The Amazon

People running away from dinosaurs know that they can go to my backyard flower bed and climb up one of my prehistoric weeds to find safety. Once there they can sit with the resident palentologist, Dr. Grant, and safely discuss chaos theroy while they gently feed a brontosaurous the rest of the massive weeds in my flower beds.

I use the term Flower Beds very losely here. If I was being more descriptive, I would say that they are in all actuallity a desolate stretch of lost hopes and dreams. Where once promising ferns and hollys came in hope of a better life only to find the local native weeds were not in the mood to share thier land. The Jamestown that settled in my backyard Flower Beds are lost for ever, over taken by the wild and harsh nature that is my poor gardening skills.

But I never claimed to having a green thumb or the ability to grow anything at all. It stems from thier intense dislike of my poor fung-shui skills and from my fact that anything that is grown cannot taste as good as anything that is born. I am sure I am PETA's favorite blogger.

So to be honest with you, I am not sure what I was thinking when I built my flower bed 18 months ago. In my mind, which can be quite like a three ring flea circus, I envisioned my family on our back porch. We were having dinner in a serene flower environment while my daughter quielty quoted Shakespear. I would explain to her that yes honey, true love is worth everything. Shall we start the Great Gatsby or do Palendromes? They are so cute when they are geniuses.

But that was not to be as I suck. I suck big donkey balls. I am not bothered by this fact. What I am bothered by is the massive amount of weeds that are currently in my Flower Beds of dispair, turning my dream of a little Doogie Houser into a nightmare of Rita the trailer living tornado victim. Don't mind the Mumu folks, it's the only thing that will fit.

I knew that this had gone on far enough, it was finally time to weed myself. I had had my beds weeded once before. At the time, I paid someone else to do it. Don't judge my laziness, judge my problem solving ability. It was worth it when I brought in professionals to make it look like it was supposed to.

But I cannot do this again, mainly because I am ashamed that I have not done any upkeep since shelling out the cash to do it the first time. Currently my flower bed is nothing short than a rain forest where you will need a couple of porters with machette's to hack you way through to the actual intended plant that is there. That, and my mother in law was coming into town and I know that she would lay some quiet judgement down on me.

She tries to be very subtle with it at least, so that's appreciated. Yes, I get it, I am a bad home owner and should sell off any assets I have right now and move in with you because that is the only way that I can survive. She'll say things like "I'll help you weed." which I know is a lie. She won't really help me weed, she'll just help for ten minutes the go find something to do with my wife. While they are gone, I will be sweating my ass off wondering where all my help went. I live for the day that my kids are old enough to do this shit so I won't have to. I have no guilt about this. My dad had me mowing at 5 years old, true story. I finally understand why.

So I dove into the flower beds of death this weekend to finally get that perfect backyard that my daughter could play in. I had 2 garbage bags, one glove for the right hand and my Ipod. I could have used a pill for denage fevor but the drug store was fresh out.

It was as craptacular as I thought it would be. First I had to decide where in the hell to start. When the entire area looks like a nuclear blast site, where do you go? The middle, that's where. I figured that was where my best chance of finding lost Inca Gold might be. And I was not completly alone, I did have at least 3 helpers. My boxer, Kahn and his good friend, the Fat Belly Newt. I appreciated thier efforts. They would try to eat a few weeds but then decided to pee on them instead. This would mean that later I would have to root around in thier urine, it's good being superdad. So they got locked inside the house.

My last helper was Charlie the Super Fly. I have never seen a fly like this and I admit, I wanted nothing short of his destruction. He would gently hop from my shoulder, to my nose, to my other shoulder and then on my ear. Every time I would swat at him, he would just move 2 inches and continue to plague me. By the end of it, I wanted to dunk my head in a bucket full of raid just to teach him a lesson.

I had also decided that I would not try and save any flowers that may have been planted and overgrown. Collateral damage, it hurts but it was necessary. My wife asked me if I was able to save any of them. I grunted No but offered no explanation. I do this my way baby.

So I bent down, plumbers crack in full view, cranked my Ipod to some White Zombie and started my expedition. Soon I had almost a small area where I could sit without Java the Jungle Weed poking me in the face. I was lucky in the fact that atleast most of the 3 foot high weeds were easy to pull although I think I took out most of the dirt in the actual bed itself as it was attached to the roots. Fuck it, as long as it is done.

Halfway through a bug flew down my ass, via the plumber's crack. I screamed like a girl.

But I pressed on, after dropping trow in my backyard and running around a little bit. I made my belt extra tight, learn from your mistakes kids. Then I noticed the just over abundance of bugs here. I realized that I may have mistakenly come across the annual backyard bug convention that is held here and they were not please that we were open for renoventions.

I swear to you, I couldn't even identify half of what those fuckers where. 8 legs, 10 legs, flying, not flying, albino--it was a whole society that I was rooting up. But screw it, I am Gozer the Gozerian, destroyer of worlds and I pressed on. I found a lost pygmy tribe that sent arrows and spears my way but luckily I had a guy in an airplane on the river and was able to escape.

With all these bugs I did the only thing that I know how to do as the male and protector of my family. 1. I didn't tell my wife about them because she would absolutely freak out and make us move and 2. I killed them all. Or atleast as my one gloved hand could find. Eventually I got tired of bringing death and destruction and went back to just weeding again.

Most bugs don't really creep me out which is why I suppose that Hossmom keeps me around. However, I got the distinct impression that what I really was doing here is digging around in bug shit. That creeped me out. Ok, look, I am already chief poop coordinator around here, do we really have to add bug crap to the list?

3 hours I was out there. 3 hours of sweating and grumbling. My Ipod ran out of juice. The back porch was littered with the remains of my war, weed bodies every where. I could finally see the bottom of my flower bed. I stank and I stank bad. There was no way I was getting smooches after this. I was finished weeding, with the exception of two places.

One corner of the bed housed an ant colony the size of Nebraska. I stumbled upon it with my sandels. Being the univited guest, I was quickly shown the door. And by a tree I found an unkown spider. I tried to kill it but by this time my one glove had lost most of it's fingers in a series of weeding mishaps. Good men, there memory will live on. So I decided not to tempt fate and get bit by the Black Widow, because I assume that any spider that I don't recognize is a black widow.

I finally did clean up with my friend Charlie the Superfly. I filled 4, 30 gallon trash sacks full of weeds. Do the math, that is a 120 Gallons of weeds. My gardening skills know no bounds.

My daughter now has a place to play outside, provided that she makes friends with the black widow. I will gather all the Chaucer and Shakespear in the house and begin living the dream. We will start by quoting the preamble of the Decleration of Independence and having an opening ceremony.

All the bugs of the backyard will attend.

The Baseball Glove

I bought a new baseball glove. I did it because everyone should have a baseball glove.

I have not had that many over the years and there is a reason for this. A kids 1st baseball glove is his first and forever love. Everyone boy can remember what glove they had as a kid.

I can tell you about my first two. My first one was made out of that cheap plastic leather. I am sure that there is a plastic cow carcus out there, rotting in some industrial field. Or perhaps he went to the plastic cow factory and was made into plastic sporks. Good ole Bessy, giving it all till the end.

It was a good glove but soon fell apart after I started playing real baseball.

My next glove was a sweetass catchers mit. It was very stiff but I worked it until it was almost perfect. My grandfather Oscar gave it to me. I got it for Christmas one year and that was pretty much it. My baseball career, short as it may have been, was fortold by one Christmas present. Through little league, all star teams and finally High School, I was a catcher. How could I be anything else, have you seen my glove??

I like to think it was because I had real skill behind the plate. I like to think that it was because I had a rocket arm and didn't mind getting thumped in the chest with a fastball, I was a tough one. I like to think that it was a skilled choice and not the fact that I was big fat goalie back behind the plate.

However, looking back, I didn't have a rocket arm and the skill that I had was not crying when the ball thumped me in the nuts. Thank you Jesus for cups, hands down the best invention ever.

For years I had that glove, even when my hand became to big to use it. And as Oscar showed me, I would religiously oil it and rub the leather so that it would never crack. On a few occasions I would use shaving cream if I had run out of oil. This was Oscar's little secret. I swear to you, this man knew more stuff about stuff than anyone I had ever known.

He knows exactly what AC and DC stands for as it relates to electricity, not the rock band. He knows the actual chemical compesition of WD-40. He knows how logs float down the river to the paper mill and he knows how to actually make paper out of them. And he knows the importance of a good baseball glove to a young boy.

He also knew that the baseball glove transcended it's orignal purpose, like it's almost a religous relic, choosing it's owner instead of the other way around. For years I carried that glove around.

I used it when ever it seemed appropriate, although never knowing when that would be until the actual moment. I used it in our epic battles with wasp nests growing up in southern Arkansas. Those were some beasty times and I like to think I got through it because of my glove.

You see, there is a skill to fighting wasps. If you have never done it, you might want to print this blog out and keep it with you at all times, just in case. Constant vigilence!

You need several things. You need someone on standby with the water hose. A constant stream of water wets down their wings and makes them a little slower. You need someone with a broom. The wide head of the broom allows for some good swatting. You need someone with a board, but not to wide. This is for when you finally get the wasp on the ground and need to smush it. You can't use your shoes because, being southern Arkansas, we were not wearing any. And finally, you need your trusty baseball glove close by like your Excalibur. When a wasp breaks through all those defenses, it's the glove that is the last resort. I used the one my Grandfather gave me often.

