I have been informed that I am not allowed to refer to, or imply, that Hossmom is a Hussy. I have been informed that she is not a Hussy and that I do indeed kick puppies and hate babies.

It has been also been brought to my attention not to refer to Hossmom as having lose morals, ethical lapses or that she is a traitor to the Hossman family in any way.

We regret the error and apologize to Hossmom for putting herself into situations that can be seen in a bad light. Such as being a traitor, associating with traitors, being a known accomplice to any traitorism, and to being pregnant for the second time in 2 years. This does not imply that she is easy or that she is a traitor. It just states the facts that she betrayed her husband and is knocked up.

The Editor.


Choose Wisely

Little Hoss stands in the middle of the living room. She is flanked by her two parents. Their laziness is appalling to even the most passive observer.

Her little eyes dart from side to side, from parent to parent. Each has a look of expectation on their faces, a look of desperation. How is she supposed to choose? How can they put her in this position in the first place?

They are both talking, muttering wildly. Hossdad has his hands out quickly motioning to her. Her mother, Hossmom, was almost bending down on her knee’s, arms outstretched signifying love.

But there is something more sinister to their pleas. Something that was important but was remaining unsaid. She was right, but what was it?

Little Hoss tried to comprehend the thing that was weighing down the room but she couldn’t wrap her naive little mind around it. Oh, she tried, but every time she would get close, it would slip away like slimy Jell-O pudding.

She didn’t quite yet have the experience to understand the power shifts that occur in a marriage. She couldn’t grasp what was at stake here and even if she could, she wouldn’t be able to understand it.

She gripped the TV remote tighter. She found it on the floor, next to her playhouse and Barbie shoes. They are great shoes, she likes the sound when the Velcro rips. She picked up the remote and noticed that the buttons on the front. She likes buttons. No, that is an understatement. She LOVES buttons, especially ones that make lights when you push them.

And push them she did. Every time her small, delicate fingers pushed a button, the talking b ox would change and this made her happy. Sometimes it would get louder and sometimes it would get quieter. Sometimes it would turn to the colors of her crayons and sometimes it would be all black.

She looked at Hossdad, still pleading.

“Little Hoss—bring Daddy the remote” he said softly. She liked Hossdad. He made her laugh. She looked at Hossmom.

“No, No Peanut. Bring the remote to Mommy” said Hossmom. Mommy gave the best hugs, no doubt about it.

Why did they both want this thing? She at first assumed it was because of the buttons because after all, who doesn’t love buttons? But was that the only reason?

It was not but she can’t understand that answer. She can’t understand that the decision she would make could be the difference between an hour of Oprah or an hour of Pre-season football. It was the difference between watching reruns of Sex in the City or the 1980’s cartoon Superfriends. It was the difference between setting the Tivo to the movie Beaches or setting the Tivo for late night Skinamax.

All this rested on her young shoulders. The young shoulders of a toddler who loved both her parents. They were both trying so hard, but who to listen to?

Hossmom spoke again: “If you bring Mommy the remote, mommy will let you stay up late.”

Hmm, Little Hoss thought. Hossmom had just raised the stakes. Interesting.

But Hossdad was not to be out done. “I will let you drive my car.” Hossdad went straight to the big bribes, no reason to haggle here.

Hossmom took out her wallet and threw it toward’s Little Hoss’s feet. “Picture this” she said. “You, me—Shoe store. That card right there, that’s a gold card. I’ll teach you how to use this.”

“I will buy you a pony!” Hossdad yelled. Hossdad had just dealt a blow to Hossmom.

“Your father likes to kick puppies” Hossmom said. The campaign had just turned negative. It was disappointing to see but could it have been any other way?

“Your mom is a hussy.” Hossdad countered. “Look at her, she’s pregnant. What kind of morals is that.”

“But it’s your baby! And we are married!”

“But you made it to easy! Is that the kind of person you want to associate yourself with, Little Hoss?”

Little Hoss knew she had to make a decision and make it quick. This was tearing her family apart and honestly, she was ready for bedtime and had lost all interest in the remote. She looked at both of her parents. Back and forth her eyes darted. Who?

Little Hoss made her decision and began walking towards Hossmom. She held out the remote and from the corner of her eyes she could see Hossdad’s face fall flat. His shoulder’s slumped. His Little Hoss had chosen another.

A step away from Hossmom, Little Hoss did something unexpected, at least by her parents. But to Little Hoss, this was the plan all along. As Hossmom grabbed for the remote she used her cat like reflexes to pull it back. A laugh escaped from her lips. It was maniacal.

She pulled the remote back to her body and used her short stubby legs to sprint to Hossdad, who now had tears in his eyes. His arms stretched out and Little Hoss dove into them, barely missing the last failing grasp of Hossmom.

She handed Hossdad the remote and gave him a hug. She looked up at him and thought “Daddy, I will always be your minion. How could you ever doubt me? Besides, you give me popsicles in the bathtub.”

For the next hour, they watched football together, just like they did when she was born.


The Betrayal

I have been betrayed. I have been caste into the role of a Greek play and the betrayel knife still shimmers, glistening in my blood. I am the betrayed.

This is a very big time of year for me. It is not because I have a second kid coming. It is not because Christmas is only a short 4 months away. And it is not because I am fixing to hit another 1000 on my reader counter.

No, this is the time of year where the few get together every year to play Fantasy Football. As if my dorkdom could not get any worse, I offer you this. Star Trek, xbox, Harry Potter and now Fantasy Football. Please, someone, send me to nerd rehab.

This is my 14th year playing fantasy football and it has become somewhat of a national sensation for those of you unfamiliar with this. Basically, a bunch of guys (and some groovy chicks) get together and pick players off of NFL teams. We then use mythical statistics about touchdowns, yards and catches to come up with a score. If the players I picked do better than your players, then I win.

If I win enough, then I get to go to the superbowl. If I win the superbowl I win some money. But more importantly, I win the ability to talk shit for a whole year to the other guys in my league.

I say league and this implies that I only play in one league. I am even more ashamed to tell you that I play in three leagues. Seriously, I need an intervention.

Hossmom describes this hobby as Dungeons and Dragons for those over 20. But let me make this clear—if I could find a bunch of guys my age that play Dungeons and Dragons over the internet, I so would. So I don’t see how this is an insult. If my running back can throw a 16 or higher on your Elf quarterback, I win. And as always, vengeance shall be mine in this world or the next.

In the 14 years that I have played this, we have evolved. Like monkeys learning to walk, we have become quit elaborate on Fantasy Football Draft day. It started out with just 6 guys and one magazine. We were terrible. This years draft featured a draft board, war rooms, everyone wearing jerseys, much beer, ridicule, an auctioneer who’s sole job was to saying “Going, going, Gone!”. In my other league, we actually had chicks who served us beer while this was going on.

There is a possibility, and only a slight one, that we may have taken this to far. And there are trophies involved now. With engravings. Jesus, even I’m starting to question my obsession now.

So as you can imagine, Fantasy Football Draft Day is a huge day for me. It is when I step out onto the world stage and declare my greatness. It’s where I let my intellect triumph over those that are only a shade more evolved than the Neanderthals. I spit on them! For Glory, For Honor, For Victory!!!

Yes, I know who the third string running back for the Houston Texans is. I know which players moved in the off season. I know that the coach for the Detroit Lions loves to pass and that should make for a very good quarterback. And I am not the least bit unusual in this compared to the other players. Our draft consisted of colored spreadsheets, laptops and a virtual connection to the one guy that couldn’t show up in person. And yes, we judge him for it. He obviously lacks the desire to be a champion.

In short, Fantasy Football becomes my world. My world that is harbors a traitor. A dirty, dirty, pregnant traitor.

It would seem that during my fever to play I have neglected to keep my own house in order. And by that fault I have allowed myself to be betrayed by the one cloest to me.

At this years draft I showed up with my color coded spreadsheet ready to impart my wisdom onto those that are less fortunate. Uncle Bricksalesman shows up with his partner. I am going to let you assume that he is gay. I am not going to dispute that. Because traitors do not deserve any pity. He is in my league and runs his team with his “partner”.

They sit down, smiling ever so slightly. I can see evil in their eyes, but what is it?

His “partner” says “Man, research was sure easy this time.” He then throws down his fantasy football magazine.

“Hmmm” I think, “I have that exact same magazine.”

“Really” he says. “Did your’s come with all the research already done with little hints and marked players?”

“Um, no.” I say. I have forgotten that true evil exists in this world. Dear god, I am so sorry.

“Ours did and it was great”. He then proceeds to open the magazine. I find my self staring at the writing on his fantasy football magazine. It is my writing. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks that Uncle Bricksalesman sells. Dear God, what is going on here!

I realize that is in fact, my magazine. My magazine with all my player notes. That is my magazine with my super-ultra secret draft strategy. How? How did he know? How did he grab it without my knowledge.

His sister. I am married to his sister. The awakening comes to me to fast. I get light headed. I immediately see the connection. He used his sweet, untainted sister to gain my secret plans. It was like he had the nuclear football and he was Russia. It was there, right in his eyes, behind the evil smiles of him and his “partner.”

I confronted him. Words like “shiteater” came out. He shrugged and said that Hmmm, he just got a magazine from Hossmom and didn’t think anything about it. I know that he used her. I know that he used her and now she has betrayed me. I let him know that I would very soon be doing unspeakable sexual acts to his sister because I know that this bothers him.

As you can imagine, my draft went to shit. Uncle Bricksalesman and his “partner” oddly went after the same running back as me. He tried to convince me that that was the plan all along. I hereby call bullshit.

