The College Beard

I am off from work and so I am doing what any guy does when he is off of work for any amount of time: I am growing a beard.

There is no real reason for this. It's not like I have always wanted a beard or constantly draw pencil mustache's on pictures of me. But every guy knows that the first thing that you do when you are on vacation is that you stop shaving. This sends a message to anyone that comes looking to bother you. It tells them look, I'm on vacation and I obviously don't care about even shaving anymore so what makes you think that I have time for you. I'm a people person, that's what makes me so great.

And it's not like I need that extra 5 minutes in the morning that I save by not shaving. Because that five minutes is dwarfed by the extra 10 minutes that I save by not showering in the morning anyore either. It's not like I am Mr. Stinky around the house its just that I have given up showering in the morning. And on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sats. Basically I am showering every other day. I feel this is more than enough to take care of any stink lines that may be coming off of me. But if it's not, I'm still pretty ok with that. I like myself the way I am I don't care what some fashion magazine says.

The beard is coming in very nicely which for me is a real treat. In the past when I have not shaved for 4 or 5 days I usually just look like some meth addict willing to give handjobs for 25 cents apiece. It would grow well around the ears, then a big hairless hole would appear on my face about the size of a quarter. The chin would then fill out the rest of the ensemble as I am constantly being taken into police line ups to be identified as the guy who robbed the local Gas and Liquer joint. I was never convicted and eventually decided that I should probably never grow a beard again if I valued my freedom.

But now that I am older and puberty has had a good 15 years to affect me, I'm giving the beard another shot and so far I am pleased with the results. After about a week and a 1/2 it's still there without any holes. I have to keep it shaved on my neck because if I don't I get Mount Everest sized pimples and it itches like I have the mange. I am cutting it along the jaw line which I think gives me an intellecutal look.

I have to be careful here and not take this to far. I am a pretty burley guy anyway so if I don't pay real attention we could be in for some trouble.

What I think is an intellectual beard could grow into a Montana hermit uni-bomber type thing. That's certaintly not the look that I am going for here as I am to lazy to mail anything and would eventually just end up blowing myself up.

But if I cut it to short then I would look like I am going for the Justin Timberlake "I work hard yet I'm cool" look and I don't want that either because I have no desire to date Britany Spears anymore. This disturbs me on many, many levels. She used to be hot, then she went to looking like hot trailer trash and now she is just trailer waiting for her baby's Daddy to come home from the market with her pack of smokes. I can't handle that.

I need a college professor type of thing going. One that says yes, I have knowledge but that knowledge would in no way prevent me from sleeping with coeds who want an A in my class. One that says that my ethics are preportionate to the size of your hooters. That's the look I'm going for.

Hossmom says it's a fine vacation beard which I know is her way of saying that as soon as we start having maritial relations again this thing is coming off.

Somehow I'm pretty sure that I have crossed a boundry tonight with that revelation. Am I getting to personal? Let's consult the beard--he says no. But seriously, every married guy knows that the woman cannot have sex for a while after birth. It's just plain and simple biology. She now finds me repulsive since I am the cause of putting her through so much pain and the fact that now she can't sleep. It's all tied to emotions and emotionally right now she blames the Admiral for doing this to her. Don't worry, she'll come around soon enough.

Not only does the beard give great advice but it also gives the impression that I am thinking really hard about topics. Topics such as Global Warming or the next presidential election. My wife and her family will ask such questions or bring up some other debate. At which point I will stroke my beard and look concerned. When my beard lets me know that they have stopped talking I will slowly stop stroking it and say "yes, that will require more thought and a committee fully devoted to investigating any solutions". Because that is what a college professor with a beard would say.

He would not say "I'm really just pretending to listen because I don't want anyone to give me any shit. And while I'm pretending, what I'm really thinking about is how to get my wife naked. Or if not naked, how about just some naked pictures?" I consulted the beard and we concluded that that would be an interesting solution to our current relations issues.

But Hossmom won't do it I think mainly because I have a blog now and she is afraid that should anything ever happen to us I would post them on the blog. Thanks Paris Hilton. Thanks for ruining that fantasy for me.

Of course, as I stroke my beard, I have another thought. How can I get naked pictures of Paris Hilton? That's when the beard decides that we should play Xbos instead because, really, there's not challange in that. It's not something that would take a college professor type beard long to discover. However, stomping all over the ego of a 15 year old while my beard and I taunt his mother, hmm, that will require more thought and a committe fully devoted to investigating any solutions.


The Birth

"Honey, I'm having contractions." Hossmom said.

4 minutes later she had to say it again because I was still asleep.

"What?!" I said. I want to point out that I actually responded this time.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"I think so."

"What time is it?"


You have got to be freakin kidding me. Who goes into labor at 3:30 in the morning anymore? Seriously?!

"How far apart are they" I ask

"About 7 minutes" she says.

I think this is good. I can get at least another hour of sleep before I have to deal with this. I am not my best that early in the morning.

And to my shame, I actually do fall asleep for exactly 6 minutes. Thats when she says the contractions are getting closer. You know how you hear those stories about people who go into labor for 17 straight hours. Yup, that's not us. Hossmom goes from red light to wheels screaming in a few short hours and it looks like this is going to happen again. For Little Hoss, the whole birth took less than 3 hours.

It's not supposed to be this way. We have this planned out damit. We are a good week and a half away from our SCHEDULED birth! It is supposed to be on September 29th around noonish. That's what we talked to the doctor about and damit if that wasn't the plan. We are at 37 weeks and I need at least another week to get ready for Bubba Hoss. I have a garage to clean, a hospital bag to pack, a changing table to buy. I have tons of crap to do.

My wife and I plan out everything to the point that we over plan. We think of every angle and then come up with contingency plans incase the first plan goes to shit. I have 5 different routes to the hospital. We have alternate names picked out incase the sonagram was not correct. We have a medical kit that Doug Ross could perform a heart transplant with while high on crack. However, for some odd ball reason, we never, ever planned out a 3:00 AM birth. Didn't even cross my mind. I am as shocked as you are.

After my cat nap, I immediatly spring into action. Like my daughter when she gets excited, I stamped my feet and turned very fast in a very tight circle. This is so cliche it's killing me. You only see people going into labor in the middle of the night in movies. I expect Robin Williams to be the on call OB/GYN and Tom Arnold to video tape it. (For those that don't get that, the movie is 9 months. When you are pregnant, your wife will force you to watch it.)

But I recover and ask my wife if this is Braxton hicks, or to the uneducated, false labor. She says she is pretty sure it's not.

Ok, I have to recover here. First things first, we need information. I run to the computer and fire up the old blood hound search engine. I find my pre-approved pregnancy problem site. It says that we don't have to go to the hospital until the contractions are 5 minutes apart. I ask my wife how far apart her contractions are now.

"About 4 minutes" she says.

Shit, here we go. In less than 30 minutes we have dropped another 2 minutes in contraction time. Visions of my son being born in a Taxi cab by a guy named Otto spring into my head.

But no problem, we will just use our other plan but move it up a bit. Instead of getting to the hospital at 10 with our entire family following us, we'll just go now. I start packing Hossmom's hospital bag, which we should have done weeks ago. But seriously, we had several more weeks! I throw in a bathrob, slippers and toilet paper. I don't know why really. It's not like we plan on taking bathroom breaks on the way there by the bushes. We do that on Sundays. But in it went.

I head down stairs before Hossmom and start loading up the car. I get to the garage and open the door. For some reason it dawned on me that today is trash day. I have a lot of trash to take out. So I take out the trash. Hossmom comes to the car and sees me doing this. She questions where my priorities are at. I point out that I was able to accomplish this before she got downstairs.

That's when she asks me if I had gotton Little Hoss out of bed. Uh-oh. That's a big oops. I totally forgot about my daughter. I go back upstairs and get her up and to my complete and utter amazement she is in a great mood. Cool, this might be pretty fun after all. I have no idea what I am going to do with Little Hoss. In the original plan she was to be with her grandmother. I don't think that is happening now. And as I am taking Little Hoss with us I need to pack her a bag. I should be a major league pitcher because the accuracy I was throwing canned manderian oranges into that bag was nothing short of amazing. I didn't miss once. I had brought my A game, it's go time.

I get everyone loaded up and off we go. I decide that we are going to take pre-approved route #1. It's 4:00 am by this time, there's no traffic. A strange calm comes over me. I got this. This is no problem. I've actually done this before. However, this is a little disappointing to me because I have the only real excuse to speed and run red lights. We get stoped at one where there is absolutely no traffic. None what so ever, but there I sit with a wife in labor and a 20 month old in the backseat. My wife, who was also calm, asked me if I was dying to run it. I nodded yes. She then pointed out that I really wanted to get pulled over just so I could scream "my wife is in labor I need a police escort!" The cop would nod and then an entire presidential fleet would lead the way. As long as we are living the cliche, that's go all the way with it.

But I am good and we make it to the hospital. By this time, Hossmom is in some serious pain. We are still at 3 minutes apart, so maybe this could take a while.

Nope. God thinks it's funny.

Her contractions shorten to 2 minutes apart. She is screaming for drugs. Natural childbirth is for hippies and midwives. I want no part of that.

Little Hoss is with me and having a great time. She has long hallways to run around and all kinds of ebola caring needles to stick her little hands into. But when she sees Hossmom in pain something changes in her. There are 3 nurses around my wife who by now is moaning/screaming/hating me. Little Hoss's brow creases. She looks at me as if to say "Do something you shithead, they are hurting mom."

When she sees my inaction, she cant' take anymore. She bolts from my lap and rushes to Hossmom, a look of vengence and justice on her face. She runs smack dab into the middle of a nurses butt and gooses her a little.

