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.