I went home and talked to my wife. What I learned was even more disturbing. She intentionally gave him the magazine. She did it for a very low cost. She wanted the co-sleeper for the new kiddo that Uncle Bricksalesman brought down from my mother in law. Wait a god damn minute—that’s my co-sleeper in the first place. And then I saw the same look in her eyes. She wasn’t tricked, this was intentional! Hossmom sold me out. She sold me out because she has always hated Fantasy Football. Betrayed. Betrayed. Betrayed.

But pay heed my evil in law family that has no honor amongst any of you communist pigs. If you are going to go after a man, go after his children to. Because now they will grow up and get my vengeance. I hereby pass this vendetta on to them.

Little Hoss—Daddy needs vengeance. Our family name is at stake here. I am counting on you to restore the family honor. And Hossmom, yes we shall forgive her because she is currently caring the second tool to my vengeance. We will not speak the traitor’s names until our honor has been restored. Come my children, let us pray.


6 Beer Monday

Why do you have 6 beers on Monday?

Very Simply:

1. Because it’s LBJ’s birthday and all Emplyees for the State of Texas got the day off. Who is going to celebrate if not for the government employees??? I’ll drink another 6 on San Jacinto day as soon as I figure out when that is.

2. Because the stay at home dad thing might be a little harder that I at first imagined. I had the whole day, yet I didn’t get shit done. Not one thing. I tried, but every time I was thwarted by either Little Hoss or society in general, which I am pretty sure has it out for me.

3. It’s what Jesus would do.

4. Because a drunk blog equals a funny blog.

5. Because the dude at the grocery store gave me a dirty look when Little Hoss would miss putting things in the basket and they would clank to the floor. Look, she is working on her aim. And as her father it is my duty to teach her how to shoot two and on occasion take a shot from “Downtown”. Sure, she is going to lay up some bricks every once in a while, but she is getting better. Until then, we are just gonna keep on passing her those potted meat cans until she gets it right. And when she dunks, and she so will, I will make sure she posterizes you. Nutsack.

6. Because drinking during the Summer TV schedule makes TV much, much better.

7. Because pregnant sex isn’t awkward enough.

8. Because beer goes great with spaghetti. I have no idea why, but good lord it just does.

9. Because I got 3 loads of laundry done. And by done I mean that one load is actually dry and put away, one is still in the dryer but at least it is dry and one is in the washing machine but it is officially “washed” so my work here is done. Nothing like kicking back with a couple of cold ones after a productive day.

10. Because I can pass off drinking 6 beers during the work week as a way to “self-medicate” and therefore make it more understandable rather than saying “Because I felt like it” and getting judged as an alcoholic.

11. Because someone in the house, and I won’t name names, knocked down the wooden blinds and then proceeded to play with them until the whole thing was a huge mess. So an hour of my day was spent unraveling the knot of Hades and finally giving up and hanging them back up “as is” which gives me ½ the window as good looking blinds and the bottom half being jumble of crap. Let’s just say that Hossmom and Little Hoss are not allowed to touch the blinds anymore.

12. Because 6 beers makes it easier to write the cliché “list” blog that every blogger has to write. Like a list of my 10 favorite things that make me smile or the 15 best looking members of royalty and why I would marry them.

13. Because I had to get my 3rd cell phone in the last two months. The first one was dumped down the toilet by the great Little Hoss Magic Hour. That was followed up by her being last seen with my new phone and now it has disappeared. And for the first time ever, yes ever, I have actually bought the phone insurance. Who has two thumbs and doesn’t learn from his mistakes? This guy! Wink, wink.

14. Because, oddly enough, I am a much better Xbox player when I get a good buzz going on. Seriously, I ruled and didn’t get kicked out of any games at all. My vengeance was all over the World Wide Web. That and most of the kids had to go to bed to get up early for school so they were not really into it. But I don’t care, I won. I’ll take your pity, I have no shame.

15. Because I have a second kid coming and I haven’t got shit done. Seriously, what the hell was I thinking. It was me who wanted a second kid right away, I pushed for it. The new nursery has been painted and I put together a dresser. That’s it. Someone please, come through this blog, and punch me in the face. Then maybe I can realize that yes Hossman, this is actually happening and it’s time to move your ass you donkey.

16. Because I am much, much more attractive when I’m drunk. And so are you.

17. Because yesterday I might have crossed the line from being new funny guy to completely inappropriate guy. This tends to happen on occasion. The joke I made ended with something along the lines of “My dingo and I steal babies.” This did not go over well.

18. Because I didn’t get to eat lunch because Little Hoss had decided that what I had looked much better than what she had so she secretly switched plates with me like some weird three card monty game. Then I’m pretty sure she took 20 bucks from my wallet.

19. Because with the new kiddo coming I have had to abandon some of my hobbies such as golf and softball because I need to be around the house as my wife has gotten to the point where she is having a very hard time moving and on occasion, falls asleep while she is still standing. I’m pretty sure she can no longer bend over to pick anything up off the floor and that my daughter is making this worse by constantly throwing everything on the floor.

20. Because without a 6 beers at the end of the day, how on earth are you supposed to understand Klingon?

21. Because saying you fell asleep at 8 pm because you were drinking a 6 pack is a lot cooler than saying you fell asleep at 8pm in actuality you only had one beer and your drinking tolerance is so now so very low that that will pretty much whip your ass and send you off into the land of happy elves.


Xbox Diaries: Back in Highschool.

“Who is that that just joined” asked Headbanger 4121.

“Namssoh” replied shortcircuit

“Aw man!”

“He’s that old guy”

“He sucks!”

“Kick that dude out.”

“Who’s the host? Kick him out” the chant began to swell.

I am Namssoh. That is my online identity. It’s Hossman spelled backwards.

A dialog box comes up on my screen: “The host has disconnected you from the session.”

My screen goes black and I am sent back through the portal. Oblivion, silence, complete disconnect.

What. The. Hell?

And this, my readers, is why I hate youth.

I get kicked out of a game at least 3 times a week. Seriously. Some people would rather play with teams that are uneven and unfair than have me play with them. They do not care if my ego is crushed or if my feelings are hurt. They do not care that because of them I have started drinking and a massive heroin habit. Well, I haven’t but I’m sure my online self is currently holed up in some crack shack doing an 8 ball while silently crying to himself.

He is also probably a cutter and has scars on his arms from his chainsaw of justice that won’t be used on the alien horde, only on his depression and self confidence. Usually, there is a light bulb above his head that keeps flickering on and off. Maybe a roach crawls around him as he is so pathetic that even natures most disgusting creature thinks that he is to sad a sack to play with.

That is my online life, constantly striving for acceptance and inclusion in a world built for the young. I say “But I’m young at heart!” Only old people say that.

Is this some click that I am not a part of? Is this some sort of secret society that because I am above the age of 30 I am not allowed to know the secret handshake? Is this middle school all over again?

Well, yes, it is.

As you can probably imagine, there are a lot of players in their teens in these games. And when they are given the ultimate power of deciding who gets to join a game and who doesn’t, well, the power goes to their heads. They are youth, they do not understand the true control that they hold in their hands. They abuse this power, they take it for granted, they assume that their decisions are always wise and well thought out.

They are nothing but tyrants, sick twisted individuals that can’t get a date on the outside world and so venture into online reality to control the things that they can’t control on the outside. They have learned nothing but fear and pain on the outside, so once on the inside, they distribute the wealth. And thus, an old guy is kicked out of their game.

It’s like the playground all over again. Not only am I the last guy picked in a game but sometimes I’m not picked at all. They take their ball and go to another court, I’m not invited. They don’t even lie to me and say that my invitation got “lost”. They just say leave.

And because of this, in the online world, I have become their enemy. I am the outcast. I am the soiled one. I am the Phantom of the Opera in the digital underground. But instead of playing an organ, I play Journey.

It’s my age that separates me from these players. But there are a lot of people like me out there. We are the silent ones. We are the ones that usually don’t talk a lot when the youth is around. We are not the ones talking about band practice. We are not the ones that are talking about that tough test next week.

We are not the ones that are wondering if we will get to finger bang Mary Jane rotten crotch through her pretty pink panties. Because we already have, shitsticks.

We are silently building our alliances. We are slowly practicing our skills. We are quietly paying our mortgages and our taxes so that we will have more time to practice. And we are there, just under the radar, waiting. Waiting for the day that we can rise up and distribute justice to youth.

There will come a day when you will want our advice online about how the world works. You will ask us, Hey old guy, how do I get into my favorite college. I will advise you to send in a collage of your favorite teletubie. You will ask us, hey Namssoh, how should I make the move on my girlfriend so I can finally get laid. I will advise you to go straight to her father and tell him your intentions, he’ll help you out. You will ask, Hey Baldy, I’m going on my first job interview tomorrow, what should I do. I will advise you to slap the interviewer on the ass and say “YE HAW!”.

You’ll say thanks and then head off to your disappointment. Because I am a jaded bastard.

We’ll be patient, us older online players. We’ll be patient until one day you look into the mirror and say, man, am I losing my hair? Maybe you’ll notice that you are gaining that freshman 15? Perhaps even one day you’ll get online and realize that you are the old guy now, and only at 32, how sad.

My digital player, Namssoh, I will not send him to rehab for his heroin habit or self mutilation. I want him edgy. I want him to remember the shame and humiliation. I want him to have the shakes. I want him to jones for it, jones for your annilation.

And out of nowhere, you will feel our wrath. You will be looking out at the digital battlefield, wondering where all the time went.

And that twinge in your back, don’t worry about that, it’s just my chainsaw of vengeance.


The Elevator

I am a simple man with simple tastes.

Sure, I like a little digital vengeance from time to time, but I ask you, who doesn’t? And I know that sure, maybe just sometimes, I won’t let that little old lady in the 1972 lime greed Caddie cut into my lane. That’s a little hard, I agree. And I enjoy a good game of let’s humiliate you, mainly because you are a jackass. But I ask you, don’t we all enjoy a good game of that on occasion?