But this is not the only use for a baseball glove. Watch a baseball game and see if you can actually pick out all the different things that people use their gloves for. It's more versitile than duct tape on a broken down prostitute.

I carry mine to work with me. Mainly because when I want to talk and be very shadowy about it, I can calmly bring my glove up to my mouth and talk to the person through the laces. This prevents any noisy mouth readers out there.

I also learned as I got older that you can use your trusty baseball glove to carry mulitple beers and nachos to your stadium row seating which happens to be up close to where Heaven must be. The people all look like ants, ants that want my baseball glove.

And a good baseball glove is versitile. Need a pillow while you sleep off that hangover at some friends rat ass apartment, whip out the glove and you are good to go. Ever go to that friends house and were afraid to sit on the couch because it might contain the crabs that he surely has? Whip out the glove and you have a comfortable arrangement.

In short, a man should never be without his baseball glove. My grandfather knew this which is why he must have bought me one so early and showed me how to care for it. I have had more lessons about glove care with my Grandpa than I have had about rebuilding engines, and I am just fine with that. I do still have that glove, it's at my moms house

My grandfathers glove doesn't fit anymore and in fact hasn't for a very long time. But I replaced it years ago and keep my current glove in my car, always ready in case of emergencies. I like my current glove, it makes me feel sporty and protected when I wear it. I don't know if it is because one of my first gloves was given with such love and devotion, but when I wear my current glove it just seems like things are ok.

I have my own glove and didn't need the one that I just bought. It is currently sitting on my counter with a brand new baseball next to it. I have not oiled it and I have not put shaving cream in it. I have not put the ball in the middle and tied a string around it. I have not put it under my bed and dreamed of the glory that I will attain with it. For you see, those are not my responsibilities with this new glove.

I will not do any of those things with this new glove because the glove is not for me. Today my wife and I had a sonogram. We finally learned, after 8 months, that I am going to have a son.

This glove is for him and I wish him all the greatness with it that I had with mine. He will be named after my Grandfather, Oscar.


Mount Hossdad

She is at the base of Mount Hossdad. She looks up and knows that it will be a treacherous climb. She can see the wind’s shift as they breeze across the massively bald forehead. Mount Hossdad, it must be climbed because it is there.

She sits at the feet of the bulging mass, a piece of grass curling between her lips. She is in deep thought trying to plan her summit. Little Hoss stares up, you must respect the mountain she thinks.

Base camp has been quiet lately, almost routine. There have been assorted deliveries by Clarence the Cat. A dead bird here, a random animal body part there,--the crazy bastard. But he has brought nothing that could be of use to her climb. Newt and Kahn, the two dogs that run the camp, have been a little help, keeping her morale up. She likes to play lick my face and eat my dinner when she has a chance. It’s been a helpful distraction to what she must do.

She has attempted to talk to the quota filling loner at the mountain camp. Whorelly, the fat old cat that has nothing for anyone except a scratch to the ankles. But she had to try, didn’t she? That old fat lady has climbed Mount Hossdad more than any other and knows the tricks and tips. There is even a rumor that she lost an eye on that summit. But then again, don’t we a lose something up there? When you are alone and it’s only you and your wits, something gets left behind. Like Hossdad’s hair, it’s just gone.

Whorelly wasn’t much help, didn’t even let Little Hoss pet her. Of course, Little Hoss knows that she doesn’t so much as pet as she bangs instead. Motor control, still her biggest foe, is tough to come by. It’s not bad on a 60 pound wuss dog like Kahn, but it doesn’t appear to be Whorelly’s cup of tea. But before Whorelly ran off to whatever depths or closets she hides in, she did scream one piece of advice. Always go for the crotch. Little Hoss doesn’t know what that means, but she remembers it anyway. Every bit helps.

She has trained for this her whole life. 18 months of intense cardio and weight training. She has lifted the Barbie Bar Bells so many times that she is in peak condition. The altitude training was accomplished the week before as she scaled the dresser in her room. An easy climb once you figure out that the drawers become stairs once they are pulled out. It was a good work out until her mentor, Hossmom, put a stop to it. “It’s to dangerous!” she yelled “Don’t do it!” Hossmom had screamed. But Hossmom couldn’t understand the need, the intense desire that had risen in her.

She could remember that she had wanted to climb up Mount Hossdad the first time she saw it there. Mount Hossdad, over the generations, had molded and become one with what was known as the Power Chair. This is an old chair where all family decisions are made. It took Mount Hossdads weight and still had plenty of cushion. It would allow him to make his Godfather like decisions with a stoic wisdom. But that was long ago that anyone took this seriously. Covering the top of Mount Hossdad was the top of the kitchen bar and her ultimate destination. The treasures rumored to be there were astounding and only the most daring could achieve victory.
She checked the weather. It called for wistful sleep with a chance of snoring. The time to go was now, she didn’t know when she would have the chance again. She said a tearful goodbye to Newt and Kahn who gently licked her hair. Silly dogs, their ways are so foreign to her but she has come to embrace their monk like wisdom. Even Crazy Clarence showed up with a piece of string. It was time to go, onward toward glory and riches.

She prepared herself by adding extra sticky syrup to her hands curtsey of the popsicle that Hossmom had given to her. Hossmom might not agree with her, but at least she always came through. She consulted her Sherpa, Mr. Frog. They would start with a straight leg ascent, stopping at midwaist and the shallow cliff that protruded there. They would make camp before making the final ascent to the summit. God speed.

Footing on the leg was tough but she was able make a couple of good holds. She grunted with each supreme effort that it took for her to pull upward. She kept reminding herself that she had to push with the legs and not pull with her arms. That was a climbers worst mistake and one that would tire you out easily. At the knee she almost lost her grip and had to use her teeth to bite down on the denim jean landscape. She caught hold and once again willed herself up. The altitude was already affecting her and she lost some of her lunch. It landed with a sickingly “plop” on Mount Hossdads shoe. Grapes are not a good meal before a treacherous climb. But the sugar from the Otter Pop had given her that extra edge to push forward, and she did.

Little Hoss and Mr. Frog made it safely to the lap ledge that they were aiming for. They decided to make camp for awhile as their strength returned. They passed the time by talking gibberish and reading a copy of “My Grandmother is a Hippie”. Her favorite book that had seen her through so many tough times. It would be used again to take her mind off the perils of this journey. She ate a Doritos chip that she had brought with her. Supplies were running low.

But the light was growing dim and she knew that she couldn’t stay here forever. Mr. Frog and Little Hoss again started up, planting a foot on the gut that lay before them. Suddenly, there was a shift and the landscape moved under their feet. It’s a worst case scenario, dear god help us all. Mr. Frog lost his footing and she saw him tumble down the side of Mount Hossdad. “NONONONONONONONphttttt” she screamed as she saw him careen off the side of the knee. She knew that was a fatal wound.

She cried for her lost comrade, but crying would not save her. She then remembered what old Whorelly had said to her. Always go for the crotch. Like Thor the Thunder God she slammed down her size 2 foot straight for the crotch. She was not thinking, she was acting only on pure instinct. She pointed her toe and hoped for the best.

She made solid contact with Mount Hossdad’s Crotch and she heard a massive grunt, followed by an eerie echo coming off the mountain top. “God Dammit, God Dammit, God Dammit” she heard repeated faintly over and over again. But it had worked. Her downward momentum had been stopped and she stood solid. Good Bye Mr. Frog, I’ll see you in the afterlife.

She reached up and gripped an earlike protrusion coming off the side of Mount Hossdad. Her sticky fingers acted like a vice as she used it to pull herself up. The wind was mighty here, but she pressed on. Her foot found a solid hold at an elbow, which then allowed her to put a knee on a shoulder.

Then she stood. She was almost there, so close. There was a strange light coming off the top of the kitchen bar. The light of success, she did not know, but she aimed to find out.

With her other foot she planted on the nose of Mount Hossdad and took another stride to the top. She reached her monkey like hands up and found the edge of the kitchen bar. “Pull!” Little Hoss thought to herself “Pull Damn you!”

And then she pulled.

The sight couldn’t be put into mere words. The exhilaration she felt cannot be written. She could feel the sun shining on her face which was covered in victory grin. The quiet at the summit was deafening. She was overwhelmed. Good friends lost, good times remembered.

And there, at the summit of the kitchen bar, was everything that she hoped for. A spoon lay to the right, a used remote control battery next to it. The treasure was astounding, the legends where true. A picture frame lay before her with some random family in it’s view. The baby looked might cute she thought. The hoard was enormous, the view spectacular. How could she not climb Mount Hossdad? How could she not accept this challenge.

And as the wind swept through her hair, she could hear the sound of glory coming from below.

“Please get your ass off my face” she heard and she smiled.


The Un-Invite

I have been un-invited to my own baby shower.


No, no, you read that right. I was invited to a baby shower for me, then I was told that they had changed their mind, that the baby shower would not be for my new kiddo that is due in two months. Instead, I have been invited to the very same baby shower, it’s just now for someone else.

Ok, in a nutshell, here is what happened. I work with a bunch of women, who by the way, have now decided hate men. In my head I now picture them as a bunch of divorced skanks that no wonder their husbands left them. But back to the story.

I work with a bunch of women. One of whom is also pregnant and is due the same week that my wife is. Around the office they organized a baby shower for the both of us. They were going to do it at the same time. Think of it as a coalition of baby showers. I was told about this, I naturally protested that I didn’t want a baby shower, but they insisted so I said ok.

