What would you do.........

I am a 32 year old man and if I could get away with it, I would come over to your house tonight as a trick or treater. I’m not kidding.

I would show up in a great costume but not a store bought costume because I can’t afford those things right now and everyone knows that the best costumes are the ones made from the curtains like in Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. I would have to buy some make up, or as I am a dude, colored justice gel as saying “make-up” makes me sound like a chick. I would not use my Mom’s colored justice gel because then I would really be a sissy. And if as a kid my mom used some of her colored justice gel on me for Halloween I don’t want to know about it.

My costume would be something in the scary realm complete with fake blood and gore that ever so briefly you would have to ask yourself if it is real or colored corn syrup? Who knows, that’s the beauty of Halloween. Maybe that’s a real stake through my vampire heart or maybe it’s just a piece of wood duct taped to a belt that I have then strapped to my chest and covered with a shirt. My Halloween costumes are made to make you think.

But unfortunately I am to old to do any trick or treating without getting the massive pedophile stare. And I can’t say that I blame parents because I would look at myself the same way if I came to the door. However, that doesn’t mean that I can’t partake in the other rituals of Halloween that I enjoyed as a kid.

Every year, a couple of weeks before Halloween I pick out a book or two that is designed to scare the shit out of me. That was always some of the fun about Halloween. One year it was Stephen King’s “IT” and I couldn’t sleep for a week. Another year it was the Exorcist. These are all mood setters to get you ready for the big night.

Because on the big night is when you start really watching the scary movies. As a kid I absolutely loved this and haven’t changed one bit since then. What made it more difficult was scoring the scary movies that your parents wouldn’t let you watch. It would start with some King Kong or perhaps the old Dracula, which by the way still is one of the best done horror flicks of all time. Something about the movie being in black and white added to the terror factor. One year I had to sleep with my brother because I was scared shitless. I was 15.

But as I grew older I started getting to see the Jason Vorhes and Friday the 13th movies. The true gore fests with boobs. It was exciting on so many levels as a kid because it was so many things that you weren’t supposed to be seeing. The gore and the teenagers having sex at the lake, both of which you didn’t understand and didn’t do but good lord if it wasn’t intriguing. Mom and Dad never let us watch this kind of stuff but everyone had that one parent that really wasn’t into the whole parenting thing and they would have a copy of Nightmare on Elm Street laying around somewhere. This applies to other movies as well. My friend Jimmy had a step mom who was 23, she was uber hot. She let us watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High when I was 7. She couldn’t see the harm in such a thing. The harm was the confusion that was happening in my pants.

I don’t know what has always intrigued me about the really scary movies but during Halloween, I would become obsessed with them. Not only would we watch those movies but we would take it so far as to debate them. This is a debate that we still have, 20 years later.

The question is “What would you do if you were being chased by Jason Vorhes, Michael Myers, or Freddy?”

As a kid, this is a good question to ask. There’s always a small part of you that would insist that this stuff was real and that someone could really kill you in your dreams or could still be alive after taking a machete to the head. The rest of your brain would try and convince the kid part of you that this was always make believe but you would never really want to admit it because god help you if you jinx yourself and Freddy does come after you. This is pretty much the reason my answer to the question of “Do you believe in ghosts” is a big fat and strong “No Comment.” Because I’m still a little afraid that if I say no, I will get haunted just out of spite and that if I say yes, I’m inviting them in. So for the record I firmly declare that I neither believe in or disbelieve in ghosts, please leave me alone.

So as a kid it helped to be prepared and really concentrate on what you would do if a supernatural ax murderer was coming after you. We did this because we were also boy scouts and everyone knows that if this really happens you can only count on your buddies because your parents will laugh at you all the way to the nut house.

My bravado would disappear in my answers and I would always say that I would run. But I wouldn’t run fast because that always screws you in the movies. Running fast just mean that you would lose sight of your killer and he would hop on a bus and beat you to your destination and then hack your head off. Only fools did this. I was more strategic. My plan was always to just jog backwards, he whole time keeping my adversary in plain sight. If I was indoors then I would just run around the kitchen table, making sure to keep it right between us. Eventually, the killer’s mojo would run out or some hot coed would stumble in unrepentantly and he would go after her thus saving me. Seriously, I spent years developing this plan.

My friend on the other hand had a different way to go. He acknowledged that there were certain unavoidable truths to this situation. First, only about 1 in 30 will survive the onslaught of the supernatural kid killer. It will always be a hot teenager. We were 9 and boys, so not much luck there. Second, no matter how far you run or how clever you are, the killer will always pop around a corner for you, most likely when you are about to get lucky with said hot teenager. Third, there will be no help because no one will believe you. Fourth: Guns, knives, poisons are 18 wheeler trucks are of no use to you because the killer will always take your best shot but then just get back up the minute you turn away to call for help.

So he came up with a solution that would work for him. Very calmly after years of thought, he would announce that he would just kill himself. He would take away the sport of it and just off himself before the killer could get to him. He would try to make it quick and painless but that wasn’t really a concern. He would shoot himself, cut himself or run himself over with the truck. Being a debate, I had to throw in some curveballs. What if he didn’t have a gun, or poison, or an 18 wheeler available to him. He said he would go find a hammer and brain himself. I gotta admit, the man could be original. But I took it one step further. What if he didn’t have a tool shed, access to a kitchen with knives or a the Ebola virus.

This is where he showed his real dedication. He said that he would go outside his house, find himself a steady brick wall, bend over from ten feet away and then just run full speed, thus braining himself. I asked if this wasn’t enough and it didn’t kill him. He said he would get back up, bend over again, and run harder. He said that he would continue to do this until he was in fact dead. And what if he couldn’t find himself a good brick wall?

He said he would climb a tree as high as he could and then do a nose dive straight off, thus achieving the same affect. It was obvious that my man had given this a lot of thought.

But of course, being who I was, I would point out that if he did do this I would just go bury him in the Pet Cemetery.


Very Long Chain of Ass Whippings

In the month of October, my blog has sucked.

Seriously, this might have been some of the worst writing that I have ever done. In order to correct a problem you first have to admit that you have one. So Hi, my name is Hossman, and I have written crap blogs for a month.

There may have been funny one liners from time to time out there but other than the occasional chuckle, I’ve got nothing this month. The army called and wondered if they could play my blog on loudspeakers at their next Waco standoff. It’s been that bad.

My mind has been preoccupied which I think can be expected when you have a new kid. The whole lack of sleep and the constant pressure to not break his tiny fingers when you dress him, it does take some out of you. But that is not the reason that I have lost my funny so much. I debated whether I was going to write about this but I don’t think I can get passed it until I do.

About 2 weeks after Bubba Hoss was born, we got a call from a nurse. She informed us that one of the tests from Bubba Hoss’s new born screening came back abnormal. And that was the exact moment that all the funny left me.

We asked her which test the abnormal reading came back on and what was the abnormal reading. It was at this point that the nurse let us know that she couldn’t tell us which test he failed and what the result was. She stated that we would have to contact our doctor. It was 5:00pm.

What. The. Fuck.

Seriously, who does this kind of thing? What kind of sadomasochistic bullshit is this? Who calls parents and says that your kid might be sick and then hangs up? I have never punched a woman before but if this nurse was there I might have popped her. I wouldn’t have felt bad. Very kindly then, we let her know that perhaps she should get a motherfucking doctor on the motherfucking phone right the motherfucking now. It was said with the utmost love. However, no doctor was available at that moment and we were forced to wait to find out what might be wrong with our son.

That was probably one of the worst nights of my life. New born tests screen for metabolic and genetic diseases, very scary shit. As a new parent, that is not something you want to hear. You immediately think of autism or some other developmental disease. My wife was freaked out as you would expect her to be. I did research on the internet to find out which tests were run and what they had to do with.

Now don’t get me wrong, they are all pretty scary but once you know a lot about them they are not that scary. Most metabolic disorders mean that you have to change diets and that Bubba Hoss would have to do that for the rest of his life. If you don’t, then yes, there can be some developmental disabilities and things of that nature. But I felt better because if it did turn out to be something like this then we could correct it and our son could lead a normal life and I wouldn’t punch a sadistic nurse in the face.

We heard from our doctor the next morning and got the run down. In the state of Texas they have begun running one new test on the new born screening as of Jan, 2007. It’s called Very Long Chain Acyl-coenzyme. Immediately, I was not impressed with the medical community and their creativity. Seriously, what kind of disorder is that? That’s not very scientific, it doesn’t even appear to be a well thought out name. It sounds like a couple of drunk frat boys one day decided to say Hey, that’s a long chain man, let’s name it that. Pass the bong.

And my initial impression was right on. This disorder prevents the body from converting fat into energy, especially during times of fasting. So basically, it’s the lazy enzyme.

We immediately went into see the doctor so we could get more information. And that’s where shit got really weird. My list of people that I need to punch has grown ten fold since that day.