It doesn’t have to be this way though. We could all decide to sit back, grab a beer, and just let people be people. We could not, say, do something to each and every random stranger that happens to cross our paths. Because it does indeed feel like that lately, I am that stranger that you are doing it to.

Today I got on the elevator at work. I held the door open for some person that I didn’t know. I was being a nice guy. Honestly, that is more who I am in daily life. I’m the guy that will hold the door of the elevator open for you if I see you coming. I’m the guy that will let you borrow my tools.

Once I was working at a gas station at 9 at night. I was alone and a single mom came in. Well, I don’t know if she was single, but she was hot and had 2 kids in tow. One was an infant. She grabbed a gallon of milk and went to pay for it. Unfortunately, her credit card did not go through. I could see she was at her wits end. So I told her to go ahead and take the milk and not to worry about it. I know that it made her day to not have to deal with it and she had two kids, what would you do? That’s the kind of guy that I am.

But I think that the ride on the elevator today with mystery woman might be changing that. And it makes me a little sad.

I asked the nice mystery lady to hit the button to my floor, which is two floors above her own. I don’t work at the same company she does so I didn’t really talk to her either. This was fine with her as she just kept on talking to someone on her cell phone. It would appear, and I’m not trying to invade her privacy here, that her husband cut off his finger last night. Seriously, that was the conversation. Luckily, they were able to sew it back on so that he would not lose it but it remains to be seen the amount of use he will have of it.

I hope old Chuck comes through because now I feel like part of his life. I should send him my blog to cheer him up. It bothers me only a little bit that people talk on their cell phones in elevators. I am usually ok with it, but believe me, I have no choice but to listen to what you are saying. And if you have that hidden earpiece behind your hair, I’m thinking you are talking to me. So when you ask what do I want for dinner, I’m going to tell a Steak please, as long as you are buying. Don’t look at me like I just raped your privacy.

But I am ok with this and usually have a good laugh about it. I was thinking about good old one finger Chuck when the door opened and the mystery lady stepped out. I hope it all works out. The doors closed. That’s when it hit me.

There was the most god awful stink that almost immediately permeated the entire elevator. It stung my eyes, I could taste it in my mouth. I could feel the stink, that’s how bad it was.

It would appear, and I’m only guessing here, that mystery lady cut lose right when she was getting off the elevator. And now I have been stranded in the stink zone. There was no way out, there was no fresh air, there was no hope of any redemption.

That’s what I think has soured me on people. Why would she do this to me, a complete stranger? A complete stranger that was nice enough to actually hold the elevator for her? A complete stranger that is rooting for 9 finger Frodo as much as she is? Why I ask you, Why?

Maybe I’m being harsh here. Maybe she has some stomach problems this morning and it just slipped out. I, of all people, can understand that. Maybe she thought that she could just squeeze out a non-stinky and be done with it. I hope that is the case, but somehow, and maybe it is because I am an emotional wreck the closer my second kid gets, I get the feeling that this was an intentional gas bomb and that she just didn’t care who was in the elevator because she was getting out.

I have myself left the occasional poo stink on the elevator, but only when I’m alone. I have never done it while people are in the death box with me. I try to be considerate, at least most of the time.

And I know the mystery lady knows what she did and perhaps is calling careless Chuck right now laughing about it. None of this really makes me mad, just disappointed in humanity. I know, such a simple thing, probably out of her control, and I’m ready to write off all of humanity.

This is the type of thing that makes me want to move out of the city. There just seems to be no consideration from anybody for anybody. And I know that I am guilty of this as well. When did we all become so dead inside that making someone else miserable was the only thing that brightened our day. I would totally be a hermit now, living in the hills and enjoying my own stink instead of someone else’s.

I wish this was the end of this blog. I wish that I could say the story ends right here and that I got off the elevator and found a reason to believe in the niceness of people again. But it isn’t and I can’t.

The doors to the elevator opened on my floor. Standing there were two of the IT guys.

I didn’t warn them about what lay inside. I didn’t try to explain what happened. Instead, I held the “open door” button and ushered them right in side, welcome to the 9th circle my friends. And then I got the hell out of there because I know that they think that it was me. And here I am laughing about it so much that I thought it deserved it’s own blog.

Sometimes I wonder how long that stink floated around in there, what’s the half life of methane? And am I any nicer for doing what I did? And how many people did they let on the elevator after me? It’s a chain reaction of being shitty to people. Seriously, we all need to knock this off.


My Shame

It has about gotten to that time when once again I am becoming a little over confident and a bit full of myself. I am buying into my own image. I am the bloggin God. And like I have said in the past, this can be a very bad thing where all I produce is crap. So I need to humble myself. I have had this blog on the shelf for a couple of months and I feel that it is time to share it.

Have you ever seen the movie Goonies? You know that seen when the bad guys tell the fat kid to confess everything he ever did wrong. Everything that he was ashamed of? And then he tells the story of making fake puke at a movie theater?

Here is my version. Here are a list of things that I am ashamed of. Please remember that I am actually a pretty good guy and always have been. But like everyone, I have not followed the path forever. It’s because of these things that I had to come up with the Hossman Principles in the first place. When you curse me, just remember that once you thought I was funny.

My favorite song is by Poison. Have you seen Rock of Love with Brett Micheals? That’s why I’m ashamed.

I broke up with a girl in High school to date another girl who I didn’t really know. It was because of sex. That’s right, a little slap and tickle. I thought the new girl would put out. She certainly talked about it a lot. What I didn’t realize was that this new girl was hard core Christian with massive guilt issues. She had me take a shower at her house and watched but didn’t join me. She made me go to Sunday School class where they talked about premarital sex. That’s when God introduced me to Karma. Turned out she was nothing but a cocktease and psychotic. She wanted to get married right after high school. All I wanted was a blowjob. I never got laid.

On a road trip in high school I got out of a car a little to fast. I threw open the door and dented the car next to us, which just happened to be driven by a bunch of rednecks. I blamed it on my friend who was driving then calmly walked into Dennys and left him there alone. My other friend encouraged me to do it.

When I was a kid, I convinced my mom that my dad said to get 20 bucks from her so that we could go to the little league games. This was a lie and I spent the entire 20 on myself. Specifically on ball park pizza, burgers and candy. I puked for a week and got the crap beat out of me when my Dad found out.

I once punched my sister in the stomach when we were in middle school. I can’t remember why but my older brother beat the tar out of me for it. My respect grew for him at that moment.

Speaking of sisters, I once cut a good 3 inches of her hair out. While she was in High school, not when we were kids. I thought it was funny. She cried for days.

My wife and I, early in the relationship, were having a debate. She believed that being able to put down people was much more effective than punching someone when you are having a fight with them. Granted, she is pretty good at this and has a very quick wit. However, to prove my point, I pushed her out of bed. She landed on her butt and cried. I felt like a wife beater. I have been feeling guilty about that for 13 years. Who was right?

My sister in law yelled at me once for eating all her cheetos when she was pregnant. I knew she was pregnant, knew she liked cheetos and I ate them anyway. Completely on purpose. My other sister in law yelled at me because I ate all of her girl scout cookies when she was pregnant. I did that on purpose to.

A good friend of mine once fell off the top of the fence straight onto his back. He was gasping for air. I couldn’t help him because I was laughing so hard. It made it funnier that his glasses got knocked off.

My grandfather once caught me having sex in my girlfriends backyard. I was 14. He never told a soul. God I love that man. I’m not really ashamed of that one, but still.

My father is disabled. He has MS. I have used that as an excuse to miss class, ditch tests and miss work when nothing was wrong. I fear something is wrong with me. My brother and sister have done the same thing. I’m pretty sure my wife has to.

And speaking of MS, when we went to Disney World we got to cut in front of all the long lines because he was in a wheelchair. We rode the pirates of the Caribbean 8 times in a row. Totally worth it. My Dad loved it.

A friend and I stole 20 dollars worth of quarters out of the church charity fund to play the video game “Contra” that was in the local pizza parlor. When we were caught, I blamed him.

My mom worked full time while caring for 3 kids while my Dad had MS and had to go into a wheelchair. Needless to say, she was pretty frazeled most of the time while we were growing up, I have no idea how she did it. But……………I would tell her that I would need a note excusing my absence from school the week before when I was sick. I knew she couldn’t remember whether I was sick or not and she would write the note anyway. What I would actually do is skip school and play video games at the arcade. Christ, there are a lot of video game confessions here.

And on that vein: I once woke up at 3:30 am to play a video game for 2 hours in the middle of the night so I wouldn’t have to share with my brother and sister.

Also—if I knew I was getting a video game for Christmas, I would unwrap the present before Christmas, play the game, and the expertly wrap it back up. I was a freaking Ninja when it came to this. My brother and friends had a complete Madden tournament a month before Christmas—all with 4 new controllers.

My brother once made my sister drink mud out of a glass, telling her that it was a milkshake. Ok, that wasn’t my fault. BUT, I was the one that put the mud in the glass and stirred it just right so it would look like a milkshake.

I have not done a lick of work today, all I have done is blog. My wife is encouraging me to do this.

Sometimes I fake sleep when the baby was crying so my wife would get up and tend to her and let me get some sleep.

In college, all I could drink was wine coolers because I hated beer so much.

I absolutely hate bullies, can’t stand them, mainly because I got bullied a little when I was a kid. But my big brother would usually come around and take care of them for me. He kicks ass. However, once, and only once, I was a bully to a younger kid and I pushed him down. It was terrible.