Then, yesterday, I was told in very low voices that sorry, the higher ups here decided that they didn’t want this baby shower to be for me at all, only the other girl in my office. But they then said that I should come with the rest of the office. And how could I not bring a gift?

So just so I get this straight, I was invited to my own shower, then dis-invited, then invited to the very same room, the very same time, to the very same baby shower. Ok, I just wanted to make sure that was clear in my head.

When my coworkers here told me they wanted to give me a baby shower, the first thing that went through my head was “Oh, Crap—Do we have to?” I didn’t want a baby shower. I do not enjoy baby showers. In fact, I don’t enjoy any showers at all unless they involve my wife glistening in a steam bath. That I can get into, the rest of them, not so much.

Because as a guy, you feel creepy and very out of place. I would rather be a hundred different places than at a baby shower. I really don’t care about the cutsie little gifts and how everyone gets so excited about matching sheets and curtains. And it always made feel so uncomfortable when every new gift was opened and the first words spoken were “That’s so cute, ahhh.” Jesus that bugs me so very much. I know a puppy is cute. I know that my daughter is cute. I have no idea if that new burp cloth is cute. I know that it is functional, I know that it will clean up the new kids food rejects, but cute? Come on, that’s taking it a little far.

So I didn’t want this baby shower in the first place but I gave in because some of the girls at the office were adamant and all about baby. I am so not all about baby. I am about teaching my kids how to rock out, how to growl at Klingons and how to give high fives when the touchdown is made. Those are the essentials of life, not a bumper for a crib.

When I was un-invited to the shower, I actually felt pretty good about it at first. But then the next day came and it started to annoy me a little. What the hell was this? How can you un-invite someone, then invite them to the same event, just making it clear that it is no longer for you?

Seriously, I don’t get women. I don’t understand them at all. I make no claims that I understand them. But when they get clickish and bitchy, I am totally at a loss.

What kind of Rock of Love crapola is this? Why am I now annoyed for something that I didn’t want in the first place?

I’ll tell you why, and please stop reading if you cussing and foul language offends you.

It pisses me off now because I have been excluded like some 4 year not picked for kickball. I have been informed that gee Hossman, your kid is nice and all, but we like other kids better. You are a Dad, therefore you do not matter, so please bugger off.

That is what has been grating on me and it makes me a little more mad every day. I have a bunch of high school minded bitchy chicks that are clucking around together and have decided that I don’t belong in the cool crowd. I mean honestly, what kind of shit is this? And then you have the nerve to expect me to come to the shower that is no longer for me? Are you fucking kidding me?


I don’t even know why I care anymore for something I didn’t want in the first place. But now that they have been all shitty about it, fuck yeah I want it. I know what they are thinking, that they don’t want to come to mine and get some gift. Honestly, I won’t even fucking care what you get me or if you get me anything at all. But now it’s turned into this thing that is awkward.

I know women talk a lot about discrimination, about the glass ceiling and how they don’t get paid equal to me. I actually agree with all that and I think it is terrible. But I swear to god, at the moment, I would so rather work for a guy and an office full of guys. Everything is so backdoor with women. Rumor mills, snide comments and the slow destruction of your enemies because they wore the same outfit as you. And if you watch it, who’s fucking over who more? That’s right, a woman will fuck over another woman given enough time. I’m a pretty big believer in that.

If this was a bunch of guys they would say Hossman, we are taking you out for a beer because we know that’s what you really want instead of that frilly gay curtain rod. It would last all of 15 minutes, no awkwardness, just sports talk. That’s what I really want.

So how should I handle this? How should I proceed. Well, I started by delaying the writing for this blog for 24 hours. Mainly because if I didn’t, words like cunt would have been used because it’s the worst thing I can think of. Well, maybe not as bad as whore eating cunt. Or taint licking cunt whore—but you get the idea. So I won’t use those words.

But do I proceed the gracious route, the direct angry guy route or the backdoor jackass route? I know I should be mature, I’m 32 and don’t care right?

Yup, I just can’t. I can’t because I have seen Dads discriminated against all the time. I see women talk about how they want an involved father. But as soon as they see one that is truly into his family and kids, they automatically think pedophile or that we are losers. Seriously, what do you think would happen if I tried to join a mom’s group as a dad? As proof, read the story on this blog: http://kev.homelinux.net/?p=209. It’s written by a stay at home Dad. And I swear to you, women are so judgmental about stay at home dads that it drives me insane. So I am going to make a stand, I’m going the backdoor jackass route.

I’ll go to the other baby shower because I honestly like the girl they are giving it for. I will get a good gift because she is worth it and deserves it. I’ll smile and stay all of 15 minutes.

Then, I’m going to Baby’s R Us to register for my own shower. But I swear to God I’m not going to register for anything less than 50 bucks. That’s right! I’m going to register for 2 cribs, a rocking chair and a whole other load of shit that I have no idea what it is for. I am going to register for 3 different crib sets, some outlandish cashmere burp clothes, something made of gold and to top it all off—a breast pumping machine. Then I’m going to tell them where I am registered at.

At the actual shower, I’ll give a speech about how touching it is that all of you care so much and that so much effort went into this. About the same time, I’ll be getting ready to return all the outlandish shit that I don’t want so I can get the cash for a bottle of Whiskey, which is what I really want.

They’ll see all of this and think: “Who the hell does he think he is?”

I’m Superdad bitches.


Shit Shoe


She can’t undo the seat buckle which she loves to play with. She is a big girl now and wants to buckle in herself, even though she can’t.


She can’t get into the kitchen because the baby gate is up. She likes to go in there because that is where all the cool toys are, like sharp knives and bleech.


She can’t go up past the 3rd stair because her mother gets nervous. Look Mom, she thinks, I can climb these stairs all the live long day. But you won’t let me.


She can’t open the closed door. This is very frustrating to her right now because she gets how it works, but she just can’t make her arm twist that way just yet.


My daughter has a very limited vocabulary. Her current words include Go, Ow, Da, Ma, Ok, Um, Hi and Bye. And now the word Shit. Her first word over 2 letters long and it is a swear word.


Once again I win the award for worst father of the year. I know that it is my potty mouth that has brought this on. I know that I have probably used that word, in almost the same circumstances, about a million times in front of her. I know that it must be me because I have had two different family members tell me to “watch the cussing” when I have been around other small children.

Sure I thought, no problem. I do cuss to much. I am used to sitting around with my wife and friends where the cuss factor is high. The basic price for admission is being able to say at least 2 cuss words back to back without giggiling. But now there are kids around so the language has to be cleaned up.

I thought that there was no way that my daughter would say one of these words because at present, she can’t even say Dog. Hell, more than 90% of the time I ask her to say Daddy, it comes out “Go” . That’s what she calls me. I have no idea why, but that is what my name is. “Hi baby” I say. “Hi Go” she replies.

“No honey, it’s daddy. Say Daddy” I say for what has got to be the 3000th time while I point to my self.

“Go” she again replies.







“Shit” I say and then get back to breakfast.

The creepy thing is, and what makes me feel like a truly bad parent, is that she uses “Shit” in context. She knows that it is a word that you say when you are unhappy or frustrated. This is the change over. Now we are past just random repeats of words, we are using them like we are meant to. For the longest time she would go around the house and say “Mamamamamama” over and over again. Every thing and every one was Mama. She sang it like a little personal theme song to her daily life. But we took this as a good sign that she is beginning to speak.

You see, I have had to stop reading the developmental books. These books contain lists of when your child is supposed to reach certain milestones. They are supposed to stand at this age, they are supposed to walk at this age. They are supposed to have this many words in their vocabulary. Seriously, that can drive you insane as a parent.

Every time my daughter would do something new, I would run back to my list and check off that milestone. I would say, hmmm, she rolled over at 2 months of age. That was 3 months early, she is obviously very gifted and will be a superb athlete.

The she would not roll the other way like the books said she was supposed to. I would sit by her crib at night with the cold sweats mentally urging her to roll over the other way in her sleep. The books and lists say that we are 1 months behind on this. I am ready to call the doctor and have her tested for bird flu because obviously something is very wrong here.

Did someone give her the evil eye? Has there been a curse laid upon my daughter. Because I swear to god that last month she rolled over on her right side and the book clearly states that by now she should be rolling over on her left side now. Who is laying the bad mojo on my precious Little Hoss?

I ran back to the books and read them again. This time though, I found a passage in the first chapter about how all the guidelines are averages. Averages. Piece of crap. I know what this means. It means that with a huge sample, there could be massive time differences on either side of their supposed “milestones.”

The next day I threw the books out. Obviously Little Hoss cannot be merely restricted to someone elses norms. She was beyond the classifications and “averages” of mere mortals. The biggest lesson I learned—she would do what she wanted when she was damn good and ready.

So we have been winging it for the last year or so. She would do something new, I would clap like a trained monkey hoping to get a repeat of the behaviour, and she would develop into the genius that she is now.

Until I started paying attention to more of the words. It seemed to me that she was just still spouting gibberish. Give her enough time and take just parts of the syllables that she says and hey, she practically writing Shakespear. They were all two letter words and then I noticed that she started to get the hang of it a little bit. She would say Hi when she saw us. She would say Ow when she fell. Ok, things are going good, no need to panic, but let’s try something a little more advanced.

I was putting on her shoe and her little monkey pinky toe was not wanting to cooperate.

“Shit” she said, for the first time.

Um, ok. I didn’t hear that right.

I pushed a little harder and it still wasn’t going.

“Shit” she said again. Ok, that time I heard it.

“No baby” I say “Shoe” as I point at her white sandal.