It would appear that this disorder is very rare. It is so rare in fact that they just began testing for it. It is also so rare that my doctor has never treated anyone with the disorder and had to call a genetic specialist in Houston to find a case. It is so rare in fact that the test they use to screen for it has a very high rate of false positives. Son of a bitch.

So we had to get additional testing for it. First, that meant getting a urine sample from my son. Have any of you ever even considered how this would be done? It’s not like my 2 week old son can stand and pee in a cup, so how the hell does this work? Well, you basically strap a ziplock back to his Johnson and say “now pee”. It takes some time. We also had to repeat the original test that they took in the hospital, ya know, because a lot of those people can be fuckups. And finally, they had to drain about a gallon and a half of my sons blood for new tests. The whole thing pretty much took all day.

When I asked when we would know the results and the lab told me two weeks. I asked perhaps was she the nurse that called me yesterday on the phone and if so, would she please step outside for some angry parent justice. But then I tried turning on the charm. Gee, you sure are a pretty nurse, you don’t look a day over decrepit. It sure would be great if perhaps you could put a rush on that there old blood and maybe give us a fucking answer a little fucking sooner. Come on sugartits, help a guy out.

It took 2 ½ weeks for us to get the results back.

I think any parent can understand what my wife and I were going through. There is a pit that hits the bottom of your stomach and it just never leaves. I consider myself a pretty manly guy. I like to think that the biggest role in my family is for me to take care of them and make sure no one hurts them and that they are happy. I don’t know what is worse for me, not knowing what to do in a case like this or knowing that there is nothing you can do in a case like this but wait. It’s like your nuts just got chopped off and you have been declared a shithead father.

But you still have to be strong because you know that your wife is looking at you for strength, even when you feel like you don’t have nothing to give. Our doctor had told us that there are so many false positives that we probably didn’t have it. She said our first test wasn’t abnormal but just on the low end of normal. She also had a few choice words for the competency of the labs at the hospital. I fucking love my doctor.

So that is what I focused on with my wife and when family would ask. I would tell everyone that everything was going to be ok and not to worry about it. I would hug Hossmom and tell her that it is probably a false positive. It was not denial and it was not me ignoring the facts, it was just us surviving. Because you always have to believe that everyone is going to be ok, otherwise you will become frozen and will not be able to take any action.

Everyone seemed to take it pretty well while we waited for the our new tests to come back. I still felt the fear in the pit of my stomach but I didn’t talk about it much with my wife and certainly not with anyone outside that. Hossman doesn’t share his feelings well.

We finally got the new tests back and we ran up to the doctors office. The urine test came back negative. Score! The new born test that they re-ran also came back normal and this really sent me into a pisser. If this test would have come back this way the first time, we wouldn’t be worried half to death the first month! Note to self, kick lab techs lazy stoned ass.

The third test came back as well and the area that they were looking for was also normal. Some other levels were a little off and they were concerned a little. So I thought this was the end of it. Nope, they want to send us to the genetics lab to get a skin biopsy now. Ya know, just to be sure since we have several conflicting tests. What kills me is that when I called to make the appointment I asked more questions about the last tests. It turns out that if a child has had to use a lot of energy the day they took it, then the test will probably come back positive and give us a false positive reading. So I asked if perhaps having a circumcision on the day they took the test would qualify as “expending a lot of energy.” Fucking jackasses.

But you have to be sure so once again we are going to get another test, the skin biopsy. They originally didn’t want to see us until Dec 4th and the thought of waiting 2 months again without knowing killed us. But luckily they eventually bumped us up to tomorrow so off we go. They said that they would begin by talking about the skin biopsy and ask us to come back for the biopsy I suggested that they fucking do the biopsy as I am not an idiot and now what a fucking biopsy is. So they are going to do it tomorrow.

The results should be back to us in 2 or 3 months. Good times.


Her First Day Home Alone

I walked through the door after my first day back at work. I expected to hear cheers of “Daddy” or “Super Bad Mofo” echoing throughout my home. The king has returned to his castle, let my court relish in all that is Hossman.

One foot through the door and my exceptionally fine tuned powers of perception let me know that this was not going to happen. I couldn’t open the door all the way and stuck my head around the door and looked at the obstruction.

On the floor I saw my daughter, Little Hoss, sitting and playing with the dogs. They have a game where they growl at each other and it would appear that I was interrupting the final Jeopardy version of the game. She had no clothes on but only a diaper. In the diaper there appeared to be a large sagging bulge where she was sitting.

On her face is what can only be described as drool/snot. This a very specific chemical compound that all children make to gross out their parents. Snot from the nose makes it way down into the mouth where it combines with spit. Get enough of this going and it starts coming out of the mouth like some green ooze from the creature from the Black Lagoon. I’m pretty sure this is the slime they used in all the alien movies. There are special drool/snot farm throughout the west cost.

Next to my daughter was a couple of handfuls of dog food. My daughter loves dog food. In fact, she loves everything that has anything to do with our dogs. She has gone completely wild on us and it would appear that my boxer is as responsible for raising her as I am.

There was a trail of dog food that lead away from the door and to the dog bowls. This is where we will hereby refer to as disaster area 1. In order to prevent my daughter from munching down on dog food and eventually humping legs, I had bought a container and put all the dog food in it. It would appear that my daughter has figured out how to open this container which now puts her on the mental equivalent of a feces throwing monkey. Next she will learn to use tools and date boys that I hate.

And it would also appear that my daughter, not satisfied with the dog food not being fed to the dogs, had decided that the best course of action was to dump the entire 20 pound bucket over. But this was not enough to finish her performance piece. She then grabbed one of her cups and had piled roughly 10 pounds of dog food into the two dog bowls we have. Honestly, I was a little impressed at her structural ingenuity here. It was like two sky scrapers of dog food. I expected to see little men hanging from the side cleaning windows and watching people have office sex.

At this time, I have become concerned because it looked like my house had gone the Lord of the Flies way. It would have not surprised me to see the cat with a conch shell and a little blond boy with a spear hiding behind the potted plant. Where was Hossmom?

I round the corner and finally spot my wife. Have you ever come upon a person that you just know is whipped? As soon as you see them you know that they have just had enough and that the best course of action is to ignore their presence so that they don’t bring the wrath of God down on you? That was Hossmom.

She was still in her PJ’s from that morning. She had a T-shirt on but one boob was hanging out. Normally, this is hot. And as I am her husband, I did appreciate the way she left it out there for me. Gotta love the effort. But the boob was not for me but for Bubba Hoss who apparently had just finished eating. Hossmom’s hair was frizzed and she had a head band on but it was losing the battle and could not contain the stress that her hair showed she had gone through that day.

Bubba Hoss, now sleeping, appeared to be the only one not causing havac. Until I heard him let a wet fart and I knew that the truth was that he was just taking a break from his havoc wrecking.

“You’re changing that” Hossmom said. There was not even a Hi, or how was your day. It was just an immediate declaration that she was done.

This was Hossmom’s first time to be home alone with both of our kids. It was my first day back to work from my month long paternity leave. My wife was nervous at first but I had the up most confidence in her. How hard could it be? Of course, I didn’t make this statement out loud because I value my life and I know that my wife has a life insurance policy on me.

It would appear that the children, although just really getting to know each other, decided that now that the law giver Hossman was gone for the day, they would team up on Hossmom.

And it turns out that my daughter is in fact smarter than a feces throwing monkey. In fact, it looks like she is the whole mastermind behind the “drive mom insane” plan.

My daughter very shrewdly discovered that when Hossmom is breastfeeding BubbaHoss, she is stuck in that position and cannot move. Bubba Hoss eats roughly 8 times a day. So Little Hoss decided that she had 8 chances to wreck her 2 year old version of vengeance on any and all. She recruited Bubba Hoss, the two dogs and even the fat cat that hates everyone.

At first, she started with just a little experiment. When Bubba Hoss first began to feed she would walk up behind the chair and steal his pacifier. She loves pacifiers, they are her creepy Gollam “precious” to her and she is pissed that she doesn’t get them during the day. She would grab it and then stand just out of reach from Hossmom, testing her. Hossmom would try to reach and Little Hoss, with a shit eating grin, would take one step away. It should also be noted here that my daughter has developed a manical laugh to go with her evil genius. Once she discovered that Hossmom couldn’t do anything, then she went apeshit.

She next went to the dog food and took 30 minutes figuring out how to open the container. Then she pushed it over for no other reason than she could and loved the sound of chaos crashing to the floor. The dogs ran over and proceeded to gorge their fat little traitorous bodies.

Hossmom fished feeding and went to clean up the mess which took her a while. Then Bubba Hoss, realizing that his sister is about to get the thunder down on her, decided that he was hungry again so back on the boob he went. Little Hoss decided at this point that she didn’t want to wear clothes anymore and proceeded to strip down to only her diaper loin cloth. She then took this off as well and ran around the house naked for a good 20 minutes.

The fat cat took advantage of this distraction to cause additional havoc by freaking out the dogs and daring them chase her. Continuous destruction followed.