To be completely honest here, I am proud of this. Little Hoss knows that she is out numbered and her strategy of butt hitting is not really going to get it done but she charges forth anyway because Hossmom is in pain. That's why I love my little girl, she is pure Hoss, no doubt about it.

I quickly get up and go get her after I witness her version of Custer's last stand. She wiggles in my arms. Then she doesn something that she has never, ever done before.

She looked right at me, gave her best war cry, and then she slugged me.

Straight on in the face with a closed fist. She has poped other people before but never me, ever. I am taken aback by this but again, I understand. However, you cannot challege Hossdad's rule so I have to grab her arm and tell her no. She then kicks me in the groin with her troll foot. She's a dirty little fighter to. She gets that from my wife's family but I appreciate her resourcefulness. It is at this point that I decide to "Make the Call."

I grab my cell phone and call both mothers but I don't have any hope that either one will wake up and pick it up. I mean, it's freaking like 4:30 here. I get no answer but leave a message. I then call the only other person in town, Uncle Bricksalesman. He doesn't answer either. I call both Mom's again. Nothing.

Then my phone rings, it's Uncle Bricksalesman. I am actually surprised because, and I swear this is true, he once slept through a friends heart attack. He was in the room but he just didn't wake up.

I tell him "It's time."

"I figured" he says. "Why else would you call me?" "Well, I got a meeting in Mckinney at 9 but I should be up at the hospital after that." he says.

I want to say, Look you douche, I'm calling because I need you to come up here and watch my daughter so I can be at the birth of my son. But I don't because the truth is Uncle Bricksalesman is a good guy. I will give the man full credit. I tell him no problem because I didn't think anyone could actually get up here at the rate Hossmom is going.

We hang up the phone. But the phone rings again. It's Uncle Bricksalesman again. "Um, do you need me to come up and watch Little Hoss" he asks.

And there is the connection ladies and gentlemen. Give the big dancing bear a snoodle treat. I tell him that would be great if he could.

By this time Hossmom finally has her I.V drugs and is feeling fine. We re-enter the room and I let her know what is going on. The nurse comes in and says that she will be prepped for surgery at 6:30 and will give birth after that.

To this point, I feel that I have done my job remarkably well. People will tell you that a Dad's job is very important in the birthing process. Here's the truth: They are just trying to make you feel like you are doing something, which you are not. They don't really need you after you get them to the hospital.

You are the scary high school janitor that drives the bus. You load every body on and take them to thier destination all the while listening to your 1980's hair metel that the rest of the bus hates. You drop the kids off at the museum and then go back alone to your bus and pull out the porno mags that you had stashed under your seat. This is interupted when the teacher sends that one kid back that laughed during the femal reproductive presentation so you have to extingush your blunt and watch him until the rest of the class is ready to go back.

That is basically your job as a dad. Get them there and watch any left over kids. Honeslty, it's a pretty sweet gig. Except that from here on out you are ignored. No one really talks to you. No one asks for your permission or for your concerns. You are basically no better than the paper towel at the nurses station. But at least that gets to clean up messes and at this point, you are not even that useful.

As I am a control freak I feel that I have to make my presence known. I pull the nurse aside and in my best concerned father statement I say "Look, they mean the world to me, take good care of them."

She looks at me like she has heard this same speech a thousand times, which I am sure she has. She pats me on the back like I am 5 years old. She tells me to wait in the waiting room and they will come get me when they are ready, providing Uncle Bricksalesman gets there in time to watch my daughter.

So Little Hoss and I go to the waiting room where we enjoy the fine cusine of fruit loops, juice boxes and the occasional crayon in the pie hole. For some reason, this action centered me. I felt almost normal by just being with my daughter. I don't know how she does this but it's happened before. When I am with my wife or daughter I feel confident, calm and like superdad. I dig this. Ok, this will work. I will be the dad that is passing out cigars in the waiting room. I have no problem with that. But then Uncle Bricksalesman shows up. Seriously, the man is a rock. Dependable as the flowing tides and twice as handsome.

I head back to the prep room in my scrubs. Several nurses check out my ass, I can't blame them, I look fantastic in scrubs. I wait for what seems like years until one of the nurses comes in and tells me to follow her. Like a trained puppy I nip at her heels until we see Hossmom in the surgery. I get there about 2 mintues before they pull out Bubba Hoss. She looks wonderful and I thank God that she chose me over any of you other yahoos out there. I did make one mistake in there. I looked over the curtain to check out the action. Let's just say that this is not a good idea.

The rest you know. Bubba Hoss pops out, gives his victory yell and everything worked out fine.

I head back out to the waiting room to find Little Hoss with Uncle Bricksalesman and my mother. I call her name and she runs to me and gives me a big hug. She ignores everyone in the room as she jumps into my arms, like they aren't even there.

Being a dad kicks major ass and now I get to do it some more.


Language Arts

It has been said, by a few, that I may cuss to much.

It has been said, by a few more, that I should watch my language around the children.


I arrived at Team Beer Headquarters for our Men's Sunday League Softball game. I just want to point out that the name of our team is again: Beer. I want to make sure everyone knows that. That does not really sound like a family oriented name, does it?

What do you picture when you hear of a softball team by the name of Beer? Maybe a bunch of over the hill guys trying to fight off the she devil of old age. Maybe a bunch of has beens that smoke between innings or maybe a few fellers who tell lies that they could have made the show if only they hadn't stayed home to take care of Mamma.

That's pretty much right on. And I would imagine you would also think that a softball team by the name of Beer would cuss, but just on occasion. That occasion being just about every pitch.

And so it was when I played this last weekend. Things were going fine and we were making our ill advised comments about the church team we were playing. It was a high scoring game which we didn't win. But that is besides the point in today's blog.

We had one of our chubs heading around second. He was huffing a puffing like the last of the Mohicans was after his scalp. He rounded third, headed for home.

At this time, I chose to shout: "Run you fat bastard!"

I don't know why I shouted it, but I just assume that I was caught up in the moment of it all. Competition, sweat and the smell of a possible heart attack. Everything that makes Sunday Men's D League softball worth while.

Well our fat bastard runner did score and all was right with the world. Until Uncle Bricksalesman stepped away from the on deck circle and looked at me.

"Hossman, watch the language." He said in his stoic voice.

I looked around. Was there another Hossman on the field?

Well, yes there was. There were three to be exact. They all have the last name of Hoss and I am jealous. But Uncle Bricksalesman wasn't looking at any of them, only at me. I did a quick count to see what I could have possibly said. Fuck--nope, not that one. Asshole--I only use that one for the special occaions. Jiz Mopper--I think that is only a profession and not a swear word at all.

Bastard, that is what I said. But was that what brought this next language correction to me? I was confused. Seriously, Bastard is a bad enough word for Team BEER to have me chastised? I mean, come on. I heard other guys talking about having sex with goats earlier, so why me?

But my brother in law is not the only one to try and correct me on this problem. My mother in law loves to give unsolicted advice. I think that this makes her whole. She has commented several times how when I do write blogs I should watch the language. She states that she cannot check my blog at work because it is blocked because of the foul language. Hmmm. I don't know how to take this. So let's put some spin on it:

I am banned from many computers but I continue to write. That makes me a rebel and a revolutionary. I am fucking Thomas Jefferson in this motherfucker. Ladies, the line starts to the right.

But my brother in law has pointed out some a very important fact, the bastard. Little Hoss is getting to that age where she is starting to repeat things. She has already said shit. The bad parent award goes to the good looking gentlemen in the front row.

And I have 3 nieces and a nephew. All under the age of 4. Little Hoss will probably teach them all how to say shit and then it is my ass for sure.

Bubba Hoss is still only a week old and I know that he has heard me drop the F bomb around a million times. Manly at around 112:50 when I am trying to sleep and he decides No, screw you dad, it's play time. So he may not be saying any bad words yet, but I'm pretty sure he's thinking them.

And when I am with my family, and this is going to sound bad, I just forget the kids are around. As a family we easily slip back into our familiar roles: I am the Hoss, toughest around by far. Uncle Bricksalesman can't close the deal with any woman, ever. Uncle Hippie has odd ball ideas, like using methane biodigradible gase to run his car. Hossmom is the pop culture queen, often pointing out who is banging who in Hollywood. The mother in law wonders why we don't pay more omage and take her advice on the best carpet to buy.

It's easy, it's what we know. And here is the kicker: we all fucking cuss. It isn't just me. But being that I am Hoss, my voice does carry a little bit more. At least I think so because Hossmom is constantly reminding me that I should use my inside voice. So it is easy to blame me for spilling filth around the kids even though we all let the occasional shit squirt statement squeeze out from time to time. And I do suppose the kids look up to me more than their own parents. After all, I once played a couple of football games with a broken hand. That's tough. I'm kinda like Jesus, just not in a sacraligous way, thus sayeth Homer.

So begining today, I will drop the cussing in public. I will make my blog G rated and talk only about bunnies and sun flowers. At Team Beer games I will smile and say that's ok when someone jabs a spike into my shin. I will not use the words fuck, cunt, shit, ass or the brown eyed saint anymore. I swear it.

Uncle Bricksalesman is right, I do cuss to much.
Fucking bastard communist.

Come on man, it's BEER softball for fucks sake! Seriously, what am I supposed to say: Gee wiz Beaver, I sure hope you move your bulbous behind a little faster so that we can score against that swell church. And this blog, fucking come on! It's a blog about my life and when you are cleaning the shit of 2 kids, 2 cats, 2 dogs and whatever my own body plops out, how can I not say fuck!

But for my neices and nephews, I promise I will only say words like "ship" when I stub my toe.


