prostate and on Sat. mornings he is able to watch cartoons without interruption.
The second type is the 19 year old college player. He has even more free time than the 15 year old. Think about it. He doesn’t usually have to go to class until after 10 am. He gets done no later than 2. He is the dorm dweller, having no job and no responsibility. He has no mother so he can stay up until 3 am every night practicing his Hossman Annilation skills. He is usually high.
I on the other hand, have responsibilities. I have an 8 to 5 job. I have a daughter that doesn’t go to bed until 7:30. I have a wife that is pregnant and requires a lot of backrubs. I have 2 dogs that require licking time. It is amazing that I find anytime at all to practice my skills.
But this is not the main advantage that the younger players have over us, the over 30 crowd.
Reflexes. They have been tuned for years. They have grown up in the 24 hours news cycle. They have assimilated information based on 5 second sound bites. They have grown up in a world strictly tailored to train them to whip my ass on online gaming.
For these kids, they have known nothing else but the internet. They have no idea what a dial up modem is. They have no idea that there used to be no internet. They have had email addresses for the same amount of time that they have had their SSN cards. They would not know what a “green screen” computer is.
For these young bastions of our future, pac-man was never a life changing expierence. Galaga was never ground breaking, and Q-bert was never a graphics breakthrough. They have no idea that there was something called a Sega or an Atari 2600. They have no idea that mall arcades used to cost just 25 cents. And they have no idea of how great I used to be.
They have grown up in a world with no respect for tradition. They have grown up in a world with no respect for experience. These young bastards have had the gaming world thrown at their feet and have no sense of history. They have taken it and made it their own.
And maybe this is how it should be. That us old gamers are pushed aside to make room for the quicker ones, the younger ones that have the drive and the time to conquer all. Yes, I have been pushed aside by technology. I let life happen and take me away from gaming. I have let things like family and responsibility take precedence while they have let digital escapades rule all. I have been ignored and discarded. I am yesterday, they are tomorrow. And they are entitled. But………………..
Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men. Whose gonna do it? You, Raw 33? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That my digital base’s death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves digital lives.
You don’t want the truth because deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me in that game, you need me in that game. We use words like honor, code and loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punch line. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a kid that who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very virtual reality freedom that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it.
I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a controller and stand a post. Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to.
Thank you Jack, let’s give them some truth.
Here is the truth. That while your reflexes and cocky nature has served you well, you lack the experience to determine the beast you are up against. Life experience son, you should pay heed.
So while you are faster than me and can take in more information quicker than me. I can understand it on a level that will take you many years to get to. I am smarter than you, little one. Your very nature refuses to let you accept this possibility. But whether you accept it or not, it is true. It is gospel and you should prepare yourself for the hellfire I’m about to bring down in the digital universe. And as you learn this lesson my son, remember this: The man that knows how will always have a job, but the man that knows Why will always be his boss.
And so you are bringing your armada to my virtual base. All your forces are committed into ridding the online world of someone like me, over 30 but hanging on to my youth like an addict to a needle. The game looks won, you prepare to smack talk—in which way are you going to insult my mother.
But, my friend, you have tunnel vision. You have not seen the bigger picture. For example, you have not noticed that you should probably look to your digital east. If you had, you would have seen the true force I have assembled and not the few token tanks I have left for you to destroy in my base.
And you have not noticed that within that very force, there are some different digital characters there. You see, while you were on your way to attack me, you did not realize that I, the Hossman, have made a truce with another player in the game. We have combined forces just outside of your visual range. As you went south, we assembled in the east with a force strong enough to make it to Berlin by Christmas.
And finally, my young fool, You have neglected your north. Your base is weak to the north. How do I know? Because unlike you, who charge with nothing but brute force, I have done recon. I have sent spies into your base. Oh yes, my young fool, I know ever weakness that you have. And to the north I have sent an armada of engineers that will very soon take over your base that is now unprotected.
As you attack my empty decoy base, you will think that this is to easy. You will not understand why you are getting no resistance. That understanding will dawn on you as soon as you hear the words “Your building’s have been captured.” And “Our base is under attack”. Then you will have understanding dawn on you like a money shot. But it will be to late. Because the instant you realize what is happening, and all your forces begin to turn from my base, I will blow it up myself. Your force will be destroyed and you will have no choice but to look on while I plunder your own base.
I will be safely hidden in my other base, yes, I took the time to build two. My deathstar will be fully operational while your friends on the planet Endor walk into a trap.
Welcome to the dark side, bitch.
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