Hossmom finished yet again with Bubba Hoss and cleaned up for the 10th time that day and put clothes and a diaper back on Little Hoss. She even took a shower and started dinner and it appeared that she would salvage her first day alone with the kids. Then she had to feed yet again and Little Hoss saw her chance.

Naked in seconds she again flipped over the dog food container, took the pacifier, threw the cat at the dogs and punched some orphans just for good measure.

That’s when I came home.

The one good thing about this is that I have never felt so needed in all of my life. Days like this happen to all of us and this was just Hossmom’s turn. Tomorrow I think I will give her a squirt bottle so she can discipline them all from 8 to 10 feet away. That and a 12 foot long cattle prod. Spare the prod, spoil the child my daddy always said.


The Xbox Diaries: The Hype

5 million people. Let me write it out for you: 5,000,000. Five Mil. That’s 10 million hands, 10 million eyes, and 50 million fingers. Five freaking million. That’s also the number of people that I shall dominate in Halo 3.

Some of you may have seen the commercials or seen some of the advertising onslaught for this new video game. If you didn’t then perhaps you are blind but I’m sure you still heard of it. But for those that don’t pay attention, here is a short synopsis, written in Haiku.

The Alien Horde
A soldier with a big gun
Nerds still don’t get laid.

That’s about it. It’s your basic first person shooter game with the common yet popular story line of one superhuman man against the vast alien horde. You kill them all, you win.

This is one of the most popular gaming series of all time and have been played by millions. And Halo 3 is to be the last installment of this story line so you can imagine it would be popular. The advertising machine kicked in and slowly but surely convinced all the weak minded individuals that they had to buy this game and these were not the droids that they were looking for.

5 million people pre-ordered the game before it even came out. Freaky.

Now normally I do not buy into the hype of such things. I realize that my tastes for total and utter destruction have matured since my Donkey Kong days. I require many things from my games now, namely good graphics, good story line and a great online environment. So when the big day came I didn’t buy the game. I didn’t pay any attention to it. I thought, pshhh, who needs Halo. I have my Atari 2600 classics right here on my hard drive. Qbert still rocks!

That lasted for about a day. Because then I realized that I was going to have a month off for paternity leave. That’s a lot of free time man, you have no idea. And maybe if I got it now I wouldn’t be such an asshat with all the other gamers out there and continue to get my ass kicked for an entire month when I finally do get online. Maybe if I started now I could be just as good as any of the other yahoo’s out there and they wouldn’t ask me what color my skirt is right when they rape and pillage my digital character.

So with a little help from big corporations and their merciless advertising onslaught, I talked myself into buying it within 24 hours of it’s realese. I bought into the hype but my expectations where still low.

I did not tell my wife I was going to buy it because I knew she would give me some flack for that. I was just kind of hoping that she wouldn’t notice I was playing a new game as she doesn’t pay attention anyway. And if she did find out then I could just say I rented it and we would be good to go. It didn’t help that I left the receipt for the game on the bed, in the box, from the Gamestop store. I told her it was my present to myself for being a new dad. Then I gave her some more Vicodin and we were good to go.

I first got on to distribute some Hossman justice. In the corner of the screen there is a counter that tells you how many people are online playing this specific game and highlights what parts of the world they are from. There were 700,000 people on line at that moment from all over the world. It was 2:00pm in the afternoon. Christ almighty, let the justice dispensing begin. I withheld any judgment of what all these people were online for and not at work or school as I was neither at work or school.

And to my shock, the game lived up to the hype. This happens so rarely that I was speechless. Most times the hype is so over blown and the end result sucks such major donkey balls that you wonder why you were excited in the first place. It’s like the Segway scooter. That turned out to be more of a “Hey, that’s cute” rather than the promised “Revolutionary”

In my experience now there are only two things that have lived up to the hype: The first time you get laid and playing Halo 3. I have either lived a very sheltered life or I have way high expectations. But maybe it’s more my attention span because my first shot at both lasted less than 3 minutes. But like a true champion, I jumped back on the horse.

I quickly learned the rules of this new digital world. First, if one gun is good, two guns are even better for bringing down digital death and destruction. Second, always take the Super Mario brother’s lessons to heart: if you are in trouble then jump, always. I am a gaming historian which is what makes me so good, I remember where I come from. Next, tea bagging appears to cross all gaming boundries and appears in every online game everywhere and if you do see it, it’s probably my face that are getting balls laid into it.

I am at a disadvantage when I play against the teenagers of the online world. They don’t have kids and so therefore have way more free time to practice. Also, and I hate to admit it, my uptake on new information is not as quick as it has been or as no where near as fast as theirs. It also doesn’t help that they seem to be able to love to cheat all the time. I tell my wife but she does nothing about it except to tell me to play nice and make friends.

Fuck friends, I want obedience. So I started my shaulin monk type training. My one big advantage over the young mouthy teens is that I don’t have a bed time. Suck on that Mr. 14 year old. While you were fighting with your mom for “just one more minute” I was playing my ass off, learning all the skills that I would need to dominate your ass like that abusive prison roommate that you are sure to have when you get caught stealing porno mags because you aren’t old enough to buy them. I also want to point out that I have had sex too. I throw that out there from time to time to make them feel inadequate when they start calling me the old man.

And slowly and surely, I started getting better and better. My son never slept during the day time that much which means that he was a night owl. I graciously told my wife that I would take him and would sit down in front of my machine of destruction, quietly practicing jump maneuvers off rocks. I grew strong and it was time for competition.

I joined up online. There were a million people online this time. I had never seen that many on before. I was a little nervous but with my son watching, I could not back down. I joined a slayer game, which is basically a free for all killing spree.

The game started and I stuck to the corners, patiently waiting. Another big advantage of an older player is that I don’t go off half cocked. I’m full Viagra, that’s when you go. I would see another simpleton walking through the map and I would stalk him. I would shoot at his feet and then change locations giving him a mind screw. He would quickly turn around only to find that I had already vanished. He would relax and then I would choose that time to give him a double dose of shotgun to the face. Namssoh (my online name) scores again.

To my surprise, I did very well. The game ended and I was up toward the higher end of scores. I was encouraged and thought that maybe this time I wouldn’t be the asswhip that is always trying to figure out why my digital character is stuck in the corner all the time. And then, on the screen, a message popped up. “You have been promoted.”

Fucking sweet.

The game keeps track of your experience and promotes you for al the world to see, including my enemies. To date, I have played roughly 200 individual online games and am now the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. There is even a website that anyone can go to to check out your stats: www.bungie.net. If you go, look up Namssoh. That might be the only time you will catch a glimpse of me and my kungfu style.


The Best Insult Ever

I just read this on True Office Confessions and have decided that this might be the funniest and best insult I have ever read.

"U sound like a howler monkey on crystal meth. i think my ears may be bleeding"

Christ that is funny.

The First Month

The first month is over.

Any parent will tell you the most difficult time when you have a new kid is that first month. If you can make it through the first month, then everything will be ok. Because during that first month, let’s be honest, you have no idea who this new person in your house is. He is a stranger that has moved in and taken you spare bedroom which in turn upsets the dogs because now they have no where to sleep.

Is he safe or will he steal the china? Does he pee on the toilet seat and can we leave him alone with Little Hoss? You just don’t know what kind of personality your new kid will have and what things will work on him that maybe worked on his sister.

It’s a whole new learning process. And even though my wife and I have been through this once before it’s a new ball game that doesn’t resemble the first kid that much. You have to find your groove all over again which has bothered me this first month. Little Hoss and I were a team. We knew what the other one wanted. Little Hoss knew that Daddy wanted the remote, so she would always bring it to me. I knew that Little Hoss always wants a bite of my dinner, so I would always give her some. It took us almost two years to work all that out.

There were some rough times but the point is that we were committed to finding a way to make sure that superdad did not lose his mind and still had time to watch football. She’s been great and has been watching with me for almost 2 years. In return, I taught her how to make the sign for touchdown, like every responsible father should.

But now we have to start over and find out what Bubba Hoss is all about. What makes him tick, what are his likes and dislikes? If he had a million dollars, what would he do with it? If he had to choose between saving his mother or his father, which way would it go? And most importantly, what calms him down the most when he begins to cry.

That’s really what that first month is all about. For new parents, let me introduce you to something I call the 8:00 pm crazies. This is the time of the night that my son decides that he no longer wishes to sleep, eat or play monopoly. The only thing he really wants to do is scream his head off. Now this can vary in times and 8:00pm is not a general rule to all children. My daughter did this at 11:00pm, but it was the same behavior.

For some reason, they just want to be awake and pissed at that time. So as a parent you go through your tried and true rituals to see if any thing is wrong. First, check the diaper to make sure there’s no log in there. Second, put him on the boob as that is soothing to everyone. Third, throw a pacifier in his mouth and pray to god that he takes it. And finally, check for any crazy terrorists that may be trying to abduct the results of my uber-patriotic seed. I have given birth to the future Captain America.

But during the crazies, for some reason only known to the cosmos, none of this works. He is not hungry, he hasn’t crapped himself, he spits the pacifier out like it is made from dog drool and there is no terrorists anywhere near the bedroom. He just decides that this would be the best time to test out his lungs.