I thought the word Shit was the funniest thing ever when I was 8 and would go around saying “Shit this and Shit that.” In front of grownups. My mom was so embarrassed. I’m sorry Mom.

I once left a glass of milk in my room for over a year in college. None of us could figure it out until we moved out of the house we were renting. It stunk so bad. The truth is, I was just to lazy to spend any time searching for the offending stench and learned to live with it.

I only ran track in field in middle school to look up girls shorts while they stretched. I was slow as tar.

I once beat up a kid when I was 10 who wanted to fight my brother. I did it because I knew it would humiliate him to get beaten up by the YOUNGER brother of the guy he really wanted to fight. I really didn’t know him at all, just thought he was a pecker head.

My brother once tried to shake hands with me after one of our fist fights. I hit him in the mouth when his guard was down.

I have no problem fighting dirty.

I’m glad that my wife if pregnant and not me. There is no way I could do that. I don’t feel guilty about this. Not even a little bit.

God forgive me for all of this.

The Picture

The waiting room of the OB/GYN’s office is filled with pregnant women. I suppose that this can be assumed to be true most of the time. But this time, there were at least 20 of these in the waiting room and they were all massively pregnant. In my mind, I had to prepare for the remote possibility that all would go into labor at the exact moment I sat down and I would be called upon to help with the deliveries.

Our doctor would run out, yell “OH MY GOD” and would quickly point to me and say “Get that man some scrubs!” I would dash to put on my blue power scrubs and we would proceed to deliver 20 babies in under 20 minutes. The newspapers would all want my picture, and being the reluctant hero, I would grudgingly oblige.

There’s not a lot for me to really do when I accompany my wife to our doctor’s visits to check on the status of the new spud except for me to constantly make up Hero scenarios. And as my wife was not there with me at that moment, I had plenty of time to run through several.

As always, going to the OB/GYN’s office is massively creepy but I have found myself to begin to become a little bit comfortable. Not for long mind you, but at least I can go into the waiting room by myself. I used to sit out by the curb until my wife appeared just to prove that I had a purpose of going to the OB/GYN’s office. Other wise I am sure I get the dear god theres a pervert stare from anyone and everyone in the waiting room.

I have found that it is ok if I make a mad dash to the farthest seat away from any woman and promptly plant my face in whatever magazine that happens to be in arms reach. Today it was a copy of “Motherhood” and I read a fascinating article about the pros and cons of having an IUD. Very interesting.

Hossmom shortly showed up and has begun to get that 8 month waddle. And like all the other’s, she is massively pregnant so at least she can blend in. I am sure I stick out like a candle in a dark room. But as she is with me, it is ok for me to be there.

Our wait was short and we were called back by the nurse. I have worked very hard to make every nurse there love me. I compliment, I joke, anything so that they will very quickly show me to the room we will be in so that I may sit behind the closed door and away from the 88 year old on the exam table across the hall. After basically 2 years of this, it has finally worked like a charm and while my wife gives the required urine sample, I am plodded off, head held low, make no eye contact with anyone.

The room itself appears to be quiet comfortable except that there is only one chair in there besides the exam table with the stirrups. There is no place for Dad to sit and for those that are less experienced, this may cause some anxiety. My philosophy is to sit on the doctors chair until he arrives and I have thought about tell him to screw off when he gives me that glance that says I am in his chair. I want to remind him of the rules of shotgun.

My comfort level is pretty high when my wife comes in and sits on her stirrup throne. I was somewhat tired so to my amazement, took a little nap in that small room. My head was on my wife’s leg and my arm was over a stirrup. Yes, I know what the stirrups are for but I must admit, it made a very comfortable arm rest. This proved to be my undoing today.

Everyone has had that nap where they are woken up abruptly. And it does seem that after that happens it takes a good hour before you can get your bearings straight again. You are cloudy, somewhat confused and are trying to decide if you had a dream getting hit in the back of the head or if it was really your wife telling you to stop snoring, the doctor’s here.

At this point, I am discombulated. I see the doctor, I see my wife, I see my arm over the stirrup. Where the hell am I? It’s takes a second for me to realize that I am in the Coochie Clinic and that I have just fallen asleep next to the Coochie Lamp and vaginal sonogram. Once again, I feel like a massive pervert.

I quickly vacate the seat and go stand in my pre-approved corner by the window with the view of anything except a doctor with this head in my wife’s crotch. I rub my eyes and get the sleepiness out of there but this may take a second.

My favorite part of these visits is that I get to hear my kids heartbeat. It sounds like a Mac truck heading for an NFL league leading sack. Everything is good, everything is great. A few more tests and we can leave.

We walk out of the room and my wife is talking to one of the nurses about setting up one of those tests. Then, out of nowhere, my wife says “Move!” and I feel her hand on the back of my neck pushing me forward. For a minute I fear that she has decided that I am no longer necessary and is going to brain me on the door frame. This hacks me off somewhat as I a much, much bigger than my wife and amazed that she seems to think she could take me in a fair fight.

But this is not the case. In my complete and total awkwardness in open spaces I have almost backed up into a nurse caring a full jar of urine. And it had no top. Ok, granted, I am a bit of a lummox. I tend to bump things a lot and when I do, they eventually decide to break. I have actually broken a bathtub with my foot. Complete accident, swear to God. But I slipped and my foot went through the tub.

It is with relief that I see the nurse give me a small grimace and continue on her way with the important cup of urine that could have easily painted my backside. There is a part of me that wants to tell her to quit caring open jars of urine and for Gods Sake Woman get a top on that thing, but I don’t. I am already drawing to much attention to myself, must get out of here as quickly as possible.

So in my awkwardness I notice a large painting that dominates the nurses station. It’s a big picture that is lighted from behind. It’s of a beach, white sand, a few huts and a lot of sunshine. Well hello my happy place, how are you. I can absently stare into your lazy days while ignoring the reality that I am in the one place most guys never want to be.

It’s a very nice picture with a very nice frame. I am studying this like it’s my PHD rather than to actually have to acknowledge anyone around me. It’s then that I see the name of this picture.

“U.S. Virgin Islands”

For the love of God, please someone tell me that they get t hat joke. Come on!

Seriously, the VIRGIN islands? In an OB/GYN’s office? Where everyone here today is 10 months pregnant? THE VIRGIN ISLANDS?! Come on, someone help me out!

There are more Virgins dancing at a strip club than there are in this place. That is the thought that goes through my mind and I lose it. I can’t help it, I lost it bad.

My entire face goes read with embarrassment and I start giggling like I am 10. The giggle turns into a laugh that I am trying to suppress so very very bad. I pull my wife to me and tell her of my discovery. She does not think it is funny, not in the least. I am near tears, there’s drool coming out the corner of my mouth while I’m trying to not laugh. I just can’t, we have to go, we have to go now.

We finally leave and I bust out in full guffaw mode. I again explain to my wife the joke. She tells me that yes, she understood it the first time. She calls me juvenile and a 10 year old. She then suggests that I go tell my Xbox buddies who are 10 so we can all laugh at the joke together. I think that is a marvelous idea because this shit is funny. She gives me a look and we drive home.

The first song on the radio was “Beat It” by Michael Jackson. I have been laughing for a good 24 hours.


You're so vein, you probably think this Blog is about you.

I just spent a good twenty minutes looking into the side mirror of my co-workers car.

Sweet Jesus, look at the size of my forearm. It is freaking huge. Look at that reflection, right next to the bug smear. That’s a forearm of justice, that what that is. Um, let me flex it a little bit, see that little ball of muscle dance for me. Dance baby, dance a little dirty. Hey baby, yea you behind me in the drive through, are you checking out that forearm that I am laying out the window.

You want a little piece of this? Maybe you want to touch it? Be careful not to chip a nail on the steel python that is my forearm. I see you back there, licking your lips. Yeah, put on that lip gloss and imagine this vice grip all over your tender side.

What, you have a friend in the car. Hello little hottie, I’m Hossman. Ya know, I have two of these things, that’s right, a double dose of muscle filled loving. And did you notice how there is the appropriate amount of hair on each arm, not all crazy gurilla? You like that don’t you, naughty minx. Maybe you and your lip gloss friend over there want to come on over and talk to it a little bit. I’ve got forearm loving for each of you.

And guess what, that forearm is attached to a bicep that can lift a sofa. That’s right, it’s muscle mania over in my car. Here, let me roll up my short sleave shirt a little bit so you can see the rest of it. Be careful not to gasp to loud, let’s not alert the neighbors. Um, see that tattoo, that’s pretty cool huh. Yup, that didn’t hurt at all. The screaming I did was only from the joy of manhood.

That’s right, it’s a gargoyle that adorns the shoulder of slender. It means I’m a protector, yeah baby, a protector your righteous virtue. Unless of course you don’t want your virtue to be protected. Haha, hey baby, I’m funny to. Muscles and humor, ready to get out of the car yet?

And what’s this? A back filled with strength and fortitude? Am I for real? Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. Maybe you are just daydreaming in your car and I’m your daydream. Hmmm, yeah. Maybe you are dreaming about you and friend doing a little combo action on the Hossman. Maybe you want to dominate a little, but can you handle the muscles?

No baby, let’s not think about the lack of hair. And no, no baby, let’s not stop on the tour of Hossman at the gut. That ride is still under construction.

But there’s more here for you viewing pleasure, besides the meaty forearms. Let’s check out these legs. I know that I am wearing pants and I’m sitting in the car, but I know you are thinking about them. Their like pylons, are they not? Are they ready to hold up the bridge to your lust? You want to find out? If yes, why don’t you just toss your panties over this way.
And that, my friends, might have been the most vein moment of my entire existence.


My Other Life

I am a pampered, pampered man. Seriously, it’s pretty disgusting.

