My Apology

I have just been informed that as part of my marriage contract I am required to apologize when I am told to.

It would appear that the last blog that I entered shortly after Christmas may have slightly offended my mother in law who was visiting for a week.

There were suggestions that I take the post down. But I hid behind the principles of an artist and cited “artistic integrity” and “censorship” rather than the ever more true of “I’m a pig and will never give in to the mob.” And thus it stayed but it still seems that feelings may have been hurt, even though it was just a reprint from LAST YEAR’s Christmas and in no way reflected the joyous time that all was had by this years Christmas and the volumes on unsolicited advice and judgment.

This was all before Hossmom brought out the marriage contract and made me read the fine print, which apparently says when you read closely: “You will get absolutely no nookie, ever, until you apologize to my mother or your insensitive and shallow remarks that show just what a douchebag you are, with your inferior male anatomy and very bald, bald head”.

Seriously, before you get married, you should really have a lawyer look at that marriage contract. There’s all kinds of shit in there I didn’t know about. Such as how I am required to take the trash out, and only me, ever. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

So, in order to fulfill my contractual obligations to my wife, I offer this:

I am very sorry that a certain someone out there doesn’t have a sense of humor and didn’t get the joke that I told last year, which by the way, I think is very very funny and if you would just relax a little bit you may be able to chuckle at yourself the same way that I do when you tell me constantly what a bad housekeeper I am………………………………..

Hold on, I have just been informed that that is no kind of apology what so ever and I am being ordered to rewrite it or I am going to be punched in the face.

I am very sorry that my joke was to awesome to be appreciated by all. I gladly accept all the criticism that I receive about my poor spelling and “horrendous grammar” and will offer no criticisms to anyone but myself and………………………….

Whoops, apparently that isn’t cutting it either.

Ok, let me try something else. Let me tell another joke:

A man took his wife and mother in law to the Holy Land. They had a wonderful time were the man dutifully carried all the baggage and spent thousands upon thousands on little figurines of the three wise men. Unfortunately, toward the end of the trip the mother in law feel ill and passed away.

The man made arrangements to have the mother in law buried back home. However, the local priests offered to let the man bury her in the holy land.

“Why not bury her here” they insisted. “The land of Christ.”

The man thanked them very much for their kind offer but refused.

“But sir” they pressed “Why wouldn’t you want this great honor?”

“Well” says the man. “You’ve already had one resurrected here” he sighed.

“And I just can’t take that chance.”

And who told me that joke?

My mother in law, whose trip to visit us was very welcome and enjoyed by all.


A Hossman Clasic

I offer everyone this Holiday season a look at a Hossman Classic from last year.

I was at my mother in laws house with the family. This year they are all at my house. Oddly, I feel this one still fits into my current situation:

We are at my mother in laws house visiting for Christmas.

My Niece
: "Where are your puppies, Baba?"

My Mother in Law: "I don't have puppies, dear."

My Niece: "Why don't you have puppies?"

Me: "Because witches have cats, sweetheart."

I am ready to go home


New Website

For those interested to see what a bunch of stay at home dads look like, my Dads group has a new website. Check it out. I'm the awesome handsome bastard in the middle.


She's Doing What You Think She's Doing

Yup, that's my daughter hugging the Television.

Father of the year, right here.


Xbox Diaries: Level 50

3 hours of quiet. That’s all I need, 3 hours of quiet. I don’t need anyone kicking me in the balls. I don’t need anyone telling me to “turn that thing off and come to bed.” I don’t need screaming, screaming, screaming for good lord Dora the Explorer. 3 hours is what I needed.

Because what I do is not just for myself. What I do is for everyone. You want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. You need me to defeat the Alien Horde and get to level 50. And that takes about 3 hours.

At least that is what I guessed when I started but could not be sure. I have never made it to level 50. I have only been as far as level 29 before some 2 year old “accidently” pushed the colored button that happened to be the off switch on my Xbox. Fantastic.

But tonight, I have my 3 hours. It’s about 11 at night. The kids are asleep. The wife is asleep. Tonight, it is just me and 4 other guys I have never met before battling the evil alien horde in our holy grail quest to reach level 50.

I have no other idea who these other gamers are. Fate has brought us together to wreak carnage in online gaming, specifically Gears of War 2. I have my pop tarts, I have my beer. I am war ready.

It starts and immediately my digital head goes on a swivel. Level 1 is easy but I have my trusty shot-gun out for close encounters. You never know. One comes at me, blamo, he is nothing but roadside paint, pieces of it’s evil body littering the landscape like the fall foliage.