I don’t know why this is the way it is. I don’t know why it is at the same exact time every night. I do not know why my daughter did this at 11:00pm instead. But there is one thing for certain: there is no other time in my life that I wished so very badly that I was deaf.

I know, it’s a horrible wish, but I kid you not I wished it. I wished that God would strike me deaf and at the same time give me the body of a 20 year old. Anyone who knows about negotiation knows that you ask high first then come down in the compromise. That is where my head was at.

Because, trust me, nothing makes you feel quit so much as a bad parent as when you cannot get your kid to stop crying and you have no idea of why he is crying. You start to take it personal. You assume the kid is crying because he found out that once during college, and only once, you may have cheated on an exam. Or that once you didn’t call the girl that you said you were going to call and the reason you didn’t call her is because you were hooking up with her best friend. You assume that your memory is ingrained into the genetics that you passed on and the reason he is crying is because you are a rotten person and a rotten father.

And now that you are accused, you go on the defensive. You start telling the kid that he didn’t know what it was like back then and how everyone was into free love. You explain to him that you always meant to call but lost the number. You ask him why does he have to judge you, what makes him an expert on this stuff anyway? I mean, come on, just who in the hell do you think you are any way, bub?! In fact, I think you should stop crying right the hell now and maybe you could listen to the reasons I had to do what I did. Sure, they were tough decisions, but who else is going to make them?!

And right there, right at that moment when you are arguing with your brand new son, you realize that you have lost your sanity. You are officially crazy. Of course your kid may be thinking those things but there is no way he is saying them, he loves you, why would he hurt you in such a way. That and he can’t talk, so maybe you have gone a little bit off your rocker because your kid is screaming at the top of his lungs and nothing you have tried is making him any happier. No parent wants an unhappy child because somehow this reflects poorly on us and if Oprah came into this house right now with TV cameras you are sure that the subject of her show would be “Bad Fathers, how to find them and get ride of them. With Dr. Oz.”

This is what the first month of parenthood is all about with a new kid. It’s learning him as he learns us. Sometimes he is just going to want to wail and you have to find a way of dealing with that. With my daughter I discovered something and this is what I am going to use on my son.

She would scream her head off. I would get out of bed and ever so tenderly change her diaper, feed her and put in a pacifier. She would continue to scream. Then, like a loving father I would gather her into my lap.

I would look right down at her, smile, and then throw in my Ipod to a little Rob Zombie. I let her know that she could scream until her heart is content because in my mind she was singing the chorus to More Human than Human. Thus my sanity was saved and my daughter got to appreciate the “repeat track” button.

Looking at my son though, I’m guessing he might be a more Metalica kind of guy. Maybe even some Nirvana, we’ll have to see. It’s very important to get to know what kind of man he is going to grow up to be.


A Pack of Lies

Every good marriage is based on a series of lies. This is not a joke or some witty banter, it is just the plain truth. That's what I am, a Truth Teller. And the Decider. And the man where the buck stops. But tonight I am the truth teller.

Hossmom and I have a very good marriage, at least I think so. I do what she tells me to do and she is happy. There is the secret right there. As a reward, she will occasionally throw a dog biscuit my way or let me eat scraps off the table. My favorite night is generic meat night because then there are bones. We eat the bone and just spit out the vegitables because who needs some yellow piece of corn?

But the other key to our ever loving marriage is that we lie to eachother all the time. I would imagine that there is not a day that goes by that one of us doesn't lie to the other. Why? I'll tell you why. Because lying insures that you both have a healthy level of mistrust and also hieghtens your bullshit o meter. This will be very useful for you in the future when you get that random call telling you that you have just won the Canadian Lottery, please send 900 bucks to pay for the taxes. Honestly though, who falls for that shit?

Anyway, for a lack of a better term, Lying is good for the marriage. It makes sure you avoid as much blaming as possible and also helps when you scoreboard your spouse. For an example of scoreboarding: When you wife tells you that it is your turn to get up at the crackass of dawn to feed the baby you, the husband, point out that you got up with the baby at 3:00am, 4:00am and 5:00am. Then you shout "SCOREBOARD!" and go back to sleep guilt free. Unless of course you just lied and you didn't do any of those things but realize that there is no way for her to verify it. Then you just push that pile of guilt ever so slighty to side into what is called your bastard soul.

On a side note, my wife is currently reading what I am writing and is denying that she lies like this at all. Her exact words are that she is "a natural mother of the earth and would never do such a thing." So as you see, even in this moment, lying is good for a marriage.

Now I'm not talking about those major lies like honey I had to work late but what you were really doing is finger banging Mary Jane Rotten Crotch. Ok, that's a little to much and basically makes you a shit eating turd fucker and you should rot in hell.

And no lies about how you didn't know she was pregnant or you thought she was on the pill. Fucking seriously, I have a problem with this. Excuse my rant, but hang on for the ride. These fuck heads piss me off so bad because it gives the rest of us Dads out there a terriable fucking name. Thanks to these guys there are a lot of ideas out there of Dads as being unresponsible with children or failing to live up to our responsibilities. I'm telling you guys right now, get the fuck off it. If you had sex with her there is always a shot that she will get pregnant. That's the Russian Roulet you are playing. You fired the one shot that hit the mark, now hoss up and fucking take care of your kid. You don't have to marry her but for fuck sake, it's your kid. And if you are looking for absolution here about how maybe you are not such a bad guy, fuck that, you suck major donkey ass. You are a horriable guy and you should kill yourself and save the world all the trouble. At least then you kid could believe that you really loved them in the first place but were just mentally ill instead of your kid thinking you were nothing but a strap on. So in conclusion: screw off.

Ok, back to my point. Leave the major lies out of it and stick to the ones that make marriage possible.

Such as "If you cook, I'll clean." Come on, no one means this. We both know that this is nothing but an empty offer. We all know that most of the time this means that the dishes will remain in the sink until you nominate who will cook this night thus forcing that person to clean up. If you do it right, you will alternate days in which you cook. And if you have to defend this, take my wife's standpoint, who again is reading over my shoulder: you can say that you didn't mean that you would actually clean right now or everyday. The devil is in the details.

"The game only has five minutes left, I'll be there in a minute." This is the classic husband lie and so I feel it must be included. It's like the space shuttle launch. The count down timer is stuck on 21 seconds for the last half hour. But go ahead and use this because by now it's universally understood by all sexes that this really means get me another beer.

"I'm just not in the mood." This one saves marriages. For a guy this means only one thing: I just ate a big meal and I have to take a major dump. As such, I am afraid that I will fart halfway through Mr. Toad's wild ride and you will leave me for the pool boy. Because other wise, I'm always in the mood. For the woman this never means that she's not in the mood because even women never know what there moods are. Instead, this means that right now you stink because you are doing yard work all day and she would prefer not to get your compost heap smell on her at the moment. Or it can mean that in reality she is in the mood but likes to see you beg because eventually all men will beg for sex. Given a long enough time line two things will happen: 1: you will die. 2. Sometime during you life you will beg for sex. I don't know why, but it is a turn on for them. It could also mean that you are just not attractive but that's only because all naked guys everywhere are wierd and unattractive. I can't hold that against them.

"I have quit (insert your vice here)." Yup, the biggest lie of all. Whether its betting the ponies on occasion or continusly buying shoes like my wife. This is a lie that really just postpones the fight that is yet to come but take solace in the reprieve from the needle.

"I know exactly where I am going." This is a lie that my wife tells. It's meant to be reassuring to your passengers but as soon as the driver says it we all know that there is a good chance that this car might end up somewhere by area 51. It doesn't help that my wife is also a terriable driver. She claims that she is not but we all know that is bullshit. She learned to drive from her Chicago driving maniac of a father behind the wheel. Seriously, half the time when that man drove I couldn't look at the road because I was afraid it would be the last thing I would see before I died so instead I just focused on the cheetoh on the floor. Seriously, she is a nut job behind the wheel.

"Aren't you scared?" Your answer: "No!" This is my man lie that must be told in every situation in which normal people would be scared. It does not matter if you are scared or not, the answer is always no because no woman really wants a sensitive man that is terrified of spiders/cobras/sharks and the dinosaurs at Jurasic Park. But you can never admit it. Just grab the shovel and kill whatever it is that is freaking your wife out. I once had to take down a wasp nest by the front door because it was freaking my wife out. She asked if I was scared and of course I said no. In truth, I had just watched that movie "Swarm" about the killer Bee's and I was sure this was the Texas version of them. It took me about 3 hours to kill 3 wasps but they did feel the wrath of Hossman. I shrugged it off when I was done in front of my wife then went upstairs, stripped naked, and cried while taking a bath with scented oils.

And finally, "I don't know h0w our child got hurt." This one works both ways. We all know how little Johnny fell off the play ground trapeez. You wanted to see how far the little bastard could climb. And as a father you were somewhat proud that your kid showed no fear and kept on going. Maybe he shouldn't have tried to make that last grab but hey, his teeth will grow back. This is just his starter set. All kids get bumps and bruises, it's part of growing up. But denying any knowledge of them will save you and your wife years of judgement and will give you something to talk about in the divorce during the awkward silences.