“Shit Shoe” she says and smiles.

Do I become concerned? My daughter with a mouth like a sailer?

Nope, my baby just said her first sentence. And I do believe that is a good 4 months ahead according to the books.


The Tramp Stamp

God love the Tramp Stamp.

God love the women that decide to put that little tattoo on the small of thier backs.

God love the men that can do nothing but hone in on it.

God love the Tramp Stamp.

Maybe its just a cute little butterfly, tee hee. How about a sweet little rose or other assorted flower. What about a Chinese symbol, you cute little devil you.

That was what was going through my mind today as I took my 18 month year old daughter to the pool. The tramp stamp was out in full force my friends. And as I sat there and played with my daughter, she doesn't like the deep end yet, I was mesmerized by the ladies wearing the tramp stamp.

Specifically in this case, the life guard that had one. It was the Christian symbol, the Fish that alot of cars put on the back of their bumpers. Insert your own jokes here. There may be a debate here as well as how Christian it is to put a tattoo on the small of your back supporting the church. I choose to ignore the church because, hold for it, I don't care.

Believe me, the furthest thing from my mind at that time was whether or not this hot little totty was a good Christian woman and was she living in the principle. In my little fantasy, I was actually hoping that she was less Christian, the dirty little minx. Maybe some inner conflict, am I a good girl, am I a bad girl, what must I rebel against. Hmmmmm. At least that is what is always in my fantasy.

My daughter's screams quickly brought me back to reality and off the focus of Ms. Hot Lifegaurd. Crapola, there is nothing like child neglect when it's caused by the other woman. I'm sure all my women readers are out there right now cursing this Hand that Rocks the Cradle Hussy, including my wife.

Back to reality, my daughter had tripped in 2 feet water and was busy thrashing at my feet. Superdad as always was there for the rescue, I was just a little delayed, that's all. Nothing to see here folks, nothing to see. I actually saw the other life guard make a quick movement in his chair before I scooped her. I gave him a sheepish grin and hugged my daughter.

I explained to my wife that our daughter must learn to fend for herself at times. I explained for the 100th time that my dad just threw me in the water when I was 7 and that's how I learned to swim. She wasn't buying it. But deny till you die, that's the only way out.

On this week of chore vacation, my wife and I decided to take Little Hoss to the local pool that is next to the High School. I am very conflicted about this, especially since I have had my own daughter.

It was your normal crowded kid day. The sun was shining and the smell of suntan lotion was in the air. The chlorene smell was so strong it only barely covered the smell of urine and spit in the pool and lazy river.

This is one of the things that I choose not to think about when I'm at the community pool. With a ton of kids, you know that for a fact that there is a good 300 gallons of pee and juicebox that is floating in that water. I did some underwater swimming and the water was very cloudy. I chose to ignore that this may be floating Ebola and instead think it's fairy dust that was trapped by the moisture of the pool. Please, no one comment and make me live in the here and now.

I actually feel better seeing kids with diapers swimming in the pool. At least you know that 1: They are going to pee in the pool no matter what and 2: Maybe the diaper will actually filter some of this, making what I accidently swallow almost like tap water.

That's not to blame the kids that are a little older. They have to pee in the pool. You know this because you sure as hell did. Can you remember your reasoning? Here it is, for all of you that have forgotten your shame. Why get up and go to the bathroom when you can just let fly right here and now? It's easy, just start laughing and pulling away from your friends. Find a corner spot in the pool and let go. Wash your hands when you are done.

Little Hoss is still getting used to the water. She was never one that took to it very easily. As such, she must constantly cling to Superdad like a giant squid sucker. That's more than ok with me as I love playing with my daughter in the pool. She is just a small little peanut and fits perfectly in the crook of my elbow. I gotta tell you, she makes my arms looking farking huge. I know it's conceited and a typical guy thought, but there it is. She brings the best out in the gunshow.

And in the water, you are always her hero. She sees a lot of danger in the water. There are other bigger kids splashing, grown ups walk around aimlessly almost knocking her over, and the ever evil jet of water that always seems to hit her in the face. Who is the first person that she runs to when trouble comes. Superdad, that's who.

I eat it up, can't get enough of it. This may not last forever, but for these short moments I am the hero that she needs. I'm sure that over time she will look to that inked up jackass that plays in the band. She'll think that "Chet" is dreamy and can make everything ok. By default, I must hate Chet with all my being and slowly begin to plot his demise. I will point out that that Chet sure is a good guy, to bad he can't afford to buy you that new car. By the way, did you see the porche in the driveway? Happy Birthday baby, love daddy.

That's right, I am not above buying my daughter's love. I don't care if it is right or wrong. She's my daughter, what else am I supposed to do.

I'm pretty sure I saw Chet heading for my daughter today, splashy splashy little bastard. I had to hip check the kid and give him a quick dunk before he reached my daughter. She will meet him soon enough, no reason not to put that off for a while. Sorry chump, suck water. For the time being I am the bouncer at the velvet rope that is my daughter's life. If your name is not on the list, well, I'm sorry, back of the line please.

Although I was having a great time and, for the most part, paying attention to my daughter, I do miss when I was 16 and at the pool. It's very simple: you can check out every chick and you do not feel like creepy old guy.

If they are developed and you are that age, hey, that's pretty good odds that they are either older or pretty close to your age.

Now, well, I'm sad to say, these little girls, well, I can't even talk about it. Not only am I creepy old guy checking you out, I am creepy old guy talking about "back in my day..."

There was so much skin out there that I don't even know the purpose of wearing a bathing suit. And seriously, when did the normal bikini become so revealing? I mean come on, I have a young daughter here that I'm trying to set a good example for. Please, don't make me into that creepy old guy.

Because for the most part today, I was thinking good lord look at that. That thought was immediatly followed by Dear Jesus how old is she. I can't tell anymore. There is a fine line between 17 and illegal and 18 and legal. And you can't help but look, seriously. What are you supposed to do when that top BARELY covers the headlights??

This is where someone comments that I shouldn't be looking anyway. That I am a very happily married man, an older gentleman that can restrain himself, that those things shouldn't interest me.

Come close, I got some wisdom for you: Ahem, you are never to old and never to refined to stare at some juggies in your field of vision. I don't care who you are. You could put Pamela Anderson infront of the Pope and I gaurentee you he will at least think, at least once, Jesus Joseph and Mary, look at those knockers. WE CAN'T HELP IT. So go give someone else advice.

But seriouisly how old are these girls? When can you just keep on staring with a shit eating grin on your face and when do you look away while you plan your next corporal punishment.

Ladies and Gentlmen, please welcome the Tramp Stamp. State law says that you have got to be at least 18 to get a tattoo. That means you are legal. That means that if by some random chance your top comes off and you turn around to see an older, balding gentlemen who is very unashamed looking directly at you, well, that would be this guy. What has two thumbs and is giggling like a 10 year old boy? This guy.

I'm on a mission to make all of this change by the time my daughter starts to come of age. Instead of looking away, nope, I'm getting out my sketch pad. If you want to flaunt it, well, let's imortilize it. Don't call me dirty old guy, don't look disgusted, I'm just very interested in the previews that you are showing tonight. I parent by community shame, the only way to go. The Amish are on to something here.

The end hope being that by the time my daughter starts to become intersted in boys, everyone will be back in full length body suits that are as baggy as a garbage sack.

Otherwise, hey Chet, remember me, Yup, you will be getting another hip check and a dunking. Love Superdad, shiteater. I haven't even met you and yet, I hate you so very very much.



If you are stranded in the desert, you should pee on your boxer shorts and tie them to your head. If the times are desperate enough, you can also drink your own pee.

If you are cooking a fish in a make shift oven on a pacific island, the meat is done when you see the fish eyeball pops out.

Speaking of eyeballs--sheeps eyeballs are edible.

And to survive any remote location where you are stranded, all you need, above all, is a stick. Trust me.

I know all of this because of my new mancrush, Bear Grylls. He is my new leader. I will follow wherever my general leads.

Bear Grylls is a british dude, which disturbs me because my heros have always been Americans. John Wayne, Lee Marvin and Clint Eastwood. I would watch them any time I could find one of thier movies on. I once heard a story of John Wayne where he punched a guy out THROUGH a closed door. Seriously, how Hoss is that?

When I got a little older, my heros morphed somewhat but were basically the same. I still love Eastwood and the Outlaw Josie Wales, but true tales of bravery inspire me. My reading over the last year has been about true stories of escape and survival. One about being stranded in a rowboat in the ocean, one about crossing the Zahara with nothing and one about escaping a Gulag in Siberia. That's pretty hard core stuff.

And then Mr. Grylls came and became my new leader. He hosts a show called Man Vs. Wild for those of you have not seen it. Basically, he strands himself in remote places with nothing but a knife, a water bottle and a flint. I so want a flint now.

He then has to find a way out within 5 days. At first I was skeptical. Who is this British chippie? He says that he used to be in the British SAS. Ok, big deal, nothing that a Delta Force couldn't handle. He ain't so bad, I'm sure he wouldn't last a day in my overgrown backyard. I'm pretty sure there are some pygmy tribes back by the fence and the cure for cancer is currently growing in a mysterious plant by the large pile of dog poo. Let's see him navigate that within 5 days. We've lost some good men back there, I don't like to talk about it.

And then I saw Bear Grylls start eating a leftover carcus of a Zebra that the lions no longer wanted. Ok, that's pretty tough. In another episode, he came upon a dead sheep in some mountain. He was so excited because it had only been dead 3 or 4 days. I wouldn't have touched it and would soon call the maitre D to complain. Excuse me, I believe there is some bacteria death in my sheep sir.