Day One

15 or 20 minutes. That is all I really want:

11:00 Am--
Hossmom is ready to be discharged from the hospital with the new addition to our family and my blog. Bubba Hoss is 4 days old and is ready to go home. I am ready for him to come home. Hossmom is certaintly ready to come home. I have made around 300 trips to the car to pack all the stuff that we have from the hospital. Every time I come back to the room, Hossmom and her mother have found something else that needs to go. Crap. I am nothing but a pack mule. Cargo pants are a father's best friend. The wheel chair is late. Bubba Hoss is crying, it's time for his feeding. Hossmom is getting impatient. I bear the brunt of everyone.

We have made it home. I drove 10 miles an hour. If you honked at me, blow me--I have a baby on board. It takes Hossmom 30 minutes to get inside the house because she can barely move from the C-section they gave her. Yes, quick birth but long recovery. My previous life is over, send care packages and silly string.

2:35 pm.
Bubba Hoss is feeding for the 12th time today. Breast feeding is not fun. He mauls my wife's boobs like Mad Max beyond Boobie Dome. It hurts her. I am constantly being pointed to things that I should be doing but before I can finish I am pointed to something else. My mother in law reminds me that I should clean the garage now and also paint the house.
3:32 pm.
I pick up Little Hoss from Day Care. Things went good, she didn't punch anyone or bite anyone. Her vengence is directed at all. She decides that no Papa, I do not want to ride in the car therefore I will scream for a the entire ride home. I stop in a parking lot and throw 64 crayons at her and a sports illistrated. Hopefully that will work. I am hoping that she can entertain herself for the entire 4 minute ride back to our house. I secretly make a vow to buy a DVD player for the car.

I start trying to watch a football game. I have no idea which one. I am asked why there is football on Fridays by every female in my house except my daughter. I explain because God loves me. I have the game recording. It will take me a full 2 days to actually watch the game. I know t his going in but still give the futile effort. The two dogs decide to get into a wrestling match in the living room. My boxer is 60 pounds of pure muscle and bumps into a lot of things, like my daughter. She screams. Bubba Hoss is freaked out by the noise and screams. He clamps down harder on my wife, she screams. I go to my wife and accidently step on her foot, crushing it with my troll feet, she starts to cry. I look at my dog and decide that he will be getting nutured pretty soon. I have a vet appointment tomorrow so we are going to talk about that.

5:52 pm:
Dinner time, hopefully. I have eaten what ever has been within arms reach. A little Debbie, a nutty bar, maybe some peanuts found on the kitchen floor. I can't remember anymore. Little Hoss just hands me things and I put them in my mouth. I am sure we have both eaten dog food. Bubba Hoss doing well, only hates me when I change him. Hossmom is on the chair, unmoving and wondering why god why she wasn't given anything stronger than Vicodin. The Mother In Law tells me I need to clean the garage. My own mother is here now and agrees. I consider faking my own death.

7:21 pm
My mother is putting Little Hoss to bed. By this time I just don't care anymore. I have given over my house to both mothers. I have told them that whatever they want to do to the house, screw it, here's my credit card. Starting to get really tired now. They ask me when I'm going to clean the garage.

Everyone is in bed. Bubba Hoss has woken up for the 11 o'clock crazies. He's fussy and pissed. I imagine that he too is upset that we still haven't gotten the chance to watch our football game. Hossmom is trying to breastfeed but he is having none of it. This makes her feel bad because every woman every where tells you that you MUST breastfeed if you love your baby. What they don't tell you is that it hurts. Hossmom bites back a curse that might have been coming my way when I ask if she is hurting.

2319! 2319! That is code for when a child poops and the diaper cannot contain it's awesome power. But there is no one to answer the call. Hossmom can't move and the mother in law is asleep downstairs. There is no one else but me. I am changing Bubba Hoss on the changing table. I dreaming of peace and quiet. I am dreaming of a world where people don't point. I am dreaming of a world where I can watch football and take naps. This world no longer exsists for me. I snap awake and look down at Bubba Hoss. I fell asleep standing up. But I notice t hat his diaper is changed and I silently congratulate myself for still being able to change a AM diaper while sleep walking. I am a parenting God. Then I look down at my hand and see that I was proping myself up on the crapped diaper. It is all over me. I have drool coming out my mouth from the sleep changing. I imagine that this must be the last of my soul. We are up for an hour.

5:29 am
Bubba Hoss is up yet again. He is going for a new world record of how many times he can make me say "fuck" in a 24 hour period. He might be getting close to the record. Hossmom has to go to the bathroom. Her stitches hurt so bad that she has to stop halfway and cry. Bubba Hoss is crying to. I am the only one not crying, not hungry, and I am the only one mobile. I repeat my mantra that I learned when Little Hoss was this way: It's not about fair or right or wrong, it's about taking care of my family. Said over and over, it calms me and makes me hate less. Hossmom is almost to the bathroom and I am silently cheering for her. Bubba Hoss is screaming right at me. That's when I decide that my family needs some god damn sleep and right the god damn now. I grab a pre-made bottle of formula and put it in his pie hole. He is happy. If any medical professional even remotely attempts to give me the breast feeding speech again I am going to kick them in the junk. I hate them all so much because my wife equats her ability as a mother with her ability to breastfeed. I blame Cosmo and Hippies.

Everyones up. Mother in law is cooking breakfast. Little Hoss is up and wants her daddy. Hossmom is trying to come downstairs and has to use me as a blind man's dog. Little Hoss wants to hold hands. As a family, we are going downstairs one step at a time. Everyone is moving at a different speed and I'm being put through the rack. We finally make it down without me punting the dog because he chose this time to nap on the last god damn step. We eat breakfast and I am reminded that I need to clean the garage and take the dog to the vet. I have no idea why we made this appointment but for some reason this is important to Hossmom. I never win these arguements so I don't try anymore. I watch another 19 minutes of football while spilling milk on the floor. I missed my mouth. I don't care.

10:00 am.
I am in my bathroom, hoping to finally find my 20 minutes of quiet. Little Hoss follows me in the bathroom and throws a fit when I try to shut the door. Fuck it, I invite her in but first I make her go grab me a random book. I am reading "Is your Mama a Llama" while I do my business. Little Hoss is now bored but wants to wash her hands. We taught her this, but her timing is a little off. She screams. She is now throwing tantrums. I want to kill Barney. Why? I have no idea but it seemed right that he should bare my wrath. There is a funky smell in the bathroom that's not me. I look around and notice that our cranky cat has crapped on the floor, in the dirty clothes, on the bathmat. She does this when she is not happy. She's not happy because we didn't get the OK to bring a new kid home. I decide that if the house is on fire and I can only save 7 of us out of 8, well, I know who number 8 is going to be. Shitheel.

I am taking the fat belly Newt to the Vet. I have no idea why this was so important but it was. Little Hoss again went nuts when I left, she wants superdad because she is a little overwhelmed at the moment. I get to the vets office. The lady behind the counter says that they are running behind but if I could just sit patiently they should be with me in about 20 minutes. I almost cry. I am so grateful to this woman that I am sure she is an angel. Yes, I will gladly wait 20 extra minutes in your nice and quiet waiting room. In fact, why don't you just go ahead and make it an even 30. I close my eyes as I tie the fat belly Newt to my leg. I sleep and I dream of another important vets appointment.


Our Little Secret

I've got a secret to tell.

Shh, stop talking. Who's talking. Wait, that's me. Shh, stop talking.

Ok, yeah, seriously, lean in here. C'mon. Get real close. I can't stay on here for very long. A little closer. Rest your cleavege on your desk, that's how close you need to be because I can't say this again. Shh. C'mon, hurry up.

We'll have to use our indoor voice so no one hears. Be quiet. If you laugh, make it a muffled snort of some kind you big snuflelufigus. Shhhhhh! We don't want them to hear you!

Ok, good, yeah that's it. Ok, here we go. First, I want you to look behind you. Go ahead, do it. Ok--did you see anyone there? No? Good. Look to your left and to your right. Is anyone there? Ok, ok. That's good.Wait, is someone coming?

Quick, minimize this screen page. Hurry the hell up, they are almost here. Seriously man, I'm gonna punch you if we get caught. It's gonna hurt, I promise. Because if this gets out, then we are both screwed. Minimize! I'll wait for you.

Welcome back. I am trusting you that no one else saw this. Ok, here we go. Look behind you again.

Here's my question: Did you see anyone pregnant behind you? Look again. Did you see anyone you THINK might be pregnant behind you. Did you see anyone that maybe evenly REMOTELY can be pregnant behind you. If you did, turn this blog off and never visit again. Don't take us down with you. That's not cool, not cool man.

Ok, for those that are still with us, here is my secret.

Pregnant women are not nice. In fact, they are pretty damn mean.


I am writing this blog on August 31. If I am posting this it means that Hossmom has gone into labor and is in the hospital at the moment. That means that the date of this blog is late September.

I can't publish this when I'm writing this for a very simple reason.Pregnant women are not nice.

Let me explain. Pregnant women are fine during the first 7 months. They are excited. They are somewhat nervous. They are still all into the whole pregnancy thing. But come month number 8, well, in short--they hate you.

And by "you", I mean everyone of you that is not pregnant. And by that I mean every lousy shit eating husband out there. I mean every jackass that is not married but thinks someday he MIGHT have a kid. I mean every male on the face of the planet that is even thinking of having sex with a female in the next 10 years. I mean every sperm of every man ever born.

Pregnant women hate you. And me.I know. I'm living the dream right now. I have proof, but we'll have to make this quick, I have to delete this blog in 5 days. That's when she will probably get out of the hospital and start reading this again.