A Hossman Rerun: The Flat Tire

When all great entertainment venues need a little more time to be creative, they hustle out a rerun. For those that haven't read this, it is a very requested and talked about early Hossman piece. I hope you enjoy

The Flat Tire

Today’s lesson is very, very important boys and girls, so please pay attention:Ahem—The world is a very mean, very vindictive and unholy shitty place sometimes with a magnificent sense for the challenge of “Well, atleast it can’t get any worse”.As with most days, I debated if it was actually worth getting out of bed this morning at 6:30am. My mind seems to convince itself that, fuck to all, we are going to not do anything anymore and stay right the crap here. It’s warm, it’s cozy, and maybe I’ll have another dream with sexy results. This goes on for about 10 minutes until Kahn, the uber tongue licking dog, decides to take action and give me a sponge bath thus interrupting any fantasy I had about going back to bed. Ok, up and running, my daughter packed off to the sitters and I’m my car doing my usual routine of “what the hell did I forget” game. It’s fun, it’s like playing the lotto when the only guy who wins the superlotto megamillions is actually worth more than what was won. Good times. Car keys? Check. Wedding ring? Panic for a second, ok good, check.. Tobacco in some form? Nope, gotta make a stop. That about does it, I’m good to go. I drive halfway down my street when I realize what I forgot, my wallet. I smoky and the bandit back to the house, open the garage door, dogs are going crazy even though I have been gone less than 5 minutes, retrieve the wallet, play the game again and take off. This would be the part in the movie when the audience is yelling “don’t do it, go home, go back to bed, don’t risk it.” I’m a risk taker baby. It’s overcast outside, figure it may rain a little later. That’s ok, “mellow day” I think and press on. I make it to my office a little before the crack ass of dawn before realizing that I need tobacco. Gotta have tobacco, my jobs really boring and the chicks love it. Turn around, go to the guy to get my tobacco. Mind you, this is the same guy that once asked me how to abuse his child without leaving any marks. Seriously. But hey, he gives me a good price.Back to the office where I step out and fate decides to give me a swift one to the back side. It’s raining pretty good now, so I’m getting wet. Greatness. As soon as I step out of my car, I hear “Whoosh”. No matter where you are, that is never something you like to hear. What could go “whoosh” when no one is around me. Well, the smart guy answer is “check your tire.” But hey, the brain likes to believe everything is ok. No no I say, it’s just the wind. No no, it has to be the rain. Maybe a baby dove just flew by for the first time. Yes, that is what it has to be! Then reality sets in as I actually see my front tire going flat. In the rain. On a Friday. I stick my hand to the tire AND ACTUALLY FEEL the air pumping out like a Asian massage therapist. Good Christ, are you kidding me! I would like to say that not a single profanity left my mouth. I would like to say that I took this in stride. However, a lie of that magnitude would most certainly keep me out of heaven and I would at least like to make a debate out of it.Ok, no big deal, got a flat on my 1998 Honda Civic POS. I’ll just use my cell phone and call for some help. Cell phone, cell phone, cell phone……..hmmmm, did I not play my remember game this morning? What I say now makes what I said before seem like a 5 year old talking gibberish. Yup, my phone is not with me but in some mysterious dimension that I put all my crap when I get home. Finally in the office, I have to interview people all day for jobs. That’s what I do for a living, give people jobs. Normally, it is a very happy thing to do. Unfortunately, I decide that then and there that no one is going to get a job today. My misery will spread to everyone. My last interview before lunch is supposed to be at 10:00 am. That should leave me plenty of time to go hitch a ride with someone for lunch, since I am currently sans transportation. It is a panel interview of 5 people, that I don’t really know. Around 11:30 is when I get pissed because all these “professionals” decide that now is the time they would like to show up instead of the appropriate fucking agreed fucking upon fucking time. I love the line “you don’t mind working through lunch do you”. What are you going to say? “Suck it shit head, of course I mind.” Nope, what comes out is “yea, ok, no problem. We finish about 1:00pm, about the time when everyone is coming back from lunch. I’m starving and trying to kick myself for not eating breakfast like momma told me. I can’t go anywhere, I have not cash other than the 23 cents I dug out of my car like a homeless guy looking for used cigarette butts that may have some left. Luckily, my office is trashed. Today is Jan 12, which means that xmas was only 3 weeks ago, which means that somewhere I have stashed assorted candy canes, fudge or other office gifts that I originally didn’t think enough about to take home. What was once crappy homemade turd fudge now becomes life sustaining food, glorious glorious food. I eat it without the slightest bit of guilt. I have three more interviews to complete, then I figure I will go out in the rain and change my tire and go the hell home looking like shit but still being victorious. I complete this and go out to the car. Pop the truck, look for the tire. Ah, there it is. The glorious donut tire. You know the type, it’s the midget of tires. It is the Umpa Lumpa’s of tires. It’s that sad little retarded tire that other tires don’t look directly at. It looks about a sturdy as my grandma’s replaced hip. Ok, got the tire, where the hell is the jack. Hmmmmm, it should be in the trunk. Hmmmm, it should be right here. Hmmmmmm……SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT. This is the part that I mention that my very loving wife decided to give me a treat and clean out my car, including everything that was in the trunk. Including my golf bag, that 2002 window flier, that one shoe that doesn’t have a mate, and my jack. Vein hurting in my head, blood boiling, vision getting blurry. So very very mad.Back up to the office I go to see if anyone is still here. I work for a government agency. It is Friday. Monday is a random holiday. Anyone want to take a guess at what the odds are that someone is still here at 3:00pm? It’s like a town that the gold done run dry. People’s social security numbers combine and role through the halls like tumbleweeds. Birds have made nests in the filing cabinets that never get used. I go to the one person that might still be here. As I work for a social government agency, which is another way to say that we have an 89% female work force, the odds of one having a jack or know where it is in their car is not good anyway. But fortune smiles on me. One other person is here and she does have a car. I have known her a grand total of 2 days. Perfect to ask a favor. It will probably mean some sexual harassment lawsuit, but fuck it, I’m getting desperate. To my amazement, she gives me her keys and I NOW HAVE A JACK! Back to my car, in the rain. I hear now that the rain will soon turn to sleet and my destruction. The jack that I have matches the tire in my truck, the retard jack. This thing wouldn’t pick up my dinner salad that I wish I had to eat. But ever the boy scout, I try anyway. By sure good luck, the bad tire is parked directly in puddle about 2 inches deep. This is when I notice that my car is so close to the ground that I may not be able to do this. No sense on looking pretty now, I lay on my stomach in the puddle to position the jack. At this point is when I realize that I should call it quits, but screw it, I’m already wet and my pride ain’t going down today! As I position the jack, I then also realize that I can’t get that crappy gimp handle in there to push it up. After about 30 minutes of this, I give up. I cuss God, fate, whoever the hell is around and give the hell up. I walk back to my office looking like a wet yeti, complete with stink. I break down even further and call a tow truck who has the fabulous news that they may not get out here until about 7:00pm or so. I realize that this is going to cost me about 200 dollars or so. For a freaking flat tire. I drip road sewage with each step I take down deserted hallway, expecting with each step to have a some elected official come screaming at me from behind a corner calling me inefficient and that I am going to be investigated. Let’s see if I can get indicted today, then it would be perfect. Everything else terrible has occurred, might as well be that.It’s now dark out, quite cold. I have eaten my last smushed Hershey’s kiss which was quite warm despite being in the back of my desk drawer for t he last two months. It was a delicious supper, no complaints. I have taken off my pants and hung them over my office vent. If someone sees me in my wet skivvies then they can have at it. I finally got a hold of my brother in law to come get me until the tow arrives. My shirt clings to me like I’m some 19 year old girls gone wild video. I’m headlightling like no ones business but I don’t care. So very cold, the state likes to keep the AC on in the winter, just to waste your money. Later, I’m going to try and make prank phone calls to orphans, maybe that will cheer me up.Next time my mind says to stay in bed, I’m going to punt the dog and not move another fucking muscle.


The Culinary School of Ow

I am an artist. Pronounce that with a French accent and you will have it right.

I may not look like an artist. I may not look like a person that dabbles in oils or like the kind of person that cannot be bothered with another faboulous art gallery opening. But be that as it may, it does not change the fact that I am an artist (please once again insert the French accent."

However, my medium is not clay or water colors. It is not in metals and I don't experiment with large scale social protest pieces. I am not a performance artist and I am not a shock artist.

I am a superdad artist who's been reluctantly thrown into my creationism kitchen. I have two children and it would appear that these children need to eat. As Hossmom is currently filling in on breast duty, most of the cooking falls to me and as such, I have become the DaVinci of Chicken.

Of course, I find that ordinary chicken is in fact to ordinary for my culinary greatness. It is normal, it is every day. It is what they serve at High School Proms when everyone really wanted shrimp but the school wouldn't pay for it. It is low brow and it is blue collar. Chicken soup for the soul, indeed! I spit on chicken.