But the episode that gave me the man crush was when he went to Florida Everglades. That was beasty. After I saw him survive this, I had to re-examine who my heros where. I started telling my wife about him. She noticed that my eyes were looking distant and I was doing a little sighing. Then I swooned. She pointed out that I had a Man Crush.

This is a problem. There is no way I can have a man crush. I am a very hetero male. I swear to you. I in no way, shape or form find the male body attractive.

In fact, I don't even find my body attractive. I have no feeling on it what so ever. I look at the male body the same way as I do a couch. Is it functional? I wouldn't want to hump a couch. So by that reasoning, I don't want to hump a man.

I have tried to talk to my wife about this but I don't think she gets it. Show me the most attractive man out there, strip him naked, put him in front of me and I will think the same thing everytime.

Can I kick his ass?

That's one of our inner man secrets. Whenever we men meet another guy, that's the first thought that goes through our minds. If he is bigger than us, then we come up with elaborate plans on how we would be victorious. Do I throw some dirt in his eyes? Perhaps go for the knee in a kung fu/judo move. The fact that we don't know kung fu or judu will totally slip our minds. After all, I have seen every single Chuck Norris movie, how hard can that be. I get a cool look on my face, sneer a little bit, slightly lean to one side and go Hi-Ya and whammo, his knee is shattered and I save the princess. That's how it works.

But I couldn't kick Bear Grylls ass. I know, it's shocking. And for this reason he is my new hero.

First, the name is pretty damn Hoss. Seriously, who wouldn't want to be named Bear. That's like being Max Power, or Max Power Steel, or Max Power Steel Muscles. That shall be my new name. Even though I love my name, it is basically a girls name. I want a name like Bear. From now on, every one should refer to me as Wolf. Or how about Cougar. What about Major Asskicker. That's my personal vote.

And to go out into the truly wild and survive on nothing but what you catch and what you make, that's pretty hoss.

His first lesson seems to always be: Get a stick. It's good for fending off Gators or building a shelter. If it's the right kind of stick, then you might actually make a bow and arrow out of it, complete with the made in China stamp. A stick will allow you to build yourself an elevated platform for sleeping or digging for grubbs. My million dollar idea is to start selling random lengths of sticks, have it sponsered by Bear Grylls and then keep all profits. I know everyone was expecting me to say "give it to charity" but let's be honest. That's the crap answer that is expected.

Think about it, that's what everyone says they are going to do when they come into money through the lottery or a lawsuit.

I would like to thank baby Jesus for allowing me to pick the right powerball number. With my money, I'm going to give it to the fight against Motherless Chimps, they really need our help.


I want to win this lawsuit to teach corporate America that they can't push around the little guy anymore. It's not even about the money, it's about the principle.

Cough, Cough, Bullshit, Cough Cough.

Let's be honest here, you will only say that when the camera is in your face. What you really want to say is that you are going to disown your family, buy an obscene house and have live in strippers and a pole in every bedroom while you blow through 50 million in a matter of 3 years. And the principle? Well, you see, that is still there and I really plan to help out those orphans, right after I sniff this coke off that strippers ass. After that though, yea, it's all about the orphans.

There was a lotto winner here who had 150,000 dollars stolen.

While he was at a strip club.

It was small bills.

You gotta respect that man.

So I guess I do have a Man Crush, but not in a sexual way. That's not saying that if he wanted to slap me around a little I wouldn't allow it. Maybe just for fun, you know, release some stress. I'm sure that while he is spearing man eating fish, hey, that can get very unnerving.

And I'm sure that this would have to be done naked. I mean afterall, the first Greco Roman wrestler's were all naked. That's just the manly way to do it. If the one of the most powerful societies on earth wrestled naked, there is nothing gay about that.

Look, the bottom line is that he has a wife and two kids and I have a wife and two kids. So there you go, no gay stuff. It's just some naked wrestling between two heterosexual guys to prove how manly they are.

So when you find yourself in that impossible situation, it looks pretty bad, maybe your leg is broken and you are stranded in the jungles of the Congo, just ask your self this question: What would Bear do.

He would grab a stick.

And maybe want to wrestle a little bit.


Editor's Note:

Helly everyone, my dear wonderful readers. I am currently on vacation but will be continueing to post, just at odd times.

Unlike most of you, I have not gone any where on my week long vacation. I am one of those people that have taken vacation to catch up on chores around the house. How can I afford to do? you may be asking yourself.

Very simply, and I am not exagerating here, I have roughly 4 months of leave saved up at work. This because I work for the goverment and even though you people don't pay me near enough, the benifits due indeed rock.

Like state holidays for example. I get LBJ's birthday off. Can anyone reading this actually know what date that is? And San Jacito day, yup, I get that off to.

But only if I remembe that day is actually a holiday. I can't tell you how many times I have shown up to find out that in fact today was a holday.

As a result, I get holiday time for it which is time and a half. But not only that, one of the other benifits of my job is that I get 10 hours of vacation and 10 hours of sick off a month. Which after 7 years begins to stock pile.

All of you people out there may be feeling a little jealous at this moment. But if you paid me 85,000 a year I would gladly give up some of my days.

But you don't so I take the days that I have. Which means that this time I have some serious chores to do.

As you can tell from the last post, we have another baby coming. The problem is that we are roughly 7 1/2 months into it and I have yet to do a single thing to get ready for it. I have done nothing. At this moment, the baby is sleeping on the couch.

So I have to build another nursery. Sure, I have one nursery already, my daughter's room who is 18 months old. But I can't take her out of there. I actually built things for her with my own hands, those are hers. Even though my next kid will get tons of hand me downs, I'm determined that he will not have to live with a dolphin shelf that my daughter loves looking at. We'll just borrow her crib while we get her a toddler bed.

My next kiddo gets his own panic superdad effort. And so for the next week I am buidling a nursery and I plan to blog about often. We went to IKEA today, jesus what a beatdown and will become it's own little blog.

Most of my posts will probably be at night and ready for you first thing in the morning.

And if you still don't want to pay me what I'm worth. Just send a nice casorole when the new baby is born and we'll call it even.

Pregnancy Files: Role Playing

Let's assume that I don't know what it is like to be pregnant. Let's assume, just for the sake of arguement, that I don't have any fucking idea what it is like to grow a human being. Let's assume that I have no idea what you are talking about sometimes. I have no idea what you are feeling and I have no idea what it is like to not poop for 3 weeks because of iron pills.

And let us further assume that I don't speak crazy. Let us go on that road and assume again that I have no idea why the hell you are crying. Let's try a little role playing here. I'll be the insensitive husband that takes nothing seriously and you be the pregnant woman that is sure that I understand what it is like to be pregnant.

Are you ready? Ok, here we go.

You go ahead and stomp upstairs. Remeber, you have to speak in undertones so I have no earthly idea what it is that made you upset. Ok, good, we got that part down.

Then come into the bedroom and get undressed. Make sure you sigh then look at me like I am an evil bastard because now you have just realized that you have a big pregnant belly and continue to put on weight. Yes, that's it. That's the look. Ok, keep that up. Let me feel it. Make me understand that it was my uncaring prick that made you pregnant and did this to you. Good, Good! Let's go with that.

Now go over to the night stand and take your 42 pills that you have to take everynight. Do it with a little bit of resentment that I am the same weight and playing a video game like I do everynight. Gulp the water down extra loud, just to see if I notice what your sacrifice is. Meanwhile, I'll continue to get pissed that some 12 year old shoots me in my game and continously saying "Did you see that?!" That glint in your eyes, yes, that's hatred for me.

Ok, now drop your very last pill and spill the rest of your water so that even if you find it, you have to drink water out of the bathroom faucet. Which by the way, is stained with toothpaste that I spit out two days ago and have yet to clean out. Get down on all fours and search for your pills and be even further disgusted that you find it next to a pair of my socks that for some reason I refuse to pick up for the last 12 years. Make sure you are making a big deal of getting back up because you are carrying another life form. "Did you see that" will float across the room.

Now you think "Yeah I fucking see that. I see that I'm here on the ground while your perfectly normal ass is again infront of that god damn idiot machine." But don't say it, only feel it inside.

So get back up and head to the bathroom. Make sure you slam that door so that finally I can think "Man, is something wrong?"

But before you come back out, make sure you stay in there a good 10 minutes or so. That will give me time to realize that hey, something might be wrong with my pregnant wife. I know that it is hard to believe that it has taken me a grand total of 35 minutes to understand that you are not happy. No, it was not your responsibility to tell me. You are busy creating life while I am busing surfing for beaver shots of Lindsey Lohan. Of course I should know your moods by now. Let's just forget about the fact that your hormones are raging and that your moods change depending on what was the last comercial you saw. Don't worry about all that, this is only pretend anyway.

Ok, now come out of the bathroom and try to decide how to get onto the bed. I know, the bed looks higher when you are carring a small mack truck infront of you and you can't decide if you should saddle it like a horse or if you should just do a belly flop. Look at a while longer, my part is almost coming up.

This is where I ask you: "Is there something wrong honey." You say "no" then finally leap on to the bed like you just cleared the pole vault. Then frown and moan some more as you try to balance yourself like a tight rope walker on the corner of the bed. You don't want to go to the middle to much, remember that you have to get up and pee 4 times a night.