One of my worst fears, and it would appear that I have many of them, is to once again be single and alone. It’s not that I don’t do fine by myself, I do quit well. And it’s not that I am afraid to grow old alone, I really have not problem with that as well.

It has more to do that, god help me, I just can’t take care of myself like an adult should. I have no idea why but it is indeed terrifying. For some reason that I will never truly figure out, Hossmom has decided to take pity on me and stay with me for the rest of my life. Sucks for you, great for me.

In a lot of these blogs Hossmom’s role is as the antagonist. The obstacle to be overcome, the protagonist that pushes a story forward. Sometimes she is the voice of reason and sometimes she is a wet blanket trying to keep down our fun. But the closer truth is that she is the glue that holds us all together. Lucky for me, she has a sense of humor and can recognize her role in all this.

After the vasectomy blog she says to me “My dear husband, who is the light of day and the safety at night, all around bug killer and toilet unclogger—you made me appear kind of like Gloria Steinem” As she took her fresh baked apple pie out of the oven and then had 3 more children on the spot, I thought about this. I said “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“You made me sound like a hard core feminist” she said and then made a sign for the bake sale to be put out front.

It was at this time that I decided NOT to mention the fact that she did NOT take my last name when we got married. Or that the re-imaging of our vasectomy conversation was pretty spot on. I then got the thank you cards that she had written the neighbors for being good neighbors and mailed them.

The truth is that without Hossmom I would be dead.

And I don’t mean this in some surreal, overstatement way. I mean very simply that I doubt that I would continue to draw breath without Hossmom watching over me.

Let me give you a visual representation of what it would be like if I were still single and without Hossmom’s ever loving protection.

I would be in some seedy apartment, the kind where the “wrong kind of people” live. There would be crack whores down the block but I would be to afraid to pay any of them for anything. I would be sitting in some rat nasty chair, most likely a lazy boy type of thing. I would have worn ass prints in it from many many years of use. There would be several rips in the leather and in my underwear.

I would be clothed in nothing but said underwear and my junk would be hanging out one of the rips. I would be wearing black socks because they go with tighty whities so well. My chest hair would be filled with crumbs from the personal pan pizza that I would be eating, which just so happens to be resting on my massive gut. I would be drinking a wine cooler. I would be watching a black and white TV, probably something like Bonanza. 13 inch screen baby, that’s how I would roll.

I would have a dog of course. And he would be laying on his back also wearing black socks. He would have mange. I would have mange. There would be flies buzzing around us. We would sit there waiting for the scrambled porn channel to get just a little bit clearer.

We would not be home owners because of that scam we fell into buying Llamas and thus ruined our credit. I would be constantly out of toilet paper. I would never use napkins or paper towels. My version of clean would refer to my soul and spirit and not to the kitchen.

The phone would ring and I would be overjoyed that someone would actually want to talk to me. It would be a telemarketer and I would buy whatever he is selling until he asked for a credit card. I would tell him that we should just do this on a handshake and that a man’s word is his bond. He would try to hang up the phone then but I would whip out MY approved script and ask him questions that are designed to keep him on the phone. He would get pissed and hang up on me and then go home to kill himself with Vodka and Xanex.

I would read about his death in the newspaper that I use for a sheet because I don’t own any sheets myself. Just a crusty old blanket that says Chicago Bears 1985 on it. I would be devastated because my dear, dear friend Charlie couldn’t take life anymore and I know it would be because of me. I would cry and then have a heart attack. As I would never go to the doctor on my own accord, it would have completely neglected any and every vegetable and be very shocked to learn that cheese pizza is not healthy at all.

I would have very high cholesterol because of this which is what caused the heart attack in the first place. I would sit in the hospital worrying about my dog and be equally disappointed to learn that, once I was carted off on the special fat man gurney that can lift a whale, my dog took in with one of the neighborhood crack whores. I would then die of loneliness knowing that my dog prefers the company of Ms. STD Warehouse Lady than to myself.

My funeral would consist of a county burial and the one homeless guy that shows up because of the possibility of free food and the chance to steal my shoes. No flowers would ever be planted on my grave because no one would care and eventually grass and jungle would grow over it and leave me lost, never to be found. It would be as if I never existed. There would be no blog, no glory, no victory.

I have a very vivid imagination.

That is what Hossmom has saved me from. That is the alternative life that I could have chosen rather than getting married. She is my Jesus.

She has bought every stitch of clothing for me for the last 13 years. I have never had to try anything on in a dressing room. And if that is not enough, most mornings she actually lays out my clothes for me in the morning, making sure that my time and my clothes coordinate.

She uses little scissors to cut my eyebrows so that I don’t look like lurch. She will let me know when that nose hair has gotten just a tad bit noticeable. She will make sure I take my cholesterol medication and not stroke out. She will shave my back should I ever ask, without judgment and without throwing up.

She will redress Little Hoss after I put her in a tube top and the pants from her last Halloween costume. She will make sure that we are all tucked in late and night. She will wake me up in the morning for work rather than making me use the alarm because the sound just sets me off wrong.

She lets me lean against her while playing Xbox and never gives me shit about watching football on Sunday. She laughs at my jokes and acts impressed when I lift anything even remotely heavy, like our fat dog.

Now, out of the two lives, which would you choose?


The Donkey Box

Sometimes in your day, nothing goes right. Sweet Jesus, just nothing.

Say you wake up on a Monday and your wife is feeling sick because she is carrying a bowling ball in her stomach. You have to take the kid. It throws you off your routine ever so slightly.

Then say your day is spent getting your ass chewed by different individuals about anything and everything that doesn’t matter. Maybe you’re to blunt, maybe you think that some people are overly sensitive and should shut the fuck up.

Then say halfway through your day your home A/C goes out and you have to run home because you are the only one who can take the leave and meet the charming overcharging assholes there. Only to find out that they have to do something special to your A/C that isn’t covered by your warranty, because apparently nothing is. Then you just pay your money because you have to have A/C when it’s 105 out and you have a pregnant wife.

So you hustle back to work only to find that the assination of your Monday was continuing in your absence. You know you should just say fuck it, but instead you power through it although you are doubting the existence of anything pure and good in the world.

You have to stay late at work but at least you are thinking that Hey, maybe I can miss some traffic. Only to find out that the news story about the 14 year old running from police actually took place on your one and only freeway. So whatever traffic you were going to miss had the decency to actually wait for you, unlike anyone else that day.

You get home a hell of a lot later than you usually do to find that your daughter is in bed and you get a grand total of 5 minutes with her, which just makes you hate everyone else even more. Your wife is burned out from feeling sick and the heat but at least the A/C is finally working. But you missed dinner so it’s cold pizza for you chump as your wife mumbles something and heads off to bed. The only thing you understand is that your daughter threw a fit while you were gone because the box she loves to play in finally busted.

You look around and think, what the hell happened to me today? What the Sam Fuck Me T-Shirt was I wearing to get this way today? And what the hell am I going to do to at least end it on a good note?

If you are like me, then you build your daughter a Donkey Box.


Because somebody has to love you god dammit. Somebody has to believe that you are the all great hero and superdad. And if that means spending three hours putting back together a silly box that she destroyed, then dammit, someone is going to have a very cool morning when she wakes up and sees this monstrosity that I made.

First, grab a roll, a roll and a half, of duct tape. This the all purpose superdad supertool. We all know it. The duct tape is the key to the entire Donkey Box.

I put the box back together but then, like the six million dollar man—I made it faster, tougher, more boxier-er-er. You should see this thing. NASA called this morning and want it for their next space shuttle launch. You can put a good 100 pounds of rice in this thing and hide Charlie at the same time without breaking a sweat.

Each side is reinforced with two long strips of duct tape. I then covered this with, well, more duct tape. Because if two strips are good, then three are better.

But wait, there’s more. After the box is back in it’s original form, now you need to add some reinforcement to the corners. This is the week spot of any good box and if it is going to add up to the wear and tear of Little Hoss it’s going to need some extra hull plating there. It needs to repulse Romulan attacks. I put another two strips through all 4 corners. I practically used rivets. This thing would withstand the weight of a sumo-wrestler.

We’re not done. You have to think safety people, constant vigilance! Take the 4 flaps from the top of the box and fold them down. Add an additional weaving to the man tape to get them down. But remember that these open ends can produce mind numbing paper cuts—be prepared to suffer a few. Use the appropriate amount of tape, and by that I mean no less that 12 yards, and tape off these edges.

Then for good measure, wrap some more tape around the whole thing. Put it anywhere you want it, it’s designer’s choice.

But what makes this a Donkey box and not just a normal super reinforced death machine?

You add a tail.

The tail that I added is about 3 feet long, totally made out of duct tape. I went for the Eor look with the tail and added a triangle shape at the end. I figured that this would give her a good hand hold to grab onto and drag the Donkey box around for ultimate destruction purposes. Attach it to said box by liberal use of yet more duct tape making sure you reinforce any connection points.

And there you go, a box that looks like a Donkey. Except on the side it says Little Hoss Machine of Vengeance. Written in glitter, because that kicks ass.

It was the best 3 hours of my entire day. My wife woke up around 9 and came downstairs to see what all the commotion was about. I just screamed “Donkey Box!” and made the dogs chase her back upstairs. It was piece and quiet with the ultimate goal of at least pleasing one person in my craptacular day. 3 hours was worth it as I was drinking a beer and yes dammit, I took a dip for the first time in days.

It was pure euphoria. And I know that when I pick up my daughter this afternoon and take her home she is going to go apeshit over the new and improved Donkey Box. She thought it was destroyed, but superdad has rebuilt it to perfection. She will look at me and think “My Dad can Kick Your Dad’s Ass.”

Yes honey, yes I can.