But like I said, this was not my choice on how to express myself. The choice was made for me by capitalism. It was made for me by evil corporations that instead of giving us something of quality they throw cheap quanity in our faces. And how dare I, a mere genius at what I do, turn up my nose at low low prices. Damn you Costco and your 24 pack of chicken breasts for a very affordable low low price. You know that I could not resist it as I am forced to save money as Hossmom gets no maternity leave pay!

How could I not buy the chicken. I was dazzaled by the opportunity and could not think clearly as I am an artist and not prone to logical thought. It did not dawn on me that we would have to have chicken for 12 straight nights. 12 nights of chicken is not like 12 nights of Christmas. It is chicken this and chicken that. Here a chicken, there a chicken, everywhere a chick chick chicken.

So the gaulent was thrown to me, the artist (again, the french accent please) to create 12 seperate chicken type dinners. My medium was thrown at me and I took it. I took it because I am also a starving artist and must make greatness out of what the good lord provides.

I shall start grand! I shall show my family that, yes, Hossman can make a decent chicken dinner! This is not a skill that I have learned. This is not something that I went to school for. This is something that is born into me and I will take that and make it world renown!

I have never cooked before but I would not let this drawback affect my vision. My offering to my family is about passion! The food will be cooked with excitment and valor! So come, my chicken breasts, and let me mold you into eternity!

I take a few cookbooks that my mother in law gave me. I may have wanted a new tool, but cookbooks it was. So be it, they are coming in handy. Yes, page 137, there is a meal plan that shall have flavors exploding like Zeus throwing thunderbolts! Chicken Diane, named after the near saint princess that is my inspiration. This is for you England's Rose!

I am sweating. It is hotter in the kitchen that I imagined it would be. There are pots and pans boiling all over the place. I throw spices around like I am orchestarting the New York Harmonic. With each flick of my wrist rosemary or cumin go tumbling toward the dishes. What's this, cinnamon? Of course, my genius is free flowing, it is pouring out of me like the 1/3 cup of chicken broth.

There is applause from Little Hoss as she sees me in my element. She claps and laughs. Yes baby, witness what superdad can do! He has never cooked a day in his life but today, yes today!, he will make you a dinner besides hot dogs or reheated nuggets. Today he delivers unto you mouth watering spicefest 2007!

I call everyone to the table. This was the hottest ticket in town as there were only 4. The press is calling nonstop looking for my quotes. Like any great artist, I spit on them and say nothing.

Each member of the family is served what can only be described as the chicken version of the Mona Lisa. It is smothered in a sauce, who knows what's in it? There are even potatos and for that touch of home, I added a few slices of wonderbread to each plate. My public awaits!

I cut the chicken for Little Hoss and put a little piece under her nose. I let the aroma tease her sensations. I can see the expectation and she knows that I feed her this greatness now so that one day she will grow up and erect a statue in my honor, superdad.

She takes the fork and opens her mouth. Salvia is dripping from her lips. She inserts the piece of chicken. I await my glory.

She spits it out.

She spits it out, looks right at me and says.....



Ow? Ow? T hat's my reaction after 2 hours in the kitchen? She won't take another bite as it would appear that my greatness in the kitchen causes phsyical and immediate pain.

It would appear that I'm not understood in my own time.


To Blog or Not to Blog

You may have noticed that I have not been blogging much. Judging from my continuing falling numbers, you have noticed.

Seriously, you are like that "great" friend to the crack head. Sure, you love they guy. You can't say enough about that guy. You love hanging around that guy. Until that guy runs out of spare crack. And then you are on to other crack head friends.

Ok, maybe your old crack head friend offers to whore himself out a little bit so he can get enough money to buy some more crack for both of you. Then you come back like nothing was ever wrong. During my month off from work I have been watching alot of that show Intervention. It's starting to get to me.

So Ok, I will offer to whore myself out for you so you'll come back. I need you back. I know you love me that's why you hit me. I deserved it. I'll tell everyone I just fell down a flight of stairs, yeah, that's the way to go. I wasn't looking where I was blogging and I fell down a flight of stairs.

Incidentially, when you do go to the hospital to have a baby, the nurse has to ask your wife if there is any abuse in the home. They are very sly about it. Thier voice gets real low, the eyes dart to you but only for so long. The hand usually goes to the mouth. I pretend I don't hear anything and just go on reading my generic sports magazine. I don't bring up the fact that if there was abuse going on, I would probably be the guy that was called anyway. You gotta admit, nurses are pretty brave people in general.

But I do find it odd that no one asked me that question when I was in the hospital. Sure, I'm a handsome big guy with arms like steel posts and a chest sculpted from marble. But maybe my wife is using me as a punching bag and the only reason you can't see the bruises is because she uses her knowledge of cosmetics to put some base on me. Perhaps the rouge you see on my cheeks is from constant slaps. Has anyone thought about that? If we are going equality, let's go the whole way.

But I get away from my point of this short blog. I haven't been blogging because my life is full and I no longer need you people. Wait, that's a lie. That was just me being defensive. Please, don't click away. I take it back. I take it all back. Don't make me beg.

I haven't been blogging, seriously, because other things have kind of put me in a mood spoiler. It's hard to be funny when you have no sleep. I've tried drinking but that only makes me funny to myself. And I get "handsy" with the wife, and she doesn't like that. So no more drinking.

But the only way to recapture the funny blogging mood is to keep on blogging, even if it is crap. I keep getting messages that people are getting a little pissy with me when they don't have enough to read. I know that there is a district attorney's office that has been passing me around like a Asian prostitute, there is a Firefighter outfit out there that likes to read me to stay mentally sharp. Thanks guys, no pressure on me, appreciate you.

There are a series of finaical guys that would prefer to listen to the latest Hossman rant rather than make sure your 19.95 got to your porn site. So when you go to your favorite Hot Mamma's doing the Neighbors site and it says access denied, blame me for not writing and keeping these guys on thier toes.

But most of all, my wife is getting pissed that she also has nothing to read. Anyone who knows me knows that my one true goal in life is not to get yelled at by my wife.

You would think my own family would get upset as well. Well, they don't because they don't read my site. My sister does on occasion and she is hereby excluded from this next rant. How can my own family not read this site?? How are they not supporting me? Come on, I have a brother out there that owes me big time. This is the same guy that once punched me for not folding his jeans. No shit, right in the face. My mom will read every now and then. And my wife's other brother, Uncle Hippy, he rarely checks it.

So how am I supposed to feel suported? Well, I'll start by giving out some family dirt on my older brother, who shall now be known as Uncle Slappy. Why Uncle Slappy? Because he beat me up as a kid. Take that bucko, the pen is migther than the sword. But seriously, I love my brother and this is why I sell him out now.

Uncle Slappy has a new girlfriend. He hasn't told any, and I mean any, of the family about her. And I'm not sure why because she is a pretty cool chick. I met her when they came to one of my softball games. She went to the same college as I did, has a master's degree and appeared to get my jokes. That's a win win in my book. I will not however comment on the size of her hooters. Because he is my brother, that's his girlfriend, and it would pretty much gross me out.

It would appear that they have been dating for a while but he has not told my parents, or my sister or any of the rest of the family. I would assume because we can be some judgmental bastards and have good old American Drama running all through us. But still, come on man, he could have told me sooner! I once bailed him out of jail. That's right, I was the man who came up and paid his bail and his ticket when he got thrown in the pookie. What made it funny was that he got arrested when he got pulled over on a first date. How's that for an impression.

Ok, so there is the first "throw your family under the bus" comment of this week. I will continue to make them until 1) a member of my family comments on this blog 2) the Firefighters, the DA's, and the Finicial guys have enough fodder to feel good enough about thier own familys are not as screwed up.


Where Am I

Night. Day. I can't tell the difference anymore and it doesn't matter.

3:00am? Maybe 2:00am? I just don't know. They all look the same to me. They are black and dark. There is crying somewhere but I have to play wheel of fortune to determine who it is that is crying. Maybe Little Hoss woke up, she's been doing that from time to time. Maybe Bubba Hoss is hungry, he always is. Maybe Hossmom is hurting while breastfeeding.

I don't know so I go through a ritual several times each night. I start clockwise. Check Bubba first, then Little Hoss, then Hossmom. Each one gets a kiss but I'm not sure where I am kissing them. That bit of rationality is reserved for those sound of mind not those that get an hour sleep at a time. I think last night I kissed a diaper. The smell was pretty bad but that could have been just me, God I need a shower.

I don't know what day of the week it is anymore either. I'm missing football games, I'm sure of it. But when I do watch them I can only make it through the first 10 minutes then I'm out like a lamp. But only for another 30 minutes before I have to get up and kiss someone again. Superdad love, everyone gets a kiss. Last night I think I actually watched a Alasken State game. I can't be sure though because everything was in a haze and I was rocking Bubba Hoss to sleep.