I'll ask you again, "Is something wrong?" because by this time, I have used my highly tuned detective skills to deduce that you just lied to me. I now believe that something is wrong, a good hour into this. But I don't put down the game controller yet, I haven't realized the extent of this and I have a good game going on.

You say again "Nothing is wrong" and then just lay there in a very creepy way.

Ok, now I get my chance to really shine. I can feel the bad "I hate you vibes" coming off you. I'm wondering what the hell I did this time, I thought I was pretty good. Did you see me spit out that chewing tobacco that I thought you didn't see because I'm trying to quit? Maybe I didn't flush the toilet, that always sends you over the edge. Or how about perhaps that I have once again "forgot" to change the diaper on the baby and forced you to do it once more? Let's run with that for a while because my mind is completely fucking blank.

And because I have no idea what the hell is wrong and you have not told me, I start to panic. I panic like a kid who has just realized that his 15 year old girlfriend is pregnant and dear god if you make this not true I will never have sex again when we all know that is an empty bargain and he'll just be banging it out again as soon as he knows she ain't. That's the panic I'm going for here.

But during the panic I revert to my old faithful, I begin to joke. This is in the hope that you will remember why you married me in the first place, because I am funny with a cute little ass. You begin to remember that I can spin a story so that the most mundane thing, like shopping with our daughter, turns into an epic Homer Oddessy. I start telling you about today's blog and then I let you in on some secrets. Like what tomorrow's blog is going to be about. Then you remember that I can't spell any better than rat with eyeglasses.

I pick up on this and tell you a story where I was in a spelling bee infront of the whole school when I was 7 and that the word that knocked me out for second place was "June". I tell you that I sounded it out and it sure as hell sounded like a "g" to me so that is what I said. Then I was told to take a seat.

In this role playing, that joke hits you really hard. You start laughing at the absuridity of it all. You can see in your mind's eye a little kid with knee high socks looking shocked that the word June does not begin with a G. Then I tell you that I was in the gifted and talented program in Arkansas, I swear to god I was. That makes you laugh even harder, "fucking Hillbillies" you think.

But then, you say "stop, my belly is hurting because I'm laughing." But I don't and I tell you that I once pooped in my pants, in a full sprint, at camp. I tell you that I was wearing the 1980's crotch tight shorts so the poop snuck out the back. You laugh even harder. Just remember, my character is in full on panic mode, he doesn't know when to stop. He only knows that if his wife is laughing, then all is good.

Ok, now is your big close up moment. Immediatly stop laughing, look straight ahead for a minute, then cry. Let's see if we can get some real tears, try to remember when your dog died. That's good, pour it on!

See that Deer in Headlights at the corner of your eye. That would be me. Because now, now only am I in full on panic, I have no idea what the fuck just happened. One minute I had you rolling, the next you are crying. You know that I can't handle it when you cry. I immediatly what to know who did this to you and give them some Hossman Justice. But there is no one else here but me, so I might have to pummell myself. Which my character would do for you, the love of his life and the mother to his two children.

You cry even harder as you see me start to completly go into full on panic now. I can't deal with this. I finally turn my game off and begin to pepper you with questions like it's jeapordy. What is wrong honey, why are you crying, what happened, what can I do. I am spouting questions so fast that they are only a blur puncuated by your sobs.

That's it, just like that. Now we get to the punch line of the whole moment. This the moment that we get that Oscar baby so let's really commit to the performance.

Look at me straight in the eye and say

"I'm tired of being pregnant."

Then watch for my reaction.

What the fuck. Where the hell has this come from. 2 minutes ago it was the tonight show with Hossman, now it's My Life staring Mr. Micheal Keaton. There's not a dry eye in the house, except for mine because I still don't understand what just happened.

I do everything that I am trained to do. Like a trained flea, welcome to my circus. I jump through every hoop trying to get it back like it was before without ever really understanding what you just said. I rub your feet, I ask if you want some water, I ask if there is anything that I can do.

Then I make you give me a hug because in my family if you just hugged it out, it meant that no one was mad anymore and it was ok. You resent this at first but you like the hugs.

You sniffle a little and then you enjoy the hug, because it does make everything better, even being pregnant and growing an alien.

I'm feeling quite proud of myself now and I ask you:
"Did you see that?"

I am superdad, welcome to my world, no one undertands it.



You may have noticed that this week I have not been writing much. You may think that I am a slacker, a lazy bum that doesn’t even that the decency to entertain you. You are right, I make no excuses for my lack of literary commentary for this week. But I also feel no remorse or shame for this.

It is because I am in a state of mental preparation. I am getting myself ready for a momentous occasion. I am fine tuning the body and the spirit for what it is about to receive. I have only until July 21st to complete my preparations. That is only 9 days away, so my free time has been taken getting ready. I have sacrificed my writing for something much more serious. July 21st and all of our questions will be answered. Are you prepared?

I have been re-reading The Harry Potter books in order to prepare myself for the final book. That’s what I have been doing with all my free time. It’s not that I don’t love all you guys and gals out there that have been reading, I really do. Just not as much as I love Harry Potter. I’m sure you will understand. Harry Potter is that big boobed bimbo that is easy that you knew in high school. How could I not go for her, even though I know it wouldn’t work out. Sure, this fling has been great. I am committed the same as you, but a man has temptations and sometimes he just has to give into them.

Now I’m sure there are many more questions out there. Primarily, how can a 32 year old man be reading a children’s book. To this, I say blow me. But if I go on TV and can’t use profanity, I would say that I am setting a good example to all the children of the world. That by my reading this book I am showing terrorists that Americans embrace free thoughts wherever they may be. I would say that by me reading these books I am breaking down the walls between muggles and the wizarding world from all over.

Your next question maybe how can Hossman be a Trekkie and a Potter freak and still get all the chicks. Sigh. I get this one a lot. Ok, here’s the truth, I don’t get all the chicks. I know, shocking. It’s not that I rank high on the nerd alert scale, I do. But luckily I have a little strength to me to whip some ass. I am a nerd with means, so I do get to set the standard a tad bit. Make fun of Kirk and Dumbledore all you want. I will be laughing right along with you to the hospital for your broken jaw.

The reason that the chicks are not beating down my door is because my #1 chick keeps them away. She does not allow me to have many friends of the female persuasion unless they were her friends first. In college I had exactly 2 friends that were girls. My future wife decided that they were both hot to trot and very quickly instructed me to dump them as friends. As my wife was putting out a the time, it was an easy decision. So these days I talk to my sister, my mother, my wife, and my female cat. That’s about all I’m allowed to do.

I was not a Potter freak before my wife, I was strictly on a low carb Trekkie diet. Watching late at night when everyone else had gone to bed. If someone interrupted me while watching Trek, I would quickly turn on porn and admit to masturbating. It’s sad that porn jerking is less embarrassing that Star Trek watching, but there it is.
No, my wife discovered Harry Potter and forced me to read it. She had to ask a 7 year old what the first book was titled. She got a nasty look and the judgment stare from future pole dancer but she did get the book. She loved it and eventually I conceded to read the stupid children’s book.

I have read each book in the series about 5 times each now. I can’t help it. It’s such a damn good story. It’s addicting, who can stay away. It’s the story of an 11 year old orphan that discovers, yes, this is not his real family and in fact he is indeed special. Come on, who hasn’t had that fantasy? I still think it now.

I am quite sure that one day the queen will pass on and the royal family, disgusted by the paparazzi, will abdicate. A big genology will have to be done for the rightful hier and they will say “Hmm, it looks like this American bloke Hossman is our new king”. I will make Xbox playing a mandatory high school elective. Greatness shall ensue.

So it is my wife that is the big Harry Potter dork and has basically forced this family to be this way. We cannot stand up to her level of bully so we go with the flow.

But I have found that the worlds of Trekkie and Potter merge quite nicely to form a special form of Superdork: Prekkie. We are the select group of people that dig most forms of sci-fi and are just looking for a reason, any reason what so ever, to hold a convention and dress up. We are the kids that when Halloween came, our costumes were over the top. We were the kids that knocked on your door with the pillowcase as a candy bag. And when you said, “My, don’t you look a little old to be doing this kind of thing.” We laughed and nodded along while holding our goodie bag ever closer to your candy dish. Judge us, we don’t care.

And my wife and I don’t care that you will judge us even more for scheduling our vacation to coincide with the release of the last book. Go ahead, make as much fun of us as you want. We won’t care when you judge us for going out at midnight to the Potter get togethers. We won’t care when you give us the side ways looks when we tell you about the Leaky Cauldren.com and how that website kicks major ass.

We won’t care because we will busy saying words like Impeditia, Stupify and Avada Kedavra. We will be busy discussing if Dumbledore is either alive or dead at this point.

And for the record, I will come out publicly on this debate. Dumbledore is alive. I have no doubts. For all you other Potter freaks out there who just know he is dead, I spit on you. You have no faith in Dumbledore. Doesn’t he always ask if you just trust him things will go right?

Doesn’t he say that those that are loyal to me will never find themselves alone. Look, he trusted Snape. So therefore, I trust Snape. Down you nay sayers! Down! If you don’t buy this, then obviously you are not loyal to Dumbledore and therefore you should not be able to read the last book. I have set a hex upon it. Go ahead, be a Death Eater.

And that, my friends, is just a sample of my massive dorkdum. Seriously, it may be the world’s biggest miracle that I am married. It may be even more of a miracle that I have procreated twice. It may be the biggest miracle of them all that my wife actually still loves me.

Or it could be that fancy bit of magic that I call the confundus charm that I put on her.