Please, Leave my Junk Alone

Welcome to another Hossman family debate.

Tonights topic: Vasectomy vs. Tubes Tied.

In the red corner we have Slamming Hairy Hossman, a dashing 32 year old Father of one and expectant father of a future Astronaut.

In the blue corner we have the vivacious Hossmom, mother of the new Adam and Eve, bringer home of the bacon and all around bad person.


Ding Ding

Hossmom: When a couple is done having children, men should have the vasectomy. Men should do it because it’s a much easier procedure. They should do it because women have been on the pill for most of their adult lives. It’s time that men take responsibility for their reproductive selves.

Hossman: Um, I don’t want a knife anywhere near my balls.

Hossmom: What kind of crap is this—Viagra is covered by health insurance but birth control is usually not. It’s the old boy network all over again. Women have to be responsible for birth control but a man only has to be responsible for the sex. That’s crap and we both know it.

Hossman: Um, I still don’t want a knife anywhere near my balls.

Hossmom: We both know that there is some 60 year old crotchy white guy at the top of the insurance company that has a mistress. So his getty up and go pills are covered while his wife gets screwed every time. Do you know how much we have paid for birth control over the year? We could build the space shuttle with what we have paid.

Hossman: Seriously, knife + my balls = me running away.

Hossmom: And lets talk about recovery time. If a woman gets tubule ligation it will take weeks of painful recovery. While if a man has a vasectomy, it’s a day procedure! He is up and walking around the SAME day!

Hossman: I don’t think you are getting my point. A knife, my balls, is bad. Is bery bery bad.

Hossmom: It’s always been so easy for the man to just run away and leave everything to the woman. And that’s because it’s a “man’s world”. Well, I got news for you, it’s about equal treatment now. This is 2007, men should have the vasectomy.

Hossman: I just figured, you know, since you were already on the operating table, they could just go ahead and you know, snip snip, cut cut. Bam, problem solved. My balls are saved.

Hossmom: It’s major surgery! With added recovery time! Ya know, they just don’t go in there with the Keebler Elves and build cookies. No, they have to actually cut the woman open and dig around her insides. Things get displaced and moved around. It’s major surgery!

Hossman: Have you noticed that our dog still has his balls? If I don’t want to cut the balls off my dog, um, what do you think my reaction to myself is?

Hossmom: Men are such sissies. As much as everyone talks about the “equality” of the world, it still isn’t happening. Do you know that a man gets paid on average 20% more than I do and I do the same job? That’s just an extension of this!

Hossman: I think you are missing my point. I have no moral objection to a vasectomy. I have no ethical objection to a vasectomy. I don’t even want any more kids after we have a 3rd. It’s no more than just an instinct to protect my balls. They are my friends, why would I want to hurt them?

Hossmom: If a woman tries to assert herself, she’s classified as a bitch. If a woman is sexually liberal, she’s classified as a whore. I’m telling you, it’s no more than men ruining the world. A vasectomy is a day procedure and it should always be the man who gets it done.

Hossman: I don’t want the Darth Vader knife anywhere near my Luke Skywalker balls.

Hossmom: Don’t you even feel the unfairness of all this? Of all the world treating women like second class, especially when it comes to reproduction? As a woman you HAVE to get married and you HAVE to have children. But a man, no, he just has to go out there and have sex with anything and everything that he can possibly find.

Hossman: I know I should care. I know that a lot of this stuff is unequal. But I also know that a knife vacationing at my chode and making the day trip to Mount Nutsack is not a vacation that I want to sign up for.

Hossmom: You have a daughter! Do you want her to grow up in a world where she will always have to struggle for respect?

Hossman: Again, my point—a knife and my balls are ideological opposites. One is the communism and one is capitalism. They are in an eternal struggle for domination. There is a Berlin wall between my balls and the knife.

Hossmom: I can’t believe you have this attitude.

Hossman: I know, it’s very shocking. But it is only because it’s a physical thing that has been ingrained in all mankind. A knife should not be anywhere a near a guys junk, so sayeth the Bible.

Hossmom: That’s not in the Bible.

Hossman: It should be, if it was written by a man. God’s man. That’s why he has had so many children.



My daughter and I had popsicles in the bathtub today.

That's it, no story. I just know that many years from now, when she is off to college and hating me, that she may read this one day. I just want her to know that today, we had popsicles in the bathtub.


The 3 am Feeding

I have no idea why I am going to write this other than I feel like it. So here it goes.

The best thing that I ever did with my daughter was to take ALL the 3 am feedings. My wife was not allowed to get up and help. My wife was not allowed to walk down the stairs. My wife was not allowed to call my name from upstairs. I think, and I could only be guessing here, that my wife loved this.

I know that this is a weird thing to say and doesn’t make much sense on the outside. But stick with me, my story gets better.

Being a Dad, especially for the first time, can be fucking hard. I have never been one of those that piss and moan so I don’t really get into this that much. My basic philosophy is that it is my kid, I’m not a rent a Dad, I am superdad. I planned on being no less than the hero for my daughter. But that is not to say that she doesn’t drive you up a god damn wall at times.

And here is the kicker: it’s not always hard because of the Little Hoss. Sometimes, just sometimes, people need to shut the shit up and let Dad be Dad. I say this in defense of all Dad’s out there. I shall speak for you my brothers and together, we shall get some god damn peace and quiet.

So let’s start with making some confessions, on behalf of all Dad’s out there. But don’t worry, I got your back. 1. At first, I had no damn idea how to change a diaper. 2. I had no idea how small she was really going to be and how much of a klutz I am. 3. I still think poop is gross and do not think it is cute in any way, shape or form. 4. Formula, breast milk, cough strips, breast pads, leakage, the burrito wrap and water temp for bath—no idea about any of it. 5. New baby clothes have to be washed PRIOR to them wearing it, with special detergent. 6. Babies cry. All the time. When you want to sleep.

Listed above, that is what most first time Dad’s don’t know. That and everything that is about to happen to your wife AFTER the wife gives birth. I won’t go into detail, but be prepared for more blood, some depression, some mania, constant pain for a month. We don’t know about any of that either. Hats off to Moms, and especially Hossmom.


We are not idiots either. Which brings me to the point of this story, taking all the 3 am feedings.

It is very easy for everyone, and I do mean everyone, to silently push Dad out of the way when there is a new baby there. I don’t think it is meant as any kind of slight or any kind of assessment of your skills. Ok, that is bullshit, it is an assessment of your perceived skills. I was trying to be kind but screw it.

It is very easy for everyone that sees you, whether they know you or not, to try and offer you “helpful” suggestions at every turn. And this happens to everyone, including my sister. When she first had her kiddo, some helpful non relative suggested that the baby MUST have socks on all the time and then proceeded to get a pair and put them on my neice.

I very kindly suggested, in a most appropriate way, that just perhaps---she should strip down the kid butt naked and let them run around for 20 minutes. As you can tell, I am all about the helpful suggestion.

My wife was great at letting me be Dad. She understood that she couldn’t do it all and needed help. She was great at letting me discover how to do things on my own at times. Granted, we did have to make a baby rule about it. If you put on a diaper wrong and she busts out a massive dump, you have to fix it. You can believe that I learned the right way to do it very quickly. Hossmom is a genius, a giver and teacher.

But my way is not always the nurturing, cuddle bunny way. I may tend to do things a tad bit differently that may offend some softer souls out there. The touchy feely type people may get a tad bit irritated by me. For example, if that little tag on the diaper breaks while I’m struggling to put it on, I may not throw the diaper away. I may use a small patch of duct tape.

If my daughter likes to climb. Well, we may like to get the step ladder out and start a little expedition. While she was up there, I also let her grab the painter’s tape off the wall of the new nursery and pull it down. Might as well put her little ass to work while we were at it. She loved it, thought it was the best thing ever. And yes, I was standing right behind her so don’t freak out. We got the nursery painted in record time.

And if my daughter wants to pull some grass up because she enjoys destruction, anyone want to guess who helps me weed? At 20 months old, she is quiet the little work horse. She might get bit by an ant or two, but she is tough. She growls at them then gets back to work, my Little Hoss.

My point is that Dad’s just have a different way of doing things and although they may seem a little off the wall, it’s just different.

And I learned it all during the 3 am feeding. This was the gift that my wife gave me. I told her I would do it so she could actually get some sleep rather than having leachy sucking off her every minute.

This was my time to do things with my daughter without any interruption. It was my time to figure out exactly how to do things that would make my daughter happy. It was my time to figure out if she was strapped into a car seat and sung around like it was a carnival ride, she would stop crying and gently wait for her heated late night snack.

We would sit there while watching America whip ass in the Olympics. We would talk about who I should draft in my next fantasy football league. We would watch the cat try and be sneaky and get past the dog and then to fail and run like a banshee through the living room. We had a lot of laughs those nights. And it’s where I learned that hey, I can take care of my kid with not to much problems.

That was what my wife gave me and that’s why I love her so much. She knows that I hate it when people watch over my back and she knows that sometimes, Dads and Daughters just have to do things there way, like watch Star Trek and growl at Klingons.

Trust in Dads, let them rock and roll the way they know how. And if there is a problem, it’s probably something that duct tape can easily fix.

Our Review

99% of all the blogs out there are total and utter crap.

I know it’s a hard thing to fathom, but yet, it is true. I am not saying that mine is any kind of greatness what so ever. I am not saying that mine rules from on high as the blog overlord. I am not even saying that if you read mine you will find Jesus, but you might. I’m just saying, on the whole, most blogs suck. It’s a bad blog when the word “tedious” enters your vocabulary.

And I am certainly guilty of writing some massive monkey loads of crap. It usually happens when you force it out. I can’t write everyday, if I do, then well, you get something that is only fitting to be read while you poop and you can’t reach the shampoo bottle to check the ingredients.