I'm relying on routine, that is what is getting me through all of this. I don't have to think, which is a good thing because right now I know that I would fail 2nd grade math. In the 2nd grade I was asked to put 10 words in alphebitcal order. I was trying to be the first one finished because I knew that the hot teacher would smile at me and pat me on the head. It's the 7 year old version of a hand job, it was going to be great. But then I got the test back and I missed everyone except the "A"s. It would appear that I forgot to look at the second letter in the word. That's about how I feel now.

Sometime this morning, around when the son was coming up, I put a diaper on Mr. Frog. My mind wasn't there, it was completely gone. It was somewhere in the void where naps are possible. It was in the realm of the ordinary where each individual is given the ability to shut thier eyes without having to open them, ever.

Mr. Frog was sleeping next to Bubba Hoss. They are both the same size neither has any muscle control. It was an honest mistake that anyone could make. I don't have night light in the bedroom but it wouldn't have mattered if I did as I kept my eyes closed the entire time. But to my credit, Mr. Frog didn't leak one ounce out of his diaper. I only realized my mistake when Bubba Hoss kept crying and I figured he was hungry. So I handed Mr. Frog to my wife to breast feed. She let me know my mistake after she complained that he wasn't latching. Parents of the year.

Hossmom seems to be holding up well but I can only tell because she snores. If she snores, she's asleep. And anyone in this house that is sleeping is doing well.

Maybe I should start drinking Red Bull or perhaps the new drink: Stay Awake Parent forever cocktail. I don't know what that is but I'm sure if I invented it I would make a fortune. Because right now, I need something to focus my mind. It's all over the place. It's a miracal that I writing this blog. But as you can tell, I have totally forsaken spelling and grammer, not that there was much a diffence from before. But at least now I no longer give a shit.

The scariest moment came a couple of nights ago. My wife poked me. I hate being poked. I hate anyone poking anything. But I especially hate anyone poking the baby. Everyone constantly pokes a new born. You know, just in case. In the back of everyone's mind is the thought of something bad happening. The baby looks so peaceful, so restful. Combined with the CIA sleep deprevation torture that you currently go through, you think the worse. So you poke the baby. The baby wakes up. I go insane.

That's why we had to move the baby to my side of the bed. He sleeps in a bassinet next to the bed. I don't poke so the baby and myself get at least some sleep. Hossmom pokes like he's a ripe tomato. She poked me last night which I took to mean that the baby was awake and it was time to feed. I didn't hear anything but that's no surprise as all the hatred I was feeling for everyone was blocking my ears.

I reached over to get Bubba Hoss. I put my hand out. He wasn't there. I reached around the entire bassinet but felt nothing. It was like that game on the price is right where the contestent puts his hand into a bag and blindly pulls out a number but can't find the last tile in the bag. That was me. I'm sorry Bob says, but that is strike 3, you have lost your baby. Rod, tell him how many years he'll spend in prison.

I freaked out. It took Hossmom a couple of minutes to calm me down. I finally opened my eyes and saw that she had the baby in her arms. She stated that she was done breast feeding and could I please put Bubba Hoss back into the bassinet. It would appear that 30 minutes ago I woke up and handed her the kiddo in the first place. I have no recolection of that event, senator. None. I don't remember a thing.

I put Bubba Hoss back down cursing everyone that has done anything that has pissed me off for the last 32 years. I have no idea why.

But I couldn't go back to sleep. So I reached my hand in the basinet and started poking the baby, ya know, just incase the aliens have come back to abduct him.

For Christ's sake, now I'm poking.



I watch my daughter from about 10 feet away.

My beard is in that nice transitional phase where I kinda look like I'm ready to start hitch hiking across the country. I am wearing one of my championship softball T-shirts which I have designated as the official "I'm on vacation" uniform. It's covered in paint spots because these T-shirts are also my official house repair uniform, Hossman sanctioned. I have sandels on that are held together with a bit of duck tape and smell vaguely of cheese. I have on the same pair of shorts that I have worn for the past two days. The smell of baby vomit still fresh on them.

I wonder why the stay at home Moms at the park haven't really talked to me yet. It shouldn't be hard to guess. I look like a pediphile at the park, closely watching two little girls play on the gym fort. If I took a moment to think rationaly for a minute I would know that someone in the park is calling 911 right at this minute.

But I can't think rationally at the moment because I am getting only 3 hours a sleep at a time. That's what happens when you have a new baby in the home, you never sleep. Sure, he's cute when visitors are around. Sure, he loves to be held and talked to, which baby doesn't. But when everyone leaves and it's 2:30 in the morning, that's when he decides that it is playtime.

Have you ever tried only sleeping in short spurts, maybe an hour at a time? Try it and then you will find yourself at the park one day looking exactly how I look. Like a left over from the movie Fast Times at Rigmont High except I have no hooters and am not wearing a bikini. At least I don't think I am but to be honest it's been about 2 weeks since I really paid attention to what I was wearing. I think I am going to buy a set of scrubs next because they always match and if they got shit on them people just assume you have been so busy saving lives that you can't be bothered to change. Instead I look like Mr. Peeper watching two little girls play.

My daughter and her new found friend are discovering the joys of the slide, at least my daughter is. This is the first time she has gone down it without me. It's a momentous occasion but I find myself being a little resentful that I have been pushed aside as the number one playmate. I knew it was coming and I knew that I wanted it to come but there is a part of me that misses it. Pretty soon she won't let me hold her hand anymore and I'll be crushed.

But I know that it is important that my daughter learns to make friends and I know that she will have tons more fun playing with them than she will with me. As childish as I am, and Hossmom seems to think I have this in spades, I am no match for uncontroled giggling of a 4 year old.

From the edge of the playground I watch my daughter, who is 4 months shy of two, playing with her 4 year old friend. This is what I wanted to happen, this is one of the reasons that I wanted to go to the park with regularity.

But here is the twisted part: I am nervous for her. I don't really know why. There is a big part of me that is worried that she will get bullied or pushed when she plays with older kids. I'm always afraid that she is going to get kneed in the face while they take her shoes. I don't know why really, I mean the other kids that she plays with have never done this, but it does make me nervous. I'm glad to see that I am already over protective of my daughter at the age of 2. Highschool should be a piece of cake.

When my daughter does make new friends, she usually tends to make friends with the older crowd. She is very self confident and has not problem bothering them until they decide to play with her, which is how we made this new friend today.

There were 4 boys and one girl at the park when we got there today. There were three moms dressed in shorts and they had coolers with them. I had my daughter and a diaper bag which in hindsite completes the whole scary hith hicker guy look. It looks like a backpack, my ensemble is complete. I played with my daughter for a little bit, just me and her when she started to wonder over to the other kids.

This is natural but it is also when my own shortcomings came into effect. I'll explain.

My daughter, doing her best impression of me, hoovered near the kids. She just stared. I just stared at my daughter. We were quiet a pair. This is her stategy of making new friends. "I'm going to watch you until you decide to play with me."

But I need to give her more credit. Because it did appear that she had a strategy. She was a huntress, making a decision of who was the weak one of the pack. The four boys starting playing football, the little girl didn't want to so she went off to play by herself. Like a cheetah my daughter shot off after her, her prey in her eyes.

I could see the other moms looking at my daughter and at me. Was there judgement there? Hmm, let's just think about this. 3 moms huddled closly together. The only thing missing was ballots. I know that for my daughter to have a healthy upbringing she is going to need friends. But what scares me is that it this may be based on my ability to socialize with moms.

Believe it or not, this is not the strong point of my game. I don't do "cold calls" with women I don't know very well. I get nervous and my palms are sweaty. Sure, I'm the eye candy at the park, but that doesn't make this any easier. But if I don't then I'm sure one of these moms will hustle thier little girl away from mine and my little girl will look at me like a failure. Perhaps I'm being to hard on myself. They would probably put 25 cents in my cup and hand me a banana then run home and check the sex offender check list.

What I want to do is to go to this pack of women and say "Look, that's my daughter. She's great. I don't want to hit on any of you and I am not here to get any cheap thrills. My hands are in my pockets because I don't know what to do with them around people I don't know. I am not fiddling the pud. I am sure you are all very attactive but I just don't want a long term thing. Let's be friends." Seriously, I wonder if that would go well. It would be funny and that is one thing that I can do--the nervous joke.

As the girls play I realize that I should probably pull back a little. I'm very torn about this. There is the Hoss in me that says that kids will need to work out issues and learn to get along. They may get hurt but it won't be more than a bruise so they shouldn't have me watching them over thier shoulder. However, the other Hoss in me says that if my daughter so much as frowns I'm going to punch somebody. Seriously, I haven't slept.

I go sit down on the picnic table a short distance from the moms, saving myself from myself. I watch the girls but in a more relaxed, less creepy pedophile way. I find my attention and stare going to the group of moms. Seriously, I should go joke and make a friend so that my daughter has friends. But I can't, so I sit at the table watching them. I remind my self that the next time I come to the park with my daughter I should wear a suit.