When you are outside around people, everything is nice and rosy. She smiles, she glows. People come up to her and make nice little comments, maybe touch her belly a little. That's what the world sees. That is the image that pregnant women project.

But next time you do this take a look around. Find the guy that got her pregnant. He will be that sad looking sack that stands behind her, just out of arms reach. See that look in his eyes? That is the look of a defeated man. He is broken.

All he knows is that, somehow, he is what is wrong with the world, on an emotional level of course. He knows this because that is what his pregnant wife told him when you weren't around. There are lots of talks about this. Emtionally this, emotionally that. He doesn't understand it. He has no idea what "emotionally" means. He just knows that he's not doing it, what ever "it" is.

Look closly at him. Now reach to touch the pregnant women's belly. You see that? He flinched. He was not sure what was going to happen when you reached out but he is pretty sure that the resulting vengence is going to be directed at him.

As soon as you turn your back, she will smile. Look closely, she is clinching her teeth. She will urgently whisper to broken husband "why did you let that stranger touch me?" she will say?He will have no idea how to respond to this. He didn't know that this would be a problem because he knows for a fact that when she wasn't pregnant, she touched other bellies all the time. He's seen it.

But it won't matter because he won't say anything. He has since learned that the best way to get past any and all wrath is to shut his pie hole. There is not an arguement in the world that he will win, and they both know it.

Because pregnant women are crazy. There it is. I alone have the courage to say this. I may not be alive tomorrow. Please take care of my family.

They are emotional wrecks. Hormones are playing tricks on them like a bad hit of acid. But the kicker is, there is no good tripping, only the spiraling downfall as gallons of nut job hormones are passed through her system. And it last for 10 months.

He flinches like a POW as she raises her hand. All she wants is her purse but he is so freaked out that even a butterfly landing sends him into a panic attack.

You may be thinking that I'm talking about Hossmom here. Well, not really. I am speaking about every pregnant woman I have ever known.

My hippie sister in law--fucking scary. I nicknamed her The Dreamkiller at the end of her pregnancy. But not to her face, I was terrified.

"So Hossman, where are you going on vacation."

"I was thinking about going to the beach."

"You're fat, why would you want to go to the beach?"


My other sister in law, she's hispanic--I'm pretty sure she cussed me out in spanish. I thank god every day that I couldn't understand a word she said. But that look she gave me, I was pretty sure she wanted to cut me. My brother said that it would be best if he didn't translate.

This is the natural progression of things. They have to carry around your lug for a long time. Thier back hurts constantly, they can't move, they have to get out of bed 10 times a night to pee. They look over at you and see you sleeping peacefully, dreaming of winning the superbowl or dating a supermodel.

They are self concious, they have gained weight, pooping has become a side show and every person with a medical degree is sticking something in thier hooch.

So I understand it when we get our ass handed to us. It doesn't make it any easier at times, but I understand why. But you can't say any of this. Just try it slick and see the wrath that is unleashed upon you.

But today, for the sake of all my brothers, I say--I feel your pain man.

Come, give me a hug, I am ready to support you emotionally.

It's time

Some of you may be wondering why the hell I haven't posted in a while. I mean, after all, what are you supposed to do at work, read someone else's blog?! Seriously, don't be that guy, no one likes that guy.

But to work on my communication skills, which my family feels is not my strong suit, I offer you this today.

My son was born yesterday morning. Yup, just a tad bit early. He came in at 7.5 pounds. We got recruiters calling us from all over the place wondering just where he is going to commit to in 18 years.

So with that said, that is where I will be at over the next couple of days, at the hospital with my family and enjoying my son. But don't worry, I planned for this date, even though it is 3 weeks sooner than I expected.

As I am a sneaky bastard, I have several unpublished blogs that I wrote just for this occasion. I will post one of them tonight so that tomorrow morning you will have something to do.

And yes, my son does indeed kick major ass.


La Crap

We have a little over a week and a half before the new baby comes and I am about ready to get this over with. Seriously, I’m done with my wife being pregnant. I just don’t think I can take it anymore. I a weak man, I make no excuses for this. But before you judge me, hear my story and you’ll understand.

I can take it when my wife has cravings. Most of the time anyway. I do not mind going out in the middle of the night to get her peanut butter ice cream. I do not mind scouring every single grocery store in the urban sprawl that we call home for a piece of Key Lime pie. I don’t even mind her picking food off my plate although should anyone else try this you are going to lose a hand. This is a threat and a promise, keep your grubby hands off my plate. If you want a bite of steak, fucking order it.

That’s my steak. It’s not community steak. It’s not “Let’s all Share” steak. It’s Hossman’s steak. Eat your damn salad. I mainly refer this to my wife’s family because they are really nothing more than vultures when it comes to food. “I just want to try it” they’ll say. And as soon as you turn your back, bam, half your meal is gone from that small little bite. For anyone else, this small little bite would encompass a whole meal. So seriously, back off Uncle Bricksalesman and Hippe Brother in Law. It’s my steak, no, bad family, bad. When they are around, I have to order 2 of everything just to ensure I get my own meal.

Even my daughter has started doing this. It may be time to break out the belt. Turn your back even just a little and she is sucking down half of your hamburger. I blame all of Hossmom’s genes for this transgression. I have to eat in secret in the attic when they are all around.

But with pregnant Hossmom around, she gets mostly what she wants and when she wants it. She is growing minion number two, we need him to be strong and healthy. So when she wants to go to a particular restaurant, I’m usually ok with it. Up to a point.

Friday night at the Hossman Family compound is go out night. We pack up the spud and head to whatever restaurant Hossmom feels like. Last Friday, she decided that she wanted to go to the restaurant La Madeline.


Like I said, I’m ok with most of this. But not this place. This is hands down my least favorite place in the world to eat at. Now that I think of it, Hossmom’s family makes me eat there as well when we are with them. It’s a conspiracy.

This Friday night, I was feeling like a steak. A big old piece of meat that I could just fall in love with. I don’t know why I’m built like this. Scratch that, yes I do. I’m built like this because I am a man and a man has needs. Those needs do not include anything with the word quiche in it. I want nothing that was teased with wine, just give me the fucking bottle would ya? The only thing that I want slow cooked is a roast, not a squash. And if you are going to give me chips with the meal, make them real chips not the sun dried shit. Those taste like ass, we all know it. Quit trying to be hip and cool with your sun dried tomatoes and other assorted vegetables. In fact, let’s just get ride of all the sun dried stuff to begin with. If it’s sun dried, it should be known as beef jerky, nothing else.

But what can you do? Pregnant wife wants La Madeline so that’s where we head. I’ll choke it down and put a smile on my face because my wife is hurting enough already so she doesn’t need to here me bitch about anything. Just keep repeating the mantra: Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming.

We arrive at said restaurant with Little Hoss and we get in line to order. Immediately I realize that the whole place is covered in wicker. Wicker is my eternal arch enemy. It interferes with my mojo and the aura I am trying to project. Wicker was made for small, petite Frenchman who like to smell wine for 45 minutes before taking a taste and spitting it out.

I absolutely refuse to have anything wicker in my house. I eventually destroy it. Because wicker cannot take the heavy responsibility of Hossman. My wife likes to say that I “flop” on all our furniture. She is absolutely right, I flop worse than a beached whale. But you know what? It’s my fucking house and I should be able to flop until my flopping heart is content. And if said furniture cannot take the punishment, then it doesn’t belong in my house. Only tough things belong in my house. Except my dog, he is a massive wuss. I think he is a female impersonator, but I love him anyway.

Because a real man loves his dog and hates his wicker. My wife continues to attempt to bring wicker in the house and I continue to break it. Little Hoss has joined in as well because, guess what, she’s a flopper too. Eventually, together we will destroy everything wicker. Long live planet Hossman.

So La Madeline has sun dried food and wicker. Let us continue.

I look at the menu. I am looking for something that has the word steak in it. Maybe a derivative of the word steak. A steak like substance, anything. There is no steak at La Madeline. Not even a something that is cut in the shape of a steak. The closet thing that I could find to abate my meat craving was a turkey sandwich. Fine, sure, a turkey sandwich it is, because that’s almost like steak.

My wife orders and Little Hoss and I go find our seats. La Madeline is not kid friendly either. This never used to bother me until I had a daughter. Now I judge all those places that don’t have at least something for my daughter. Come on man, my daughter kicks much ass how could you not want her here? I look around and I see a lot of hip people having quiet conversations, reading books and holding hands across the table. There is soft music playing.

Yup, we are about to ruin this atmosphere.

I’m sorry, but I am that guy. I can’t help it, Little Hoss can get loud and throwy at times. She’s 20 months old, what else is she supposed to be? Most of the time she is great in restaurants except when she is supposed to be extra good. That’s when she goes all ape shit. But I’m not feeling to bad because I’m guessing they don’t have a changing table in the men’s bathroom either. Which is were they kept one of only 2 high chairs, next to bathroom. Little Hoss, get me some vengeance.

So let’s recap: sun dried everything, wicker, no changing table, no steak and lover’s looking forloined. This is so not my scene.

Dinner went pretty much like I thought it would. Little Hoss hated the quiche that we bought her thus ejecting it to the floor with a wet plop, my turkey sandwich tasted about as good as the sun dried chips that came with it and we received constant looks from the more refined diners judging my parenting style.

But Hossmom got her chicken ceaser salad which makes this story end on a good note. My daughter and I had to have meat snacks when we got back home.

And I swear to all that is holy if the doctor wants us to “wait” until after our due date I’m going to take his arm and pin it behind his back until he crys uncle and gets me a steak and a baby.