I am thankful to all the people that visit my site and constantly make my morning with their visit or their comments. Again, the fragile ego comes into play here and it is always a boost to here good things or funny comments.

If you are like me, then you may read blogs daily to help you get through work. Provided that they are not blocked because of foul language. Sorry about that to those who are. I do hope that my blog can give you somewhat of a break during your day. But knowing that it lasts only a short time, I offer you something extra today.

I have blogs that I read every week, every day and sometimes every couple of hours. For your enjoyment, I offer you a review of these blogs so that you will have something to do during a mindless 3 hour meeting where all you will talk about is how to set up the next meeting.

Also, for any other bloggers out there, please leave your blog address in the comments section so that we may all enjoy everything that is you. Or if you have other interesting or funny sites, please LET US KNOW! I have to be on hold with someone for a very long time today and I would appreciate any mind numbing fodder you can offer up!

1. www.postsecret.com
Seriously, everyone has had to heard of this by now. But just incase, check it out. It’s art, it’s therepy, it’s someone saying that everytime her parents call she has to poop. It’s updated every Sunday.

2. www.trueofficeconfessions.com
“I want to f*ck my coworker so hard that she calls her father afterward to apologize for everything she's done wrong in life.” ----That may be the funniest sex thing I have ever read. Updated every couple of hours.

3. www.truedadconfessions.com; www.truemomconfessions.com
These are on the same vein as the one above and can be very entertaining but somewhat paranoid. When I read the true mom confessions I secretly think that everyone was posted by my wife. I go home every night and apologize. However, it’s funny as hell sometimes. Guys like blow jobs, who knew? Updated every couple of hours.

4. www.dadgonemad.com
I aspire to be this man. This is your blogging god, worship him. Seriously, this dude is massively funny. I read a lot of Dad Blogs but this one is the best. Not to shat on my other fellow dad bloggers, but this guy is funny as hell. He posts every other day or so.

5. http://www.uexpress.com/dearabby/
It’s your daily dose of Dear Abby. I have read her since I was 14. It always makes me feel better knowing that people out there are more screwed up than I am. And for the last time—if your husband is sleeping with his step daughter, please leave him.

6. www.thechestpains.blogspot.com
This is a blog by a stay at home dad and one of my personal heroes. He’s a SAHD but yet, still cool. He hasn’t gone sissy and still cusses. It’s a pretty funny look fatherhood on a daily basis. It’s not all about fatherhood, and I was very impressed when he took a picture of his hernia scar for the whole world to see. That took balls. When you see the picture, you’ll know what I am talking about.

7. http://www.newsoftheweird.com/
Weird stories that make no sense from around the world. Here’s an example: “Robert Theriault, 49, a courthouse security officer in Concord, N.H., was convicted in April of persuading a couple that he was a tester for an insurance company and would pay them $20 to have sex in front of him so he could evaluate a certain bed sheet and condom.” There are so many questions that I want to ask about that story. Who is that dumb? Updated every Sunday.

8. http://blogs.sltrib.com/plurallife/
This is my soap opera type blog. It’s a blog that has to deal with polygamy. That is jacked up, seriously. It makes for an entertaining read though, kinda like watching a natural disaster—you’ve just got to see the pics. These people are so jacked up. I found it after watching the HBO series Big Love one time. The thought of 4 wives—seriously, have they thought this through? One is enough for me, thank you. That’s why god invented mistresses people. Updated daily.

9. http://kev.homelinux.net/index.php
Another Dad blog. You can see a theme here, can you not? But this one is more of a real life look into being a stay at home dad. His encounter with a mom’s group—priceless. Updated every once in a while.

I hope everyone enjoys the list above and it gives you something to do when I am to damn lazy to throw down a new blog. And remember, if you have anything you want to add to the list—let’s hear it!


My Mancard

“Thank you for calling the International Bank of Manliness, This is Sheila. How can I help you?”

“Hi Sheila, my name is Hossman and I need to check on the status of my Mancard, I don’t think it’s working.”

“Hello Mr. Horseman…………”

“No, No, it’s Hossman”

“Sure. Ok, tell me what happened Mr. Norseman”

“Hossman. Forget it. Anyway, I tried to use my Mancard this morning and it came back denied.”

“Tell me what happened Mr. Morsecode.”

“I hate you already. Ok, so I was driving to work and a jackass in a Jeep cut me off. It was pretty rude and I wanted vengeance. But when I tried to flip the guy off and curse at him, I couldn’t quite do it. It was almost like I was afraid he would pull an assault rifle out of his gun rack that was displayed and riddle me like the first scene in Robocop. I was quite embarrassed.”

“Hmm, mmmkay, let’s see what I can pull up here.” (compter clickityclack, clityclack)

“Okay, I see the problem Mr. Grossman. It seems that your account is currently in the Pansey Pink stage.”

“For the last time, it’s Hossman, it’s on your god damn computer screen. What does Pansey Pink mean? Why isn’t my Mancard working.”

“According to our records we have you flagged for several emotional outbursts over the last year and we have had to suspend the use of your Mancard.”

“What emotional outburst? I’m a freaking rock baby, there is no emotional outbursts!”

“The computer states that you have several instances of crying over the last year and that has affected your status with us.”


“Mr. Hossman? Are you still there?”

“Um, crying. Um, you guys know about that?”

“Yes Mr. Spiderman, we know all. We are all powerful and according to our records, over the 19 months you are turning into something of a sissy.”

“Ok, now you are just saying my name wrong to piss me off. Look, I can explain all of this. I had a daughter 19 months ago and, well, it kinda changed me. How am I not supposed to cry at the birth of my daughter???”

“That is not the instance we are talking about Mr. Honestman. Crying at a birth of a child is completely acceptable according to your Mancard contract. It was the other times.”

“Um, what other times, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“We show that 6 months ago you cried while watching the end of the movie Glory.”

“huh, yeah, I suppose I did that. Have you seen that movie? It’s a tear jerker I tell you.”

“Yes, I’m sure. We also show that you let a single tear fall while listening to a song.”

“yeah but it was a song that spoke about father’s and daughters, how am I supposed to keep that together? I mean, come on, I’m not made of stone ya know. Cut a guy a break Sheila.”

“Sir, we do allow some exceptions but the fact that you have cried 3 times over the past year is more than we can allow. If we made an exception for you we would have to make it for everyone.”

“What do you mean 3 times? There was no 3rd time, I’m made of steal. Sheila, don’t bust my balls here. I need my Mancard reinstated.”

“The 3rd time was this past weekend. You cried in your car a little bit. I’m sorry sir but because of that last infraction we can’t reinstate your Mancard at this time. You are in probation status until you emotions are held in check.”

“Shit. But wait, that last time was because my daughter didn’t want me to leave and held onto my leg like a little leach. It broke my heart to peel her off. I had a softball game and was feeling like a worthless father. That should be allowed!”

“I’m sorry sir, but I do not make the policy here. Until your emotions are in check, you will remain in Pansey Pink status.”

“Donkey balls.”

“Sir, I would appreciate it if you watched your language. Now if you don’t cry for another 4 months you can upgrade you to an active member and reinstate your Mancard.”

“Look, Sheila, bubie, what about my history. I cried like twice in my 20’s, doesn’t that count for anything? I was tough once, I swear to god.”

“Yes sir, your account history is very impressive but I’m afraid that recent events are more of our concern. 4 months of good behavior and you can have your Mancard back.”

“Um, Sheila…………..”

“Yes Mr. Goldman?”

“I have a son that will be born in October, um, that may be a problem.”

“Congratualations sir. Of course, he can have his Mancard immediately and you may be able to use his at times. We appreciate your membership but if you will please turn your Mancard to your wife, we would appreciate it.”

“sigh, um, ok.

“Please instruct her to keep it next to your balls and as soon as you are in good standing again, she can give it back.”


“Mr. Hossman?”

“Yes Sheila”

“Are you crying right now?”

“No, shut up.”

“Sir, this will add another month’s suspension.”


Photography Wanted

I need a family photographer. I need one because I suck. I need one because I am not in very many of my family pictures because I am the guy behind the camera.

I need one because I don’t want to be chastised by the delivery nurse again.

I was a wreck when my daughter was born. I was a wreck but I had no idea I was a wreck. I was in one of my very over confident phases where I am pretty sure that nothing could shake me. Sometimes, on the rare occasion, this creates tunnel vision and a lack of respect for the situation. I demand that the situation bows down to me, I bow down to no one.

In the delivery room, I was up by the head of my wife. There was no way I was going to be down by the business end. It was a C-section and I wanted no part of it. It’s not because I get queasy at the site of blood. It’s not that I would be disgusted by the inner workings of the human body. It’s because that this was my wife. And some jackass was using a knife to cut my wife open. And he was being very nonchalant about it as he was talking about his last vacation. I need a little focus here people.

I know that it is ridicules. I know that it makes no sense. But I don’t like to see anyone hurt my wife even though I know that it is necessary. When she got her epidural, which is with a 25 inch needle, I had to use every ounce of my being not to get up and plant the doctor on his uppity ass because I thought he was being a little rude to my wife. That is very hard to deal with.

I wanted to tell him that look jackass, she’s in a lot of pain, and just because you tell her not to flinch doesn’t mean that she won’t. I tell you what, let me jab that javelin pole into your spin, now don’t flinch.

But I didn’t move and sat with white knuckles feeling totally and completely useless. In these situations, if I cannot protect my family, what the hell do I do? I am the special guest on the Tonight Show that learns that Lindsey Lohan could make it to the show and I was no longer needed. So my role was to sit in the corner and give the doctor fuck you looks that I am sure he still dreams about. And I think at that time, early on, that I may have realized that I was in my over confident dictator state but I quickly dismissed it.