I turn around and see another two. A short second later, both have gone to meet their programmer.

I turn to watch how my fellow squad mates are doing. Not bad, a little disorganized, but not bad. They seem ruthless and what I need is ruthless. I need them to be cold blooded digital assassins who have 3 hours of free time and a strong bladder to cut down on bathroom breaks. This might work, but it’s hard to tell with a squad so green.

Quickly we chainsaw our way through enemies in level’s 3, 4 and 5. This is nothing but warmup, nothing but getting a feel for those players around you. I show off a little. I take down the big guy alone, me and 300 rounds of high explosive ammo show him the door, next in line please. The others seem to be doing well when our first test comes.

Man down, corner of the map, man down. I wait to see if anyone cares enough to go and save him. This will let me know if we have a shot, a remote one to be sure, but a shot at reaching level 50. 3 of my squad members make a bee line to our downed comrade and revive him. This could work. No one player can do this alone but I don’t think that will be an issue tonight.

Levels 6,7, and 8 fly by in blood and body parts. While not dispensing justice to the alien horde, my squad mates and I pillage weapons of the fallen from the battlefield. Level 10 and it’s time that I assert my authority.

“Form up!” I bellow. “Get to the safe zone, set up those shields, recon that ammo! Assholes and elbows people!”

Without question, they follow. Sheep. Deadly sheep with razor sharp teeth and wool that everyone is allergic to.

We set up base behind barricades that will protect us as things get more difficult. So far, this has been a cake walk to what can be expected. I know because I have been to level 29, long ago and far away and it still gives me nightmares. Tonight I will conquer those nightmares and send them back to the bowls of the abyss that they have come from.

Everyone has picked up the weapons that will define them throughout the game and I am pleased by the diversity that we have because we will need it. Virtuous KY has a “Boom Shot” which is a rocket launcher. Maximus360 is sporting a “mulcher” which is the equivalent of a 50 cal chain gun. Me, I go with a combination of a chainsaw machine gun and a sniper rifle giving me the advantage of dispensing death from distance.

Level 15 and we haven’t even broken stride. The alien horde has gotten tougher and are harder to bring down, but down they go. We remain untouched and unfazed. The moral of the squad is good.

Levels 16 thorough 20 are nothing short of epic that Homer himself would immortalize. Blood and gore rain down like confetti at a hero’s parade, which is exactly what this has turned into.

Level 21, 22 and 23 turn into a party of body parts as the alien horde loses limb after limb. On level 25 I show the usefulness of long range death. I line up a gruesome creature hiding behind a house 300 yards out. I hold my breath as I squeeze the trigger. Splat, the head explodes and before the body hits the ground I am lining up my next head shot.

One, two, three—they all go down without even taking a step. I give a war cry. Somewhere, deep in cyberspace, the alien horde hears it and is afraid. They can bleed and they know it.

Level 26 and we are in some trouble. The horde has sent “boomers” after us, despicable enemies that shoot rocket’s of their own. They are flanked by heavy gunners on both sides. We are being peppered with harassing fire from a sniper holed up across the street. One member of the squad goes down. Another member goes to help him but is cut down himself.

I throw a grandee half blind and rush over. I hear an explosion, smell the cordite, and make it to my group. I am their general and their savor. They are back in action. We lure the others in close and then let lose a volley that tells them “Yes, I am death! Come and know thy doom”. We are the only ones that walk out.

Level 29 and we are running low on ammo, beer, and pop tarts. At the beginning of the round a squad mate calls for a timeout to go pinch a loaf. Sorry son, there are no time outs. I suggest he move the TV to where he can see it from the bathroom or dig a latrine, either way, we are going past level 29.

I keep empty beer bottles next to me, just incase my own needs arise. War isn’t pretty.

Explosion after explosion trumpet our success as each enemy falls beneath our ferocity. It is a symphony of carnage and justice, sweet justice. Level 29 comes and goes, we are now in uncharted territory.

Levels 30 through 35 are a blur, mixed with splashes of blood red and burnt black. Level 37 is a close one as every member of the squad goes down sometime but someone is always there to pick him up. Never play Alien Horde without your gaming buddy, do you have your gaming buddy?

Level 38 and I continue to snip anyone who decides to stick a little bit of his brain out. Show me your face and I will cure all your ills.

Level 39 is a lesson on close combat given by your instructors--team Awesome Alpha Wolf Squadron Supercool. Chainsaws rev through body parts, big handled revolvers smash down on craniums, fists fly with deadly purpose.