A Hossman Classic: The Jungle

If you ever run into a Vietnam Vet in the middle of the Guatemalan jungle, do exactly as he says. Trust me on this.

I have been to the jungle my friends. I have seen the beast and stared him in his eyes. As the dank and darkness crept around me I looked into the blackness under the canopy. There were dangers out there, this I knew. But did the jungle know that Hossman had arrived??

I was 22 years old and in my physical prime. My sweat glistened off my perfectly formed muscles, the heat was close to scorching. But I was not going to let a little heat deter me from having a good time. I am from Texas, I laugh at the jungle heat. Except at 8 pm at night when all the electricity was turned off. That’s just not cool.

I was staying in a “resort” in the jungles of Guatemala. I use that term loosely. I was on my senior trip and for some reason, the jungles of South America appealed to me. The Mayan culture was always very intriguing and this was my chance to explore it first hand. Deep in the jungle the Maya had lived and many of their settlements remain unexplored.

We were staying in a series of huts in the jungle. This resort catered to gringos like myself that wanted to pretend we were Indiana Jones. They offered a week long package of jungle living among the ruins of an ancient city. All around us huge mounds rose. Under the tons of dirt and the passage of time lay the Mayan ruins. And being gringo Americans, someone had built a little resort community around them. Capitalism at work.

But the jungle bordered us on all sides, the creatures slithered while we remained safe behind our bright lights and Aquafina water. There would be no Montezuma’s revenge here, no, he was kept in the past and his horrendous curse was forgotten.

This resort seemed to be a popular place for college students, at least the more adventuresome sort like myself. While coddled in our huts, we spent our days exploring the jungle around us, trying to ascertain its mysteries. Besides myself there were a group of students from Indiana University. They liked my southern accent. And as several of them were hot little college mamas, I layed it on thick and true. I would use words like partner, howdy and youall. By the end of our stay they all believed that I owned a ranch and shot at things. I did not let on that I was a city slicker who was afraid of horses. We were trying to build an image here!

The days were spent roaming the jungle with different guides to point out the natural flora and fauna. We would hike through the trails and observe massive trees that covered a good 20 feet in circumference. I lived out one of my child hood dreams and actually swung on a vine like Tarzan. When I tried to make the transition to the next vine, it snapped and landed me on my back. Obviously the jungle couldn’t handle all that is Hossman.

And the things I saw. I shudder with the memories of it. Grasshoppers as big as your hands, their wingspan easily a foot across. I thought it was a bird until it dive bombed my head and I screamed like a girl. The jungle brings out the worst in us, I’m not proud of it. There were other assorted bugs that could easily take off your big toe without even stopping to thank you first.

There were crocs that were almost as big as dinosaurs, holdovers from that that era that stalked the lake we would raft on. Once we spotted them we decided that perhaps we should not be entreating on their natural habitat and get the hell out of there. I do not digest well.

At night, to conserve electricity, the resort would shut down all electricity in the rooms. Yes, that meant the air conditioners and fans went off as well. I am a big believer that all the ills of South America could be cured if everyone had a window unit.

There was only one place that maintained electricity, the bar. And that is where all us college students would eventually end up while our traveling partners went off to bed, tired from a day of bird watching.

The bar was run by a Vietnam Vet who had worked here for many years. He could pour a mean shot of tequila to match the mean look in his eyes. He was not a man to be trifled with. But being who I am and given the fact that I was on my 12th shooter of the night, trifle I did.

On the wall was a massive insect collection. Bugs that can bear no description adorned his walls. Impaled by a nail, each massive specimen stared blindly into the night. In the center was something massive, something hairy, something with more than one leg. I dare not call this a spider because I do not think that description would do it justice. A spider is a minor pest, this was a Mothra.

We had been drinking for many hours, the Indiana students, myself and the Vet. He was a very good host and I got the feeling he very much enjoyed his job. The subject turned to his massive insect collection. He explained that all the beasts that adorned his walls could be found right outside our huts, just at the edge of the jungle, on top of the massive mounds of buried Mayan Temples. We all turned our attention to the mutant spider that seemed to be the center piece, all eight eyes mocking me.

“Yup” the Vet said “That there can be found right around here. They live in these holes on the ground, that’s why you have to really watch where you are walking.”

“Bullshit” I said. Sweet Jesus why didn’t I just shut up? I had sealed my own fate, lord have mercy on me. Never, ever question an old timer in the bush.

But I could not help it. The thing was so big that it looked fake. Also, the ladies from Indiana University were there. I wanted to show them that Hossman was afraid of no creature. I will admit, I may have been showing off, strutting my peacock feathers. The Indiana chicks somehow got the impression that I played college football as well, but I have no idea how.

“No, they’re out there” he replied. I knew he was testing me.

“Bullshit” I said again, catching the eye of one of the better looking chicks. I smiled. She nearly fainted.

“Ok, let’s go have a look” he said. I was not prepared for this turn of events. You want to go out into the jungle? At night? No fucking way man, I’ve seen what’s out there.

But I couldn’t back down now. The gauntlet had been thrown and to back down now would have cost me all my pride and honor. I had to go especially since all the Indiana Hoosiers wanted to go to.

So we went off into the jungle with flashlights and only a stick for protection. This very well may have been the dumbest thing that I have ever done. We came upon one of the big hills and our Vet started walking to the top. Being slightly hammered but still in control, I struggled not to fall as I followed him.

I came upon the crest of the hill just in time to see him jabbing his stick into a hole. And then, my memory gets fuzzy.

I remember being a good 2 feet from this hole and bending down to get a better look at what he was poking. I remember something shooting out of it. There were more than two legs on this thing, it was humongous, it was hairy, and it looked like it was coming straight out at my face. I swear to all that his holy there was a hiss. It was like it was calling my name “Hosssssssmmmmmaaaaaan” That’s when I lost it.

Retreat was my only option as the demon spawn erupted from hell. But sadly, I am somewhat clumsy which was further fueled by the bottle of Tequila that I had consumed. I gasped for mercy from the gods as I tripped over my feet. I fell and my arms went flailing like strings of spaghetti. Down the hill I went, my body crashing into the night, my screams clinging to the trees like Christmas tinsel. The hill was so large that it took me a month just to reach the bottom. I had seen the face of the devil and he had marked me.

I don’t remember much after that. The tequila that I consumed that night dulls the memories, which was the plan all along. I had lost my luster with the Indiana chicks but at least I was alive. There may have been pointing and laughing, I do not know. I woke in the morning laying in a hammock with only my underwear on. In the jungle, this is not a good idea. Blood sucking insects had sucked my blood like some weird trashcan punch and I’m sure they had a good time at their insect party.

I saw the Indiana students the next day, all looked worse for wear but none had the look of fear and disappear in their eyes as I did. The attack had been to quick for them. But my heightened senses allowed me see every aspect of the creatures face.. I have spent the rest of my life trying to forget it.

The Vet came to me the next day with aspirin and water. In his face I saw that he to had once been where I had been. Trying to be a showoff for the ladies and then meeting death. We were comrades then and shall be forever. To him, I drink my drink tonight. Hopefully, we can both drown away what we both saw, God willing.


Rock of Hookers

I can’t believe I am writing this. It is a special request by several readers. And I as I adore my readers, I must comply with their wishes.

Who out there has seen the VH1 show Rock of Love?

To get everyone caught up and on the same page: Basically it is the story of Bret Michaels, the lead singer of poison and his attempt to get more whores. Seriously, that’s about it.

It’s another reality show like the Bachelor. Instead of having some no name walrus trying to pick out which lovely ladies he will “fall” for, we have an over the hill rock star trying to figure out which hoochie will not give him an STD. Or, assuming that they all have STD’s, which one will give him an STD that can be treated by penicillin.

It follows pretty much the standard formula for such dating shows: One guy, 20 women vying for his love. Each week another woman gets eliminated until only the last few remain. During this process, the last one falls madly in love with the bachelor and they live happily ever after. Except insert the word “prostitutes” for the word “woman”. And insert the word “Bandana wearing grandpa” for bachelor.

Now here’s the kicker, I’m a Poison fan. I rocked out with them when they were coming out with new hair metal. It was great. My Ipod is full of their songs. I had a lot of respect for them, after all, didn’t he bang Pamela Anderson Lee Kid Rock? And didn’t he make a video of it? I say to you all, the man is a humanitarian.

I was a big fan of Poison until this show came on. Then I became an even bigger fan of Poison and Bret Michaels. He is my new leader.

I’m sure that this guy could get as much tail as he wanted so why do a TV show? Because will watch any show about whores. There it is, there is the truth. I don’t know why, but we will. Throw a couple of boobies and some lose morals in front of us and we are all over it. You say there may be a chance of some ass shots and pole dancing, we are so there. We are not proud of this, but yet, we refuse to change our ways.

And because I am such a big fan of Poison, the ageless rocker, I am going to help him out a little with some advice. Just some friendly banter back and forth for my man, ya know, to help him adjust to the year 2000 and which lose moral chick to choose.

First, Bret, for the love of god, stop wearing bandanas like you are some vato. Come on man, just stop it. You’re going bald, we all get it. Stop wearing the blue bandana and then putting the cowboy hat on it. It’s no longer cool man. Even I know that and I spent my morning cleaning baby puke off my shirt. And does the cowboy hat have to be some crumpled up piece of crap with the American Flag drawn on it? Sweet Tap Dancing Christ, stop it. I’m from Texas and we take our cowboy hat wearing seriously. Do me a favor—go to your closet, grab all your hats and bandanas and just put them in the garbage disposal. See, doesn’t that feel good? And cut your hair. I’m a father now, I have to say things like that.

Ok, now that I have gotten that off my chest, lets move on to find out which of the 20 chicks you should pick.