The very fact that I am over confident makes any discussion about me being over confident null and void because I will easily dismiss you as crazy and less hoss. I know, it makes no sense, but there it is.

When we reached the labor room, I was in the same mood. I was on top of this, I was ready to go. I was going to give my wife support like she has never seen support. I was going to let her bite down on my hand, kick me in the junk, curse me for every evil the world has ever known. And I was going to agree with everything she said. Yes, I am devil spawn and that is my devil spawn child.

Things went well and then my world crashed and the tunnel vision got so bad that I doubt I could have seen a typhoon coming at me from the side.

The doctor pulled out my baby and put it on Hossmoms chest. The umbilical cord, which I noticed was freaking huge, was in the way so I couldn’t tell if we had a boy or a girl. I caught a glimpse of the meat malt that was my wifes open incision and had to repress any desire for Hossman ass whipping.

They cut the cord, which I for some reason bet is oddly satisfying, and I saw that I had a baby girl. Then my world stopped.

I love my little girl but I honestly believed that she was going to be a boy. That is what I had expected. Now I have this little slimy thing looking around and yelling. I bought a hammer for my kiddo. I was that positive. And there was my girl. And there were all these people pushing her and prodding her. She was crying.

All of a sudden there was someone else to protect. There was someone else that needed to sit in the shadow of the Hossman no fly zone. And what the hell where these people doing to her? That’s my baby girl, can you kindly get us a fucking blanket she’s fucking cold.

They took her to the side and put her in that weird Baby O’ Torture chamber where they proceed to whip her with weird medieval instruments. They are poking and prodding and I still see no god damn blanket. I am midway between my wife and my daughter, both of them not looking to good. I am back to being useless jerky treat in the corner. I am the cheerio of life stuck underneath the sofa that you only find once you move.

And then the nurse says “Quick Dad, grab your camera and take a picture.”

Camera? Camera? I have no freaking camera. My wife’s uterus is pulled out and sitting on her stomach like a roasted turkey, my brand new daughter is getting the Spanish inquisition from Broom Hilda over there, and for the love of god can I please take off this fucking Umpa Lumpa suit now?! There are no pockets in these things, how the hell am I supposed to carry a camera into the delivery room?

The Umpa Lumpa suit was not made for quick movement or digital storage devices. It was made for a 5 foot 3, 110 pound prissy man and for Christ sakes do I have to have the world’s worst moose knuckle with this thing on? The very last thing on my mind was a camera.

The nurse shot me a judgment stare for not having the camera up and running. I also judged myself for forgetting this little detail. This is a huge day, a day that I had planned as meticously as I possibly could and yet I forgot to bring the camera. I am an extra in my own life.

I was allowed to wheel Little Hoss to the waiting room where we were mobbed by family. My arms tensed as I saw the stampede, I once again had a purpose, to protect my little girl. It was almost like dealing with my dogs when I get home, you have to throw a few judo kicks to get some space.

Everyone else seemed to have a camera and the flashes were going off. Honestly, I can’t remember what I was thinking other than Back the Hell up. I see those pictures now and, I know this sounds a little cocky, I look a little taller. It’s freaky, but in all those pictures it looks like everyone is smaller and shorter than me and my little girl.

With kid number 2 on the way, everyone please bring your camera. I will be totally useless.


How to Interview

A job interview can make you or break you. A good one, and maybe you get that dream job that you can shove in the face of your parents: See mom, I didn’t need to be a lawyer, look what I am now! I told you my liberal arts degree would pay off! I’m moving out!

However, a bad job interview can make you feel like abandoning life and moving to Montana to become a hermit. This is not a knock against Montana, I love Montana, assuming I ever go. I am trying to convince my wife to move there with me. She seems to think that this is a bit drastic, I find it adventuresome. That’s just my nature, she should be glad she married me. The bad job interview will cause you to go home and assess everything you did wrong. Did you pass gas, was that it? Or maybe you hugged the interviewer when they offered a hand shake. Your nerves may be acting up and you didn’t have time to take your Pepto, or maybe you are having a bad hair day, assuming you have hair which is never a problem for me.

My job is as a Hiring Specialist, which means that all day, every day, I interview people for potential government jobs. I have been doing this for a good year and a half and have seen my share. I have seen the new college grad on his first interview and the 50 year old trying to start a new career. I have seen the good, the bad, and the truly disturbing. I know that some people have a very hard time interviewing, especially if it is your first time for a real interview. My heart goes out to these people, even when I interview them. This is not such a problem with me, I interview great because I am personable as hell and chicks dig the funny. That’s not to say I haven’t said the bad dear god let me take it back joke at times, but on the whole, I rock.

So I feel sorry for some of you that are interviewing and decided that it was high time I did something to help you out. What should you do, what you shouldn’t do etc, etc. If you are going on a job interview, just learn from these examples. These are all true, I wish I could make this stuff up this well:

1. Please dress right. Don’t have you boobs hanging out all over the place, or wear jeans, or wear jeans with stains, or wear jeans with stains and rips, or wear jeans with stains, rips and the devils mark stitched into the pocket. 5 minutes into the interview I know that you are not getting the job. The rest of the time, I am just staring at your knockers. And get rid of the hemp sandals, that’s not helping your cause.

2. I usually try to forgive people when their cell phone goes off during the interview. I know that they may just be nervous and forgot to turn it off. However, if your phone rings and you proceed to pull it out of your cleavage, guess what, I am so embarrassed that I am not paying attention anymore. And when you proceed to tell me to “Hold on” while you take the call, guess what, I’m getting pissed. I am a very small minded individual and this is my domain you hussy, there will be no Holding On.

3. Always have a response to the question of what are your strengths and weaknesses. Come on, I know that you are going to bullshit me so let’s just answered the government approved question with something mindless and let’s move on. Say something like, well, ya know, I seem to be so committed to my work that my personal life is always put on hold. Great, I’ll take that. DO NOT say that once a month, when Aunt Flow comes you can be kind of cranky. At first I may think you are joking but when you explain about cramps and such, you freak me out once I realize that you are serious. I am just thinking that I am being set up for a lawsuit and will throw your application in the trash as soon as you leave.

4. Know how you handle stress because I am going to ask about it. A lot of companies will, so have this answer ready. Don’t say that when you are overwhelmed you climb under your desk until you are calm again. And if you do say that, don’t say it with a straight face, that’s even more creepy. I am pretty sure at that point that you are Norman Bates and no sir, we will not be offering a second interview.

5. First you accept a job. Then you call back a day later and decline a job. Then you call back a day later and change your mind. At the end of the week, you call and decline once again. Then you call for the 5th time and say you want the job. I’m a pretty understanding guy, but this is about as far as I go. No job for you, next in line please.

6. There are times when you aren’t able to make an interview so we reschedule. I am a benevolent leader, I’ll work with you. After all, this is what I do all god damn day. But when you are 45 minutes late to your rescheduled interview, you’re out. It will be the fastest interview you have ever seen and you will be back in your car to get lost on the way home within 15 minutes.

7. And when you are late, give me a real excuse like you overslept. Don’t say that your garage door opener is broken and couldn’t get out of the house. Although I do appreciate the story time, I am pretty sure that is bullshit. Just say that the bender you went on last night is whipping your ass and that you would prefer to come back when that new tattoo you got heals. That I can work with.

8. Kiss my ass. I know, this sounds horrible, but it is true. Don’t call me and DEMAND that you get an interview. And when you don’t get an interview, yelling at me will not get you one either because when I screened you out the first time you were just unqualified. Now you are unqualified and a jackass so I’m guessing that none of my coworkers are going to interview you either. Laugh at my jokes, complement my sweet ass, rub my bald head. That’s the way to go.

9. When I tell you I am going to run a background check and ask if there is anything you want to tell me, what this really means is that I am asking if you have ever been incarcerated for murder. I’m just being nice about it without embarrassing you. And when you tell me that “nothing” is on there, please make sure that the honesty fairy is not on vacation. Because I will find out everything bad you have ever done. And when I find out that you spent 5 years in the pokey for that 20 kilo drug run across the border, don’t be shocked. Don’t say you had no idea. Seriously man, I used to investigate people before I was promoted, give me some credit. I will naturally assume that you didn’t forget about the 5 years of ass rape you went through.

10. Please shut up. I know, this does not sound right but it is true. This is how it works: I am going to ask you a question. You are going to answer it. I am going to write your answer down. Don’t start talking again at that point trying to clarify something that you messed up. I know that you are backpedaling but at least I do find it funny when you are trying to dig yourself out of the hole. Just give your answer and be done. Let me ask the questions to get to know you, don’t tell me about Uncle Joey and his horse farm. I DON”T CARE.

11. If you fall down on the way to my office, or trip and have to do that half run, don’t let that throw you off for the rest of the interview. It’s a great icebreaker and we can joke about it. Don’t sit there afterwards with the death star and just say yes or no. Sell yourself for christsakes, tell me why you deserve this job.

12. When we talk about the job, let me know that you actually want the job. Show me some energy, some passion. Don’t tell me that you are checking another place first and that I am your second choice. I’ll make it easy for you, your choice is your other job or a fistful of poop. My job is way gone at that point.

13. And because 13 is a lucky number to end with: Please don’t touch me anywhere accept for the hand shake. Let’s not hug this out. Don’t caress my arm. Don’t slap me on the back. Don’t lean way forward so that the knockers are sitting on top of my desk while you are trying to make eye contact with me. We don’t need a connection baby, only an understanding that you can’t file sexual harassment unless you actually work here.

I know that interviewing for a lot of people is hard. I wish you and your boobs the best of luck at your next one.