Xbox Diaries--Perpetual Justice

I stared in shock and horror. I could almost feel the explosion through my TV screen. My controller shock in my hands as I shook with terror. This can’t be happening, this cannot be the way it is. I watched helplessly as I saw a team mate throw a grenade at two of our own people. This was no accident, this was well thought out. This was methodical. It was a team killer and he had just added two more victims to his list.

I play several different games in the Xbox world but I prefer those games where I can play online with a team. It seems to bring more enjoyment for me. I like having the team goal, the commadrie and shared experiences. Even though I can spend a lot of time by myself, I enjoy listening to others while I do. On occasion I might offer my opinion, but for the most part I can be pretty quite.

Unless you are a complete dumb ass. Then I usually have to speak up. If you are majorly stupid, then I might have to say something. I would prefer that someone else says something and will wait for it but sometimes it’s not quick enough. And by the time I am actually irritated to say something, I usually would really just like to punch you as that would probably drive the lesson home a lot faster than a 2 hour conversation. When you are a dumb ass, you get punched. That’s called positive reinforcement kids. It’s positive because I didn’t waste two of my hours trying to convince you that you are stupid.

But my wife will not let me punch people anymore and I haven’t slugged anyone in a good 14 years. I want to, but then my wife gives me that disappointed look. She’ll shake her head side to side, call me barbaric and then guilt me out of it. All of you should worship my wife.

Playing Xbox on line though gives me a different view though. It is an outlet for my sometimes violent tendencies. It is the virtual punch and it feels oh so good.

And that is where we welcome Mr. Team killer. For some reason this guy goes around shooting his own team. I have no idea why but it is the #1 thing that pisses me off during a good game. You are not looking to get shot by your own man.

When I saw Funkit(1) throw that grenade I knew what was happening. After 5 months of game playing on line, I am a veteran. I am seasoned. I am the guy that tells the new replacements to always dear god keep your feet clean. Nothing is worse than trench foot. Then I remind them to tuck in that lower lip before they get it caught on a trip wire.

The grenade sailed through the air. I yelled at my team mates but it was of no use. They didn’t even hear the blast because they were already dead. God speed my comrades, god speed.

There was nothing else for me to do. I want you to understand, I had to take the action that I was forced into. The Hossness in me demanded no less. I take no pride in my actions but I know that it was necessary.

I walked up behind Funkit(1) with my shotgun at the ready. I then gave him a double tap to t he head. He went down with a little breath escaping his digital lips. Then I teabagged him because it was necessary.

There is no due process in this man’s army. Traitors are dealt with harshly and immediately. There is no jury, there are no closing arguments. There is only the sweet abyss of oblivion. And now, Funkit(1), you have been judged and the payment is disconnecting from our game. I could hear him complaining over my headset. I knew that he was going to give me an unfavorable rating for my digital reputation. But I didn’t care, team killers deserve nothing better.

I have taken it upon myself to administer justice online when it is needed. It is not something that I enjoy to do and it is not something that I can delegate to someone else. My Pappy once told me that if you are man enough to sentence a man to the great beyond, you should be man enough to send him that way yourself. Yes Pappy, I will.

And it’s not just team killers that push my buttons (a pun!) the most. No ma’am, there are others that deserve as much justice as them.

I was running down that long preverbal hallway. There was smoke, the acrid smell of hot pockets lingered in the room. Visibility was low but I was on high alert. I shot into the darkness blindly, did I see something? My nerves were getting frayed. To my right, huddling in the corner were two other players. I won’t mention their names. For their infraction, they deserve no names.

As I was looking at these two players I was wondering why they were not moving. They didn’t seem to be doing anything. A buddy of mine had also commented on this. This was my mistake, paying attention to others when I should have been watching the blackness.

Charging straight forward my opponent came on. He had caught me by surprise. I immediately took evasive action. Shots rang out, punches were thrown. Help me! Dear God in Heaven Help Me!

But the two players in the corner did nothing. They watched. Shell Shocked, they stood there and watched my hopeless struggle for online life and more points. They could have raised their pistols and offered one shot. That is all that I needed to escape. But instead, they succumbed to their fears and could not fight. My digital soldier, battle ribbons in place, perished in that nameless tunnel.

I run my army like General Patton. You will fight damn you, by god you will fight. Again I knew what must be done. I respawed (xbox talk for come back to life in the game) and went back to that tunnel. They were still there and they were still cowed by fear. For their crime of letting a comrade down they were sentenced to a rifle grenade to the chest.

But this was not the worst infraction I have ever seen. The team jumper is one of the worst persons out there. He is worse than a team killer. He is worse than the inaction duo from before. This is a player that is on the opposing team. This player realizes that he is about to lose. So he then does the unthinkable.

He switches teams in the middle of the game and begins to sabotage our team. And he is blatant about it. This happened last night and my justice was quick and without mercy. It was a game of capture the flag, a very simple game that is played exactly how the title sounds. I noticed that for some odd reason, we were not capturing the flag. I looked on my players list and I understood why immediately. We have a team jumper. He is the Dracula to my Van Helsing.

I sent out the call to my comrades and then the hunt began. The team jumper, NFP JARS, had the flag. I checked my radar, there he was. There was no sneaking up on anyone this time. He knew what his crime was and he knew what the punishment was going to be. What he was counting on that the other players in the game did not want to carry it out for the fear of being “punished” by a bad review or a demotion.

I have no fear of such things. I do not play for points or rank. I play for carnage. I play for mayhem. I play for Jesus.

He was standing at our base giving a teabag to a fallen soldier. I could hear him laughing in our headset. I could hear several other players complaining but lacking the courage for what must be done. I gave him a rifle butt to the gut and then shot him in the face so that his digital widow could not identify the body.

He started calling me all kinds of names over the headset. I told him to have a coke and a smile and shut the fuck up. I picked up the flag and scored, victory is ours and justice has been done.

Later that evening I told my wife this story. She looked at me, sighed and shook her head. She said that violence is never the answer. I’m sorry honey, but sometimes it’s the only answer.


Continue to Quit

It’s been 3 weeks since I started my no chewing tobacco Hossman Family Policy. It’s not a fair policy and it’s not a policy that was open for debate. However, it’s the official line and I have been following it for the past 3 weeks.

Sort of.


Pretty much all the time except not most of the time.

Right now I am not dipping.

As you can imagine, it has been difficult. I would put this level of difficulty right up there with the first Artic Circle exploration expedition. Except I’m sure they were allowed to dip when they were walking. So this may be a little harder.

But I know that I shall overcome and strive towards greatness. However after 3 weeks of this I realize that this is not the straight one week battle I thought it was going to be. It turns out, and I am amazed, that tobacco is HIGHLY addictive. Who knew, I take no responsibility for not knowing this, none what so ever. This is going to be a 6 month battle atleast. They shall compose songs of this fight, poets will argue on the best way to describe my manliness. For the future historians, I prefer to be described as Big Boned.

Through this ordeal I can’t help but think back to that movie Trainspotting. It’s about the Heroin addict that quit his addiction by boarding himself inside a room and eventually taking a nose dive into a used toilet. I nominate it for weirdest movie scene ever.

But he is able to kick the habit. And then something happens at the end of the movie, I heard it was great. Now back to me. I cannot lock myself in room for an unspecified amount of time because unlike Heroin Addicts I have responsibilities besides giving hand jobs for crack. I have a job and a family that require that I actually spend time with them daily. So I do. Although I realize that I may have been a little “cranky” during some of these moments. The important thing to realize is that I was actually there and not using a hired actor to play “me”. The thought did cross my mind.

Part of the whole quitting thing is that I am doing a program that is supposed to help me quit and stay off the “junk”. The program is supposed to give me daily tasks so that I remember why I am quitting and to help overcome my urges. So far, as you have seen, I have written a letter. I’m also supposed to look at my triggers for what causes me to want chewing tobacco and when.

This is a little more difficult. Because when I did that exercise, it turned out that I wanted it all the time and with everyone. I was a tobacco whore without a good natured pimp to slap me around a little. Basically, that exercise was a big fat waste of time.

Chewing tobacco is a little different than smoking. I can do it in my office without the fire alarm going off. I can do it around other people and they don’t suffer from second hand smoke. I can do it in on airplanes without getting kicked off or having to go to the lavatory—that’s British for bathroom.

But I continue on with the exercises because it gives me an excuse to look at porn in-between loading web pages.

Today’s exercise, which I shall share with you, is called “What to reward myself with”. This is supposed to be a list of all the things that I want to buy when I save all the money that I used to spend on chewing tobacco. It’s like getting to register for a wedding but without the supercool futuristic bar code reader gun or the actual expectation that any chump out there will actually buy you any of this stuff.

What do I want? That’s a big question. One so big that I’m sure it will turn into another blog and more wasted time. But as far as this exercise goes, what do I want to spend my dip money on? Interesting question. Given that I am almost always dying for a dip, what else can I think about. But, for you entertainment, I offer you my pain. Enjoy it. Here are the list of things that I am going to buy when I have not had any dip for 6 months.

1. A big, fat, pinch of chewing tobacco.

2. I am going to buy a plane ticket to Tahiti, rent a cabana on the beach and go out into the ocean with all the fishes. Then I’m going to spit on them with my dip.

3. I am going to clean up all the tobacco leafs that have fallen in my car, put them in a humidifier, then dip them.

4. I am going to buy my wife a big, old lady gaudy type diamond ring. Then I’m going to have it wrapped in a container. The container will be an empty chewing tobacco can. Of course, since I have thrown all these away so I won’t be tempted, I will have to buy a new can and dip it. I do it all for you honey.