We have our assortment of strippers on this show. For those that don’t watch it, I do not mean “women who act stupid and are loose.” I mean actual honest to god strippers with names like Brandi and Heather. I’m sure that they are just doing t his to make it through college and that it’s only a way to pay the bills. I’m sure that they sign their names with a heart over their I’s. I’m sure that the job doesn’t define who they are. I’m sorry my man, but we all know that is bullshit.

Look, we all want to knock one out with a stripper. I mean, who doesn’t? I’m sure that they are freaks in the sack, no question about it. And they can be easily entertained with a ball of string and some catnip. But dude, you’re a rockstar, can’t you get strippers already? Do you really need a TV program to show the rest of us what you do on Tuesdays? There is no challenge in this. Come on man, give us something here. You can cornhole one of those any day of the week, so just get ride of them.

He’s done a nice job so far and there is only one stripper left. Her name is Heather. But my other piece of advice is if you are going to keep around a stripper, keep the younger better looking ones around. No one wants an old stripper, that’s just not right. We have all seen Heather’s type. She is way past her prime, the meth has taken it’s toll on her and she is looking very manish with that Adam’s apple. She is destined to finish her stripping career dancing at the Yellow Rose in Lubbock. Trust me man, you don’t want to go anywhere near that place. And when they offer the “ride for five”, dude, just walk away.

But I do appreciate Heather in this show because she can never keep her clothes on. I guess that is just par for the course of a dancer. Wait, did I say dancer? Sorry, dancing has nothing to do with stripping. I meant to say biological war factory instead because she has got more anthrax in there than Abdul the suicide bomber. So get rid of Heather.

Next, let’s deal with the crazy one, Lacy. Let me spell it out for you: LACY IS A NUT JOB. Seriously man, don’t let that crazy near your junk. She is the type of chick that would go all Glenn Close on you and stir fry a rabbit. But if she does, tell her I got a dead one in my garbage can, no need to kill a new one.

There is always at least one crazy biotch on shows like this. There has to be or there wouldn’t be any drama. There has to be the antagonist. There has to be the one that thinks she is hot shit so everyone will hate her. This pushes the show forward and keeps people coming back. There wouldn’t be any show without at least one psycho.

But Lacy is damaged goods my man, trust me on this one. Sure, she is probably a wild cat in the sack. But the minute you go to sleep she will poop on your face then cry hysterically when you get mad. She will say “Why don’t you love me?” And when you reply “Well, it’s because you are a whore.” She will laugh manically and then try and bite you. She’s gotta go.

Finally, we get to the nice girl. Her name is Jess and I will admit, I would tap that ass if she dug on over weight balding guys. But given the fact that she is on a show going for true love, well, I like my chances. Once you kick her to the curb, why don’t you introduce us? She’s the only one that seems a little bit normal. I have taken a poll with all my friends, choose her.

As for the rest, come on dude, why did you even bother? Each one is so cliché that it’s obvious that there was actual casting here, no real life to be found. There’s the sensitive one-Sam. She’s all into journal writing, exploring feelings and dealing with trust issues. She is also my vote for slitting her wrists the first time you nail her because she will think that you “didn’t really mean it.” She’ll be right because who really falls in love with a prostitute? There’s a reason why you pay them, that’s all I’m saying.

Then you have the crazy foreign nut job who’s sole job is to get so drunk that, opps, she gets naked and is giving everyone lap dances. I don’t even know what her name is but good job kicking her ass off. And she was UGLY you have no ALIBI. Seriously, why did you even give her a shot.

Anther elimination is coming up this Sunday and I feel that if you follow my advice, you should do ok. But let’s take away some of the mystery, Mkay? First off, we know that you have nailed every piece of ass in that house. You have laid more pipe that Wabasha plumbing, we get it. No need to fake it anymore, you’ve seen them all naked. Second, tell Heather the pole dancing man queen to keep wearing dresses with no sides on the ass. That’s pretty great. Sure, she has a face like a man, but I do appreciate a good T and A show. And lastly, be honest here, you give your body guard “big john” seconds on the chicks you put aside, right? I’m sure that is one of the perks of his job. If he ever needs an apprentice, I’m his man.

Good luck finding true love, or in this case, someone who won’t give you crotch rot.


My Secret Keeper

There are times when I keep secrets from my wife. Trust me, it makes life a lot easier on everyone involved.

Now, I know that there are those of you out there say that this is not the recipe for a healthy marriage. I say bullshit. Bullshit, you hear me! Secrets are necessary for a healthy marriage. It is necessary so that your partner doesn’t go running for the hills to become a nun. Granted, at this point my wife is pregnant so I think nunhood is out. But perhaps she would make a great beet farmer. Either way, that is exactly what I am trying to prevent with my secrets.

Eventually though all my secrets come out as my wife can read me like a book. She has a laser stare that would bore through 3 inches of steel. And I’m not talking about that pussy steel either. This is space shuttle steel. When she knows that I am keeping something from her the best strategy is to throw a book at her head and take off. Or I also find tripping the baby takes her mind off of me for a little while. But of course I can’t keep that up as Little Hoss is starting to shoot me dirty looks every time she walks around me. She’ll understand one day.

But this secret I’ve been able to keep from her for a good 24 hours. I deserve a god damn medal. Hand over the heart, people, when the Star Spangled banner comes on.

Yesterday I was sitting with Little Hoss. We were enjoying some good quality time together. She was trying to eat dog food off the floor and I was constantly trying to stop her. When she would get a nugget in that pie hole of hers I would make her spit it out. She would then go find some more. I suppose it would have been easier to just sweep but that would defeat the whole purpose of the game. The game being that I was just to damned tired to sweep. If the nugget of my loins want’s to eat dog food, screw it, I say let her chow down.

Soon Little Hoss got tired of this game when I stopped protesting and decided to go exploring places she is not allowed to go. Up the stairs, out the dog door or behind the entertainment center. Those seem to be her favorite places. She can go just about any where in the house except those three places so naturally she chooses to test my parenting skills.

She went behind the entertainment center and then poked her head out smiling. She did this two more times and started laughing. By this time I am beginning to wonder if she has gone crazy or perhaps there is some natural LSD in the dog food she has been eating. Either way, she is ignoring me when I tell her to get out from behind the entertainment center because there will be hell to pay if Daddy’s cable goes out and I can’t watch Monday Night Football.

I go get her and scoop her up with one arm. Through the corner of my eye I see a dark mass of fluff on the floor behind the entertainment center. I put her down and then stick my own head back there. My daughter seeing me do this assumes that it is indeed ok to go behind the entertainment center. I am blocking her off with my foot while trying to decide what the hell I am looking at.

It’s a mess, whatever it is. It is kind of stinks. This cannot be good. Nope, this is definitely not good as I realize that this mass of fluff has ears. And they are large ears to match the exceptionally large body that I realize I am now looking at.

It’s a fucking rabbit. It’s a fucking dead rabbit. It’s a fucking dead and mauled rabbit and one of my dumb ass pets stashed it behind the entertainment center. I swear to you it was 20 pounds if it was an ounce. The fur of this thing is torn apart but the guts don’t appear to be leaking anywhere. That is about the only good thing I can think of regarding this. I have two questions now: Did Little Hoss touch it and which animal is going to get kicked.

There is only one pet that I have that would do this. I turn around to rush Little Hoss to the bathtub for a massive de-lousing, prison style, when my cat steps out into my path. The creepy little bastard just sits down and stares at me. Clarence the Cat is not moving an inch. He’s not making any sound. In fact, he’s doing nothing at all but looking at me.

My cat is psychotic. He is schizophrenic. You think he is a nice cat who wants to be petted until you actually try and pet him. Then he takes off while you trip over your feet trying to reach him. My daughter loves him. I find him a little scary. What the hell is he thinking? Is he plotting my doom? And why the hell is he just sitting there staring at me. I’m afraid to throw a kick his way because he would dart out of the way and sever my Achilles tendon. He would then do a little Reservoir dogs on my ear while playing creepy cat music.

Seriously, he scares me a little. He acts innocent but I think it is all bullshit. This isn’t the first time he has killed. He is the John Wayne Gasey of neighborhood rodents. Most of the time I’m happy about this as he keeps my house and yard free of disease spewing varmints. But he seems to take just a little to much pleasure in his job around the house. He may be Luci Brazi, but I doubt I would get that kind of loyalty out of him.

After taking a wide berth around my cat I throw Little Hoss in the tub to scrub off the bubonic plague that I am sure she has. She was not happy but sometimes you have to pay the price for not listening to pops. I get her dressed again and I have every intention of going downstairs and getting ride of the crime scene behind the entertainment center.

But then my wife comes home and I have to make a hard choice. It’s a hard choice but being superdad isn’t about taking the easy route. I can either tell my wife that there is a dead rabbit behind the entertainment center or I can play dumb and pick it up when she goes to bed, none the wiser.

I decided to go with option B, leave it until she goes to bed. My wife is 9 months pregnant. You also have to understand that my wife is not very “outdoorsy”. Bugs, wildlife and sharks. That is what terrifies her when she goes outside. That SNL skit about Land Sharks--her worst fear. Her version of camping is staying in a hotel that is 20 miles from any actual campsite.

This is what will happen if I tell her that there is a dead mutant rabbit behind the entertainment center. 1. She will scream really, really loud. 2. Her water will break and she will go into uncontrolled labor. 3. She will get in the car and never return. 4. The rabbit will come back to life as a zombie rabbit and attempt to eat my brains like a cabbage. Maybe not all of that but it would make a kick ass movie.

So I say nothing. I am the model of silence.

“Hey honey, what’s going on” she says.