Level 40. They are coming from everywhere now. Every shadow holds some monstrosity. Every corner hides evil intent. Our barriers are weakening. My squad starts to go down and it is taking longer and longer for us to get to them. Something bad is going to happen.

I hear a crunch and my digital character looks to the right. Our barrier has been breached and I see the still twitching body of a squad mate. He is being trampled by some beast with a mace. God speed my friend. If we make it past this level, we will see you on the other side.

I turn to confront the new threat when from behind me I hear a scream. Another squad mate goes down. Gun fire erupts from the end my justice dispenser and I vanquish one foe only to see another pop up in his place. I’m being backed into a corner and as I go I see a third squad mate getting ripped apart by bullets. There’s only two of us left now and that doesn’t last long.

He goes down in a hail of gunfire and takes at least a dozen with him. It’s a hero’s death but will anyone be left to sing his praises? It’s only me now. Me and the will to get to level 50.

It’s a collage of headshots and chainsaws that I conduct my orchestra of death. One by the corner gets a brains touched up, one by the sandbags gets ripped through the torso by gunfire, one that got to close gets a punch to the face followed by a chainsaw through the legs. Body parts start to coalesce around me, the spattering of my footsteps through their guts the only sound I can hear besides my own wild screams.

A poison grenade sails over my head and hits the back wall. I run to the left only to find another one coming in. I do my Captain Kirk roll forward trying to escape the toxic fumes. I am met by yet another grenade, and another, and another. Explosions tear though the fog that has become accented by the flashes of my barrel. It’s a light show guaranteed to send lesser individuals into epileptic shock.

I go down, sputtering and gasping my last curses—“You sonsabitches.”

I’m barely moving, my gaming thumbs just twitching mindlessly on their own. On screen my digital character—no, that’s not right—my digital patriot tries to crawl away from the certain death he and I face, but it’s no use and he knows it. He is able to get to my own grenade boobie trap that I had set incase things got to bad. They are bad now. 5 follow me and are met with shrapnel handshake, tearing them in two. But there are many more of them and I’m out of tricks.

They gather around us, 20 if it were 1, like Jodie Foster in the accused. We will fall short of our quest but we met our end with honor, dignity and a body count to rival any Swartzenager movie.

Tell the world………………………………..

……………….that we tried……………………………………………..

Clear Instructions

The thing is, I know better. I have been a parent long enough to know that if you are going to give instructions to your child, they need to be clear and detail every single step you expect them to accomplish. The belief in my parenting awesomeness has made me lax.

We were out in the front yard at about 11 am finishing up some yard decorations and lights. My daughter told me she had to go to the bathroom, no problem. I told her to go on inside and compete her transaction, tip the waitress and come on back. In the meantime, I would complete the fire hazard that I was constructing in the front yard.

I think of my lights and Christmas decorations as a fire beacon, to shine forth in the darkness of night to give travelers and extra star to navigate by. My star just happens to contain multicolored lights that rock out to “Carol of the Bells.” God thinks it’s cool.

A few minutes later, Little Hoss comes back out of the house. There were a million things that could have gone wrong with my instructions to her earlier to go potty. She could have come inside and crapped on the floor as I didn’t specify that she should actually go to the bathroom. She could have peed in a cup, then went upstairs and splashed it all over the walls. She could have gotten on the phone, called all her friends, they could have all come over and had a pee everywhere slumber party.

All those things might have been preferable to what actually did happen. As she was walking out of the garage to come rejoin the family, she was naked. Well, almost naked. She had on her winter pink hat that she loves so much. That was it. My stark naked little girl in a little pink hat walking toward the sidewalk.

God damnit.

My one big responsibility in life is to keep my daughter off the pole. That’s it, that’s my job. Whatever else may happen, if I keep her from being a stripper named Candy, then I have done my job as a father. However, public displays of nakedness is not a good start.

She makes it all the way to the sidewalk before I can get over there. Let me tell you, and as a father and a man I’m very aware of this, you do not want to be seen chasing a toddler down the street as she is screaming. That is a very, very bad idea. There is no way in hell you are ever going to convince anyone that you are not a pedophile. You might as well go ahead and pick out your paint swatches for your brand new cell that you will share with Bubba the Ass Pounder.

I quickly turn her around and ask, of course, “What the hell?”

“I go potty, Daddy.” She says.