The moms are joking and look to be having a good time. I bet they'll like me. Sure, no problem, I'll just stroll on over and jump right in the conversation they are having about breast feeding and maxie pads. Not that I know they are talking about this, but always assume the best but prepare for the worse.

Then it dawns on me. I am no longer hoovering over my kid but over three ladies. I am doing exactly what my daughter did to make friends. Perhaps she is on to something there?

But before I could get up the nerve to go introduce myself, the three moms move away and start gathering there things, another day of bonding complete.

Maybe if I follow them to thier cars I can isolate one of them when they split up. Yup, that should go very well.


The Work Wives

I have two other wives. My first wife knows this and is oddly ok with this.

They are my work wives and everyone has them. And if you don't then you really should. Because nothing is quite like getting nagged at x3.

But I kid because they make work enjoyable. But lets fill everyone in on some terms here. Work Wife: a female at work that you are forced to spend time with so that by the end of the day you spend just about as much time with them as your legal wife and who sometimes they will even let you make decisions.

Now everyone get your head out of the gutter, these are completly plutonic relationships. They are close friends that you share confidences with and sometimes they cook for you if you are good.

A lot of guys have work wives and enjoy them. Who else are you supposed to talk to about your real wife about if not for your work wife. There are a lot of good work wives out there and a lot of bad ones.

A bad work wife is one that will constantly tell you that you need to iron your clothes. A good work wife is one that will buy you a new shirt rather than judge you for your homemaking skills.

A bad work wife is one that will notice that the picture on your wall is ugly as your cousin Scarface. A good work wife will rearrange your office for you and discreatly put that ugly picture hanging behind the file cabinet.

So you see, it pays to have a good work wife. I have gone somewhat polygamous here and have gotten myself a stable of work wives. Sure, maybe I'm being a little greedy and not helping out the coworker down the hall and sharing the wealth. But listen, I need the help, I'm a mess.

I'm a lucky man and my work wives rock. Yes, on occasion they will cook for me. Well, one will. The other is not much on cooking but she will take me to her house and let me watch sportscenter while her and the other work wife talk about work wife stuff.

I never have to drive. Anywhere. I don't know how this really worked out but it is pretty great. Whenever we go out for lunch they always drive. It's great because I hate driving. Sure, I don't get to pick the place where we go to eat but they take care of me in other ways. They know that any where we go must have some sort of big screen TV so that I can watch sportscenter. You may be seeing a central theme into being a good work wife. Sportscenter is good, talking about bra shopping is uncomfortable, awakward and I'm pretty sure is going to get me sued one way or another.

My work wives also give me free therepy sessions daily at 4:00pm. Whatever happens to be on my mind they let me piss and moan about it. They even try to dude up for me from time to time and keep conversations to sports or sportscenter and not bras and underwear.

But you can't take your work wives for granted, trust me. You have to do some of the things that you do for your normal wife so that they know that they are appreciated. But just small things. For example, compliment them on thier shoes. I have no idea why but they always seem to like this. To be perfectly honest, I cannot tell if they have on different shoes or not from the day before. And sense I have zero taste and sense of style I can't really give any opinion on whether it looks good or not. As long as the new shoes aren't made of hemp, go with it.

You also need to get them some chocolate or some sort of sweet from time to time. Leave it as a surprise on thier desk, they will know where it came from. Sure, they'll make a big production about how they aren't supposed to eat chocolate but you know they will munch it down on the way home. Make them happy, take care of them.

And always be honest with your work wife. This is were I'm currently failing. Because, you see, they were not my first work wives. I have never told them this but I had a work wife before them. My first work wife was pretty great to. We would eat Mexican everyday, talk about the spouses and then go to a crack house. Seriously, it was part of my job. Odd, but that is where we seem to have bonded. However, my first work wife left me and it is all my fault. I let her start hanging out with my real wife. Soon, they were talking more than I was and I was pushed aside. My first work wife left to be a stay at home mom and we still talk about twice a week but now my wife is talking more than me. I admit, it was my fault. I pushed her that way.

And I'm not going to make the same mistakes again, like not paying attention to them or ignoring them. As such, I am writing this blog as an apology to my work wives because I haven't called them for 2 weeks. Since Bubba Hoss came into the picture I haven't picked up the phone and told them how I am doing. I can try to justify this by saying I'm only taking thier advice and concentrating on my family but I know that would be hollow. I should have called them by now and if you read my comments, you can see that I haven't.

But this isn't all my fault. They have my cell phone number and I guess they have been calling that. However, as Bubba Hoss came unexpectantly, my cell phone isn't charged because I left the charger at work. It's still there. So there is no way that I could have known that they called me.

Except that they called me last week on my home phone and I just haven't called them back. I'm a terriable work husband my real wife is practically screaming at me to call them both up and let them know that we are fine.

So now I have laid out all my cards on the table for my work wives and hope that they decide to forgive me. If they want flowers or maybe a new roladex, I'm sure that can be arranged.


Automated Voice System

"Hello. Thank you for contacting your phone provider. I am the automated phone system. Please either speak, or key in, your 10 digit phone number now. When you are finished, please press the pound key."

I don't know what is disturbing me more: the fact that my own phone company doesn't have caller ID or that thier high tech computer cannot count to 10. I should hang up now.

"Thank you. How can we help you today?"

I am about ready to respond when the automated computer voice keeps going.

"To review your phone bill, press 1."

I actually apologize to the automated phone system for interupting her. I should really just stop this.

"To check your current account, press 2"

I am patient through this speal of hers. I say her of course because the company that devised the system knows that people will respond better to a female voice. Sally, as I have come to know her, goes thorugh 8 total options, none of which I want. So I take a shot in the dark.

"My DSL line is not working." I say

"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Could you repeat that?"

"MY DSL LINE IS NOT WORKING." I now yell at Sally. A part of me feels somewhat bad for this.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Could you repeat that?"

Listen Sally, if you didn't get it the two times you aren't getting it again. So I try a test: "My taint hair and my ball hair don't match, should I color it?"

"If you would like to speak to a customer service representive you can say 'agent' at anytime."

I yell "agent" over the phone line. It has taken me 15 minutes to get to this point. I am pretty sure this is intentional by the phone company as they assume to many people will get pissed by this point and just hang up thus never having to actually deal with any of us common folk. Fucking serfs, that is all we are.

"Thank you, I'm transfering you now. Please hold.............."

There is a moment on the phone when you are disconnected that you don't believe it. You hear the click but you try to talk yourself out of it. No, surely they didn't hang up on me. Maybe they are still there just listening to me breath. Then you hear the dial tone and you get offended. I hate Sally now. So I call back.

"Thank you for calling your phone provider. I am the automated phone......."

Before Sally can give me the dog and pony show I immediatley yell "agent."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that."

"Listen you twat, I need to talk to someone about getting my DSL line fixed in the bedroom. I don't want to look at my bill, I do not want to discuss my bill, I do not want to know anything at all about my bill. Your options of 1 through 8 are only about a bill. AGENT, AGENT, AGENT!" I scream.

"Thank you, I am transfering your call."

Then the same click followed a few minutes later by the dial tone. Are you fucking kidding me? A computer is giving me attitude? Seriously?

I call back. Ok honey, I'll play your game. Before she even begins to give me the speal I randomly type in 10 numbers. I then just keep mashing buttons and the pound sign. Fuck it, ok, I'll talk to billing and then maybe they can transfer me to a real person. It works. I am the smartest man alive.

A new automated person comes on. She tells me that hold times are long and that I should check the website. I scream that I can't check the website because my DSL line is not working. She doesn't respond. She can feel my hatred being transmitted all the way over to India.

Then briefly I hear a very faint voice over the phone......."this is......can I.....number please..."

This is it, this is my big chance. I can't hear the service representive on the phone so I begin screaming about my DSL line. Please dear god, let her hear me. Let the phone gods grant me a clear connection so that I can get back on the internet.

"Sorry sir,...........muffle, muffle, muffle.......please say......."

The phone company can't hear me. Can anyone else see the irony in this? My guess is that they too gave up when calling thier own autmated system and said fuck it, we'll just live with the connection we have.


"No!" I scream "Don't leave me! My DSL, it's not working! Send help!!" I hollar. I am frantic at this time. I am mashing my phone buttons trying to transmit morse code over the phone line. My only hope is that the customer service operator used to work in the Navy in 1945.

The phone then goes dead. Son of a bitch. So I call the only person that would understand.


"I can't take it anymore Sally. You've won. I give up. I just wanted you to know" I say.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that."

"Listen bitch, don't make me grovel. You've won, I can't take it anymore. I'm a broken man, that's all I am now."

"Would you like to talk to a service representive?" she asks. I can hear her gloating.

"Please Sally, stop taunting me. I'll do whatever you want, just make it end. Please." I'm crying at this point. I would tell her anything, I would give up the secret plans to the deathstar.

"Would you like your billing information?"

"Yes Sally. That would be fine. I want my billing information. Whatever you want, just don't hurt me anymore. I'm a bad girl, I'm dirty. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Please hold while I retrieve that information."


I hate her so much right now.