“Theres no dead rabbit behind the entertainment center.” I mumble.


“Nothing, lets have dinner.” I say.

And off to dinner I go and the secret stays with me. She went to bed and I cleaned up the Satan worshiping alter that my cat used. And the cat stood there while I did it. Seriously, he is starting to freak me out.

My wife doesn’t know any of this until she gets to this blog. If you hear a scream outside, it’s probably my wife. Sometimes marriages need secrets.


Dumbing Down

I’m getting dumber, I can just feel it.

It’s not intentional and it is not caused by any disease. It’s just that I can feel the IQ points slowly dripping out of my brain. I am kind of hoping that they will find a alien brain sucker so that at least I will have an excuse to as why I’m getting dumber but I think that’s a long shot. And I think that the previous statement is proof positive that I am actually getting dumber. I am actually hoping for an alien so that it will be easier on my ego. I have problems.

The top of those problems is that the stupid life is coming slowly my way again. It’s almost like I de-evolving. Pretty soon, I will be straight Redneck Hossman again. You’ll see me on an episode of cops in a white T-shirt explaining that she hit me first. I will be the guy that you see running from the cops on a John Deer tractor. I’ll lose my house in a tornado and the only thing that I will cry about is the loss of my pit bull, Toothy.

I will have totally forgotten that I have a college degree or that I have read Dante’s Inferno. I will have no idea where Spain is located on a map. I will believe that the Mason Dixon line still exists, Hawaii isn’t a state and by God where’s my gun that I left on the gun rack in my truck. In about 2 ½ weeks, I’m pretty sure that is going to be me.

It’s going to be me because in 2 ½ weeks I have my second kid and that will make me dumber. I will lose an automatic 20 points just by waking up that morning. And all the build up to that moment, that’s another 20. So before the kid is even born, that’s 40 points that I’m in the whole at. I know that this is going to happen. Hell, I know that it is happening right now.

This is not a shot at my kids, I love them. But the day you have a kid is the day that you get a little more stupid. I don’t know why, but it’s true. And I know t hat it is true because this is what happened when I had my first child, Little Hoss.

It was pretty stressful, being a first time Dad and all. It was a C-section as well. They took my wife’s uterus out and placed it on her stomach. I actually asked myself then “What the hell is that?” WTF? I knew what that was. I was a biology minor in college and have participated in the gross anatomy lab so this isn’t even the first time that I have seen this. And where the hell else is a baby going to come from, a cuticle? So I knew it was the uterus but for some reason I didn’t make the connection. The dumb down had begun, I just hadn’t realized it yet.

I made the complete connection about a day after my daughter was born. The world looked a lot more confusing than it had before. Doctors were talking to me but I was not as quick on the up take as I used to be. Sure, I wasn’t sleeping more than an hour at a time, but still. I’m smarter than this! My work called me a day later and asked me a very simple question.

You have to understand something. I was the go to guy. If you had a question, I was the person that you came to. I was a walking jeopardy game. I’m not saying that I was smart, I’m just saying I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to my job. Until that very moment at least. They asked a very simple question and I couldn’t answer it. My mind went totally blank.

There just wasn’t anything there. Most times there is at least a thought process. This time there wasn’t even a single thought. Not one. Not even a small midget pointing in the right direction with a sign. There was nothing but a breeze of stupidity blowing across the amber graves of dumb that had become my brain.

I froze and finally something came to me. It was humbling. I thought, Man, I just got stupid. That was it, that was all I had. I had to tell my work to go ask someone else because I didn’t have an answer. World 1, Hossman 0, game over.

And I can feel this happening again, but at least I am ready for it this time. It took me a good 6 months to begin to get some brain power back and probably over a year to feel like myself again. I don’t blame Little Hoss, I just figure she took some of my own brain power to supplement her own. After all, she rolled over a good 2 months early, where else would she get those smarts?

So now I need to prepare myself for the inevitable. And the first step, of course, is writing down my own phone number and putting it into my wallet. By the time the kid comes I will probably have to pin it to the front of my shirt. I also have to see if I can make a conscious decision of what stays in my head and what goes. I need more room up in the old noggin so the old stuff has to go. But what to throw out?

Every President that has had a beard has been a Republican. Ok, that can be thrown out. I’ll never use that tid bit. It was fun fact to know for a while, but now it can go.

Mount Rushmore only cost 1 million bucks to build. I don’t need to know that anymore.

Mozart poured ice cold water over his head prior to writing any new music. I don’t even know why I know that in the first place, so that’s out.

Niagara Falls once stopped flowing for 30 minutes because of a huge ice block. Cool knowledge, yes, but pointless.

North Jersey has the most shopping malls in one area in the world with seven major shopping malls in a 25 sq. mile radius. I feel dumb just for knowing that one.

The average bra size in America is 36C. Ok, that one I’m keeping. That one needs to stay. I’ll give up something else, but I’m keeping that one. How about the town of Ekalaka was named for the daughter of the famous Sioux chief, Sitting Bull.

I just looked that last one up and since it is new knowledge and not old knowledge, it can certainly go. Sorry Sitting Bull, but it’s either you or remember how to feed myself.

Kids make you stupid, we all know this. However, until you have experienced you can’t understand that it’s not just a cliché but true life.

And those of us that have kids, well, we can’t understand that either. It might as well been written in Greek. And the Greeks of course were an Indian tribe I think somewhere off the cost of Australia.


Little Hoss Interview

I realize that I haven’t written much this week. I know that some of you may be a little upset with me. But it’s been a slow creative week. I’m as disaapointed as you all are. And it shows in my numbers, as I am not doing so great this week. For that, I blame all of you. How can I be the ruler of the world without the people’s support?

So today instead of writing my normal blog, I have decided to let my 20 month old daughter write it. I’m going to do a short interview with her and let her type her answers so you all get a chance to really get to know the greatness of Little Hoss. Enjoy.

Little Hoss, you have been Hossdads minion for almost 2 years now. You have brought destruction and his wrath to all that would not bend to his will. What is the best part of this job?

Little Hoss:
Asdo;fijhuawet;ouhasdg;kljhasdfg;kjashdg;kjbhbxczvzxcv. Zsdv asd; asdf u a d;’ jhauweqoui weq089 2890 7wasdfasdfjksdfajh sdfa health benefits ew0u89q340u93q4ohia;’hasdjksda

I see, great answer. Is there anyone in your family that you think deserves a little bit more of your vengeance than another?

Little Hoss:
0p;\/ua34u uat9ol.u4t0p;’uiolp;\joap;\jiagp;/jiawtp;’/jhiasgpjhja;lfjasdiotetghagavn/ZXvn Uncle Bricksalesman a;l h a;owiertoawhi ;oahv;abnv;bnzxcvbnvn;aznv poop head

Good point, he is a traitorous bastard. Let’s get to your personal life, let’s get to know the real you. You like to eat a lot of stuff off the floor. Any favorites?

Little Hoss:
A;ohhhg aw;oef aw foeroasn/xzcvn/zx cvoisadfowetuowertu aljasdf sd d dog food ao;jfowei ruoweru o jfldajflkasdffas, cat fooda dlskfjoiuaogiuavbja;ljeroiwejoriejrdazxklcnvlkn asj;dfljasldjf random vomit at times.

Hmmm, that’s really interesting. How about things to throw in the toilet when Daddy isn’t looking. Is there anything that makes a better splash than others?

Little Hoss:
Shoe. Phone.

Ha ha, you are very funny to. Ok, now that we know you a little better, how about your philosophy of life. Do you poop often and easy or seldom and hard?

Little Hoss:
Sdaf,xcz,.m l/mkzxc,mzxc xczv xcv xcv asdilwqeoiawljk;fsdal xczl;asdjhsadnasd sadasdfhsa Butros Butros Gali asdlvoizx c;lcvjh ;lzvsad;oias sd some of column A, some of column B as;ldkfjoi uzxcvov ;lafg nsda vnv oi zxuvl jawe f in the tub.

I think we have all been there. Now that you are expecting a little brother, do you have any opinions on how life will change around the house and your role in it?

Little Hoss:
A; lz,/xnvzx nv;aoiust ;alsjdfiuzx; as;ldjjawoeiurtoweiq we09485032489uq[wei lakjf;lsal;fj my own minion a;iweup 8 weuqru;lasfj;lkasdjl;fjas s wedgies.

I agree, he should be a nice new addition to the Hossman Family and our efforts to convert everyone to our worship. What about your relationship with the dogs. Do you think that this will be affected by the new arrival?

Little Hoss:
Oaieu[0808909u[wq ewq afasfas807-0u’qwerjt’ljk sa u[09uisdfj asdujg[auisg jesus powq4 ut0qu w[otulkjaga fasd as askldfjsdoiu0[u they eat poop [0qawio 4ut08 wualasdfs d;jf

Maybe, but we’ll have to see. Ok, I think we have gone pretty far here in getting to know the real you and your views. We can all tell that your are obviously genius level. Any last words of advice to our readership that aren’t as great as you?

Little Hoss:
Why yes Father. It would appear that the world gets a little to caught up in it’s own importance. This has the effect of people ignoring me and your blog, which is basically about me. I would suggest that people start telling other people about this before we are forced to offer some chainsaw justice on Xbox live. Also, they should really just relax, life is way more fun that way. Poop.

I couldn’t agree more my sweet little angel.


The China Hutch

The China Hutch weighs roughly 3000 pounds.

And unlike other normal pieces of furniture it is not built out of ordinary wood. No, because that would be to simple. Instead of oak or maybe even walnut, it’s made out of some mysterious wood that I’m pretty sure is just hollow and filled with steel to make it even heavier.