5. I am going to hire the Dog Whisperer guy and pay him to teach my dog how to dip. Then dip with my dog on Jay Leno.

6. I am going to buy an 8 ball of Columbians finest uncut, get high as a kite and then go dip in front of everyone. Then they will not be able to give me shit because I was dipping when I was high and didn’t know what I was doing. I will have a new problem and my old problem won’t look so bad.

7. I am going to dip and then blame it on battered dipping syndrome. It’s so awful, so awful, I had no choice.

8. I am going to go to the evil Tobacco company and convince them to have a peace meeting with the crazy Californian anti-smoking people. When they are both together, I am going to spit tobacco juice on them because they are all a bunch of fucking nut jobs.

9. I am going to go on Oprah and tell them how hard it was to quit. Then I’m going to write a book about it. Then it is going to come out that I never quit dipping to begin with and the book was a shame. I will spend the proceeds from the book on helping bunnies with missing feet and more dip.

10. I am going to start a school tour of the evils of dipping. I will have tent revivals and people who will quit cold turkey when I lay hands on them. Time magazine will feature me as Hoss of the year. Donations will pour in. Then the US Weekly will take a very candid shot of me and a Meth Hooker through the seedy blinds of a hourly hotel. I will be wearing black socks with those weird sock suspenders. In my mouth you will clearly see chewing tobacco. I will say that I am ever so sorry, blame Satan and then go through spiritual counseling. At which point I will continue to buy dip for orphans.

Ok, that’s what my plan is. Thank you to those that have supported me during this difficult, difficult time. I hate you all so very, very much.



I got nothing today. Nadda, zip, schnell, not a damn thing. I can feel your disappointment so I offer you this filler blog.

It wasn't supposed to be this way today. This was not the way it was supposed to go. I was not supposed to offer nothing but this crap blog. I was supposed to be funny and loved by all. Instead, I am shamed by my inability.

It's not that I don't have some ideas. Nope, I've got 12 of them. But none of the stories are writing themselves. The ideas are funny. The open dialog I've had about them are funny. Even the titles are funny. Its just the bulk of the work, well, sucks big donkey balls.

Today I was supposed to write about how to be a good American. It's a Hossman Classic that finds it's roots many years ago. As a lark, I wrote a Pamphlet called How to be a Good American and not a Communist Pig. It was funny. Hell, I'm laughing about it right now.

But I can't get it down, I've lost my mojo this week. It's gone, Dr. Evil stole it.

See, even I think that line sucks and I stole it. My wife told me that about 10 minutes ago. I laughed. But when I write it all I want to do is delete it and go hide in a rabbit hole.

I write when the mood strikes me. I've deleted stuff before and then gone back, but it's not working today. When you visit this blog and don't see anything for 2 days or so, that's because everything is stuck in my head.

I could write about a ton of things. A cast of charachters about my brother. An Xbox diary about the recruiting drive. How I am my daughter's favorite toy. Ditch Swimming in Arkansas. Quitting Chewing Tobacco. Parents who bring 3 year olds to a rated R movie at midnight. Harry Potter and how freaky we are going to get on July 21st.

See, right there are a ton of ideas but nothing is coming out. I'm a hack, a guy who got too confident only to be squashed like a bug. Instead of funny I have nothing to offer you but knock knock jokes and Nuns who walk into bars. That's all I got today.

3 Nuns walk into a bar..................The 4th one ducks. That's it. That's the quality of the Hossman Family blog today.

Knock Knock
Who's there.
No one because I can't write
Thanks for stopping by, now go check some other blogs that are worth it.


Star Trek Mondays

Today is a milestone. Today we welcome a new member. Today, Little Hoss, takes her first step to becoming a full fledge Trekkie.

I can just feel the eyes rolling out there. Nay, I say, Nay. Save your judgment for those that deserve it. Cast aside your predjuces and hatreds. Do not attempt to ruin this day of days for Trekkies everywhere. For today we do not just gain another member, a leader is born into our growing body and we welcome her!

Today, Star Trek Mondays, she will complete the first step into full born membership. Like all secret organizations, there are rules and tributes that must be paid and today she pays her first installment in full. She earns her first Star Fleet Academy patch and I will not let any of you Debbie Downers take away from her achievement.

I know the reputation that Trekkies have out there. Hell, I even share a few. But I have not let that dissuade me from opening this higher form of being to my daughter. Some father’s pass on a gold watch. Other’s pass on wisdom. Some, just money. This is the legacy I leave to my children, become a Trekkie and become a God.

I know that there are Trekkies out there that have gone over the edge, dear god so over the edge. I know that there are some out there that have warn their Star Fleet Uniform to jury duty. I know that there was one guy who rebuilt his apartment to resemble the bridge of the 1967 Enterprise. I know that there was another guy out there that had his ears surgically altered to look like Vulcan ears. Ok, I don’t know that last one for fact but I’m just playing the odds.

To all us other Trekkies let me deliver a message to you: Knock it the fuck off. Seriously man, you are giving us enough problems as is, you don’t have to compound it for us. Don’t be the stereotype man, don’t be that guy. It’s already hard enough for us to get chicks, don’t complicate things with trying to actually try and making a working phaser. Trust me, the first time the opposite sex hears “phaser” they automatically assume you are the Comic Book guy from the Simpsons or the greasy IT guy with the porn mustache.

You have forced the rest of us to go underground, to hide who we truly are. It took me a while for me to admit to my wife that I was a Trekkie. I tried to drop little hints at first, just small things to see how she would react. I would do the Vulcan greeting as a joke and see how far she would roll her eyes. If it lasted for more than 5 seconds, I knew this could never work because I can’t change who I am. I was born this way.

I would then attempt to watch ½ an episode at a time to see how long she could stand it. Of course, at this time I would not quote any lines or the prime directive, that came much later. I would say, gee, this Star Trek Movie looks interesting, we should give it a shot. I would see how long it would take her to say hell no. That’s how I gradually let her know I was a Trekkie.

But it couldn’t stay hidden for long. One day she walked in and there I was. The T.V. was on to the original episode, I was doing the Vulcan Hand Thing while masturbating to the cute Andorian that was on the tube………………

Ok, it didn’t happen that way but in my head that was funny.

No, she started to notice that I was watching the show whenever it was on. She started noticing that instead of laughing when she made Trekkie jokes I would get offended and leave the room. She started to notice that every year for Christmas all I would ever ask for is a Holodeck.

So I finally had to tell her. I saw pity in her eyes. She knew what lay in store for her once she married me and she did anyway. That’s the sign of true love. Love a Trekkie and love forever, it’s just the way it has to be.

And tonight, underneath the stars and Rigel 7, my daughter enters the fold. I will teach her to never be ashamed of what we are. I will teach her to embrace Trekkie life and all that comes with it. I will warn her of the stares that we get, the snide comments that cut to the core of our soul and the snickers behind our backs. But I will also will teach her how to combat such small mindedness.

I will teach her that when Star Fleet comes, they will ignore all non believers. I will teach her that James Kirk will be born one day in Iowa and will love us for our devotion. I will teach her that one day the world will need us and until then, we will have to keep a low profile.

Do not be embarrassed my baby love because one day Trekkies will be considered pioneers. When we finally do achieve the ability to leave the stars, I guarantee you, my little sweet pea, that a Trekkie will be the captain. The future will look back at us and realize that while the liberal media has painted us in a negative light, we were the only ones that truly believed that the world would be a better place. The rest of them, my little angel, can rot in hell.

And tonight, my daughter, you take that first step and continue on your father’s legacy. But not just my legacy, no my precious. You are now a 3rd generation Trekkie, like you father before you and his father before him. You will look at the stars and realize that the same hopes and dreams that you have run in you blood, no, in your very soul. Because two before you have looked up there and thought, Man, it would be cool to meet some green skinned hotties.

Tonight is important because it is the night that you complete your first series of Star Trek. After tonight, Star Trek Mondays, you will have watched every episode of “Star Trek: Enterprise.” This has always been my plan my little monkey.

I know that you have just thought that watching Star Trek on Monday was just a way of spending time with your old man. And it was, but I admit, I had other motives. Because now that you have seen every episode of that series, you finally understand. I know that you are only 17 months old, but you are now wise beyond your years. You are a prodigy. You are watching Star Trek at a 3rd grade level and papa is very proud of you.

Tonight you will see the only episode that you have never seen. And I will hold you in my arms as we worship together. We will growl at Klingons, hiss at Romulans, and cheer for boldly going where no one has gone before. You will begin to see Star Trek things in every day life, like when grocery store door opens when we walk toward it. You will see new planets discovered every day and wonder which ones contain exotic life. And one day, you will see a colony on the moon and you will know that we have taken our first steps to that great universe that Star Trek Predicted.

So come my little one, let daddy cradle you in his arms as we complete this ritual. Next week, we will begin anther series, and another until you are completely enshrined in the way of the Trekkie.

And don’t worry about your mother, she will come around. Because she to believes in the magical. She too believes in something that others may scoff at. She is obsessive but she has not let you see this side yet. She is shy, but just wait my little 1st officer, you will begin to see her obsession of Nerdom, just like us. That is why she can’t judge us to harshly. That’s why she can’t completely turn away from the Trekkie because she understands on a deeper level. Ask your mother what comes out on July 21st and where we will be at 12:01am.

That’s right sweet pea, your mother is a Harry Potter dork. Let us embrace her.