For me, when I look at heavy things and then try to lift them, I often find myself thinking that it looked heavier than it actually was. This is not the case the China Hutch. This thing is way heavier than it looks. I think it is so heavy that it actually changes the gravity around it. That was such a crap joke, but seriously, it’s heavy.

It comes in a two piece arrangement where the top part, which is very heavy by the way, comes off from the bottom part, which is also very heavy. This makes it possible to lift something tremendously heavy not once, but twice, thus making my ever loving day.

And of course when something is heavy, what must you do with it? Why, move it around. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again. To summarize, the China Hutch has become the bane of my existence. I hate it so much.

The China Hutch was a gift from my mother in law to her daughter, Hossmom. I do not pretend that it was a gift to me or to “us” as that clearly isn’t the case. It is a punishment to me for something that I must have done 10 years ago and now don’t remember. In fact, I think that my wife’s whole family is in on this. They must hate me because they are communist pigs, that’s the only reason I can ever think of to hate Hossman.

My wife insisted on taking this China Hutch from her mother because her mother got a new China Hutch. I ask you, how many Hutches are to muches? Why do you even need one? Look at this thing. Come on, just look at it. It’s a big ass cabinet that you put dishes in. That’s it. That’s it’s purpose. Why not just use your kitchen cabinets, which are stationary I might add. Why do you have to have a whole different thing for the good china? I think t hat’s total crap. But I might be just a bit biased because I am the one that has to move it all the time.

I tried to point out to my wife that we don’t have any “fine” china to begin with unless you count the jalapeño looking plates we got from Bed Bath and Beyond. My wife informed me that we would be getting some fine china from her mother as well. To be stored in the already heavy Hutch. Shit.

We received the china hutch several years ago and it went in the kitchen. But my wife didn’t like it in the kitchen and neither my mother in law. My Mother in Law does this on occasion, re-arranges my house and furniture. I hate this because what it really means is that I have to move things to multiple places while my wife and Mother in Law just point. So let me rephrase that: My mother in law and wife like to point and make me move heavy stuff. They don’t rearrange. They point. All the “arranging” is done by yours truly.
At that point they decided that for now, until we get a bigger house, that the China Hutch should go in the spare bedroom. Of course what they refer to as the “spare” bedroom I refer to my office and situation room. It’s where I plan my world wide domination with my minion, Little Hoss. But I have found my life is much easier to just do what they point to and stop arguing, so I didn’t.

Until they pointed to the spare bedroom/office that just so happens to be located upstairs. Ok, so just so I get this straight. You want me to move this fucking thing up a flight of stairs and into my office. Tell me why I’m doing this again? That’s right, you guys pointed.

So I rounded up some buddies with some meat on their bones and up it went, into my office. I couldn’t use my sculpted like arms for a month afterwards, but up it went and all were happy. The story should end here. It should end with “And the China Hutch remained in the room until the end of time”. But that just wouldn’t be our style.

We were having our first kiddo, little hoss. We needed a nursery. Anyone want to guess what room was picked? That’s right, my office. So my wife and mother in law pointed yet again. To the other bedroom that we have. But at least that was only across the hall. For this job I didn’t need anyone else as I could just gradually shove it on the floor.

It took about 2 weeks but eventually it made it into that room, the true spare room. But because of Little Hoss it is now the guest bedroom, office—world domination center, and China Hutch storage. Everything was fine.

Then we got pregnant again. Honestly, if I would have thought this through I might have not wanted another kid, just because I have to move the China Hutch yet again. My wife pointed to the garage.

No fucking way. Nope, not going to do it. I’m not going to lift this fucking heavy ass soul killer down a flight of stairs and into my god damn garage. Not going to happen. Suck it, not going to do it.

Then I looked at my wife who was pregnant. How could I say no? I am no way giving up my garage for the china hutch. My last bastion of everything that is Hoss. And it’s not just the Hutch this time, it’s the entire room that has to go. Everything that was stored in there now has to go to my garage. That’s where I keep my tools and the last remnants of my balls. And now it is gone. It’s the only place left where I can keep my sports illustrated calendar and my Texas flag. It’s the only room that I get to decorate myself, with no interference and no “re-arranging”.

But the pregnant wife says it’s gotta go. But this time I call up my brother in law, my wife’s brother, to help me move this. Over the life span of the China Hutch I have lost a lot of my more muscle friends and I needed someone with size. That would be Uncle Bricksalesman. He was a power lifter so he can do this and I need someone that I can trust. Some of my other friends would buckle under the weight of this thing and leave me smushed like a bug on the floor. I have a family to feed and minions to direct, they need me.

Uncle Bricksalesman tried to get out of it at first. He made an excuse about a twisted knee or something like that. I wasn’t buying that. This was his sister and his mother pointing over here, no giddy up cowboy, help me move this thing.

My wife pestered him until he agreed to do it.

Prior to this, I suggested that perhaps, it is time to get rid of this fucking thing. That maybe, just maybe, it was time to just chunk it out the window. My wife’s whole family has come down on me on this. “But it’s worth a lot of money!” they would all say. “It’s a gift!” they would chant. This is why I’m pretty sure they all hate me. You can’t just throw it out. Of course I can, do you not even know me at all? I would have no problem putting this thing out on the curb and hoping that the meth neighbors pick it up and make a super bong out of it. I would be ok with that. But if just throwing it out does damage to your ethical values, fine, I’ll sell it to you.

As of right now, I will take 1 dollar for my China Hutch.

Until then, it sits in the middle of my garage, mocking me. I walk by it everyday thinking about how I can get rid of this thing before I have to haul it back up some stairs in some random house.

Today I got an idea. I think I am going to go home and give Little Hoss my hammer. I’m going to point to the China Hutch and tell her to go nuts. Then I’m going to walk away. She knows to make it look like an accident. My minions are coming along so fine. I will have plausible deniability and Little Hoss can’t talk yet so there is no way she can rat me out. Genius, pure genius. I can’t wait until we get into loan sharking.


The Pooping Prayer

Dear Lord,

Please watch over you humble servant as he makes yet another visit to the almighty throne.

Please give me the strength to poop yet again and reach the heavenly number of 7 times in one hour. Give me the strength not to not cuss the Mexican restaurant that I ate at last night. Please give me the wisdom to find forgiveness for the rice and beans that was served to me and obviously tainted.

Dear Lord, please allow the toilet to be cold and inviting. Please make sure that there are no less than 3 rolls of toilet paper and at least one good magazine within arms reach as we both know that there will be times where I am unable to search out thy holy book prior to my visit. Allow my confessional to take place without any prying ears around so that I am not so embarrassed I can never ever face anyone again.

And dear Lord, If I am forced to head out into t he world today and forced to make an emergency pit stop at a public restroom, please bar anyone from actually being in that rest room when I arrive. I beg you dear lord, do not make me do the trot of shame past the 45 year old guy and knock over the 6 year old kid who is trying to beat me to salvation. And once I am in there dear lord, please do not let anyone come in while I am doing my business because we both know that it is going to have sound effects attached to it.

But dear lord, if you do not choose to grant me that in your wisdom and someone does come into the public restroom while I am suffering my penance, please allow my curtsey flushes to be quick and true. Allow no stink to permeate beyond thy treasured heavenly public restroom. Allow it to be at least self contained so that I do not have to do a walk of shame when I leave.

And dear lord, do not let anyone attempt to enter said stall while it is occupied. I may be in mid grunt and unable to coherently speak as I may also be near tears. Please allow any other heavenly visitors to have common sense and check for shoes under the door before further embarrassing me and causing me to clinch up.

Lord, I know that I haven’t been to church in many many years. And I know that there are times where I may throw an inappropriate joke out there. And I know that, even though I may not be religious, please do not forsake me on this toilet. I beg you to have mercy on me and my colon. I beg you to strike down the Mexican restaurant that did this to me in the first place. Send down your raining sulfer and hellfire so that thine vengeance can be done.

Have pity on me Dear lord, your humble servant. Allow me to always make it “just in time.” Allow my pants to always easily unbutton and unzip. Do not make me do the weird little dance as I am struggling with my zipper that for some reason chooses this day to jam, even though it has never done that in my 32 years on your good earth. Because I swear to you, Sweet Lord, I will just rip those pants off by shear force should this be the case. And at that point dear lord, if that should happen, please allow me to make a mad dash to my car afterwards so that no one sees me with ripped pants coming out of the bathroom.

And please, please please dear lord, don’t let all of that happen while coming out of a public restroom on a highway rest area. And please don’t let a state trooper be watching me run out of there with my pants down. And please, dear god, don’t let a kid come running out of there after me crying. No one will ever believe that I just had to poop really really really bad.

Dear Lord, I am practically on my knees as I say this prayer. I am begging you to watch over me. I am begging you to protect me from hemorrhoids or the dreaded anal fissures because those sound like they hurt like shit. Because we all know, if commercials teach us anything, that if I get any of those my wife will tell everyone that I have them. She will do it at a neighborhood block party. They’ll say “Hossmom, why where is Hossman?”

And she’ll say “Well he has anal fissures and hemorrhoids. But thanks to our new Jesus Cream, he’ll be healed in days!” At which point I will surely die.

And lord, if this is to big a request, because I know that you are busy, please feel free to invite the others to the party to help me out. If Buddha or Mohammad or even Moses can take some of this responsibility, I would be ok with that. I know that you are busy but I need you here dear lord. So if you would want to delegate some of my requests to someone else, I’m cool with that. Because this is not good and every helping hand I can get, I would very much appreciate it.

Our Father, please forgive me my trespasses and allow me to retain some of my dignity and pride. And if this should not flush and become stopped up and begin to overflow. I beg you lord, just kill me.