“Yes, I’m sure you did and it was a very good potty indeed.” It’s always important to be encouraging even in times of crisis. “Now go inside and get your pants and big girl panties.” I say

Do you see it. Do you see the fatal flaw in my instructions? Any normal person would assume that I said Go PUT your pants and big girl panties on then you can come back outside to enjoy in this family moment that we are having. But I didn’t say that. I said just to go get them.

And that’s what she did. She went inside, got her big girl panties and her pants, did not put them on, then came right back outside buck naked.

“Daddy, Daddy, I got my big girl panties!” She screams. Then she streaked across the neighbors front yard as I chased her. This is so not good.

Again, God Damnit.


National Daddy Cheat Death Day

Welcome back from the Holidays. In between wondering why your brother is such an unbelievable dick and is your sister really that big of a twat, I hope you had a good time. And yes, incase you are wondering, your mom did wonder “Gee, you really shouldn’t eat that last piece of pie because you are so fat and fat people have high blood pressure, good lord you are trying to kill yourself, it’s time for an intervention, get the Box O Wine.”

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving with your family and silently judged them as you yourself were judged.

But did you celebrate the holiday immediately after Thanksgiving. Sure, you may not have known this was a holiday, but chances are you participated someway in the yearly rituals.

Most of the time is starts with family putting up the Christmas tree. It’s all good music, nice atmosphere, safely tucked away with your hot chocolate and your favorite blankie. However, did you notice someone missing from that scene? Perhaps someone that wasn’t there, who is never there the day after Thanksgiving? Where is good old dad? As my daughter likes to say—Where did he go?

He is participating in the most important ritual of the holiday. In fact, he is the star and the reason there is a holiday to begin with.

It’s called Daddy Cheats Death day and it’s practiced around America by millions of fathers.

While most people are snug inside watching How the Grinch stole Christmas, Daddy is outside, in the freezing cold, hanging the Christmas Lights on the house so the rest of you yahoo’s can “feel” like it’s Christmas. We do this gladly because after all, this is our day to look Mr. Death in face and say “Fuck you, I’m going up on that ice covered roof and you can suck my balls.”

Children are often encouraged to “go help Daddy” with the lights and they dutifully trudge outside only to discover that shit, it’s cold out here and maybe if I piss and moan a little bit the old man will send me right back inside with the womenfolk and maybe I can get a smore.

This year Little Hoss joined me outside as when I need a helper, I always take my two year old, she’s awesome. We were outside for a good 30 minutes before she broke the Christmas light bulb and I was impressed. In the year that she has helped me on projects, that is the first mistake that she has made. But in hindsight, it was more mine because I told her to hold the hammer. Technically, she did hold the hammer, very tightly, as she showed the blue light bulb what happens to uppity light bulbs that won’t stay attached to the side of the house.

Of course I took the hammer away from knuckles. She soon got bored and then ate some dirt, taking a lot of pride in showing me how much she could cram into her piehole. Then it got to cold and she had to go inside.

But my day wasn’t done because I had just begun to cheat death on my ladder and the rules of this holiday say that I’ve got to cheat it for a good 4 hours before I’m allowed to come inside and put the angel on top of the tree.

I’m not a big fan of ladders in general. I’ve got it in my mind that they were designed for a 160 pound man with a mustache who goes by the name of Ralph. Ralph’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong, but is Ralph’s personal stamp of approval on this ladder so I know that it won’t drop my sizable frame to the ground like a sack of flour? I think not so I tend to ignore ladders when possible but on Daddy Cheat Death day, it’s unavoidable.

The wind is howling but that’s not as bad as the dirt and shit being pushed off the roof and into my every loving gaping mouth. Shingle should be a new flavor at Baskin Robbins, just for today.

Hanging lights is normally not so bad, besides the white knuckle grip that I have on the rungs of the ladder. One hand for yourself, one hand for the boat kinda thing. But it’s the heckling that truly makes this day extra special.

“How’s it going” mom says through the comfort of the screen door. Fine, considering that I haven’t fallen and broken my neck yet. I would say that I’m one up on Daddy Cheat Death day and things are looking good.

“Hey buddy, how ‘bout coming over to my house and hanging my lights for me. Har, Har, De-fucking-har” says the passerby who is walking his dog. Sure, no problem. And since I’m doing all your jobs, how about I come over and nail your wife while I’m at it. Why not take care of two things at once? I hang your lights, get my reach around, everyone’s happy. Every one that is within 20 miles of my house has to come out and say something witty right when I'm trying to decide if my arm will actually reach that last light if I hang on with my fingertips. I need concentration people, complete silence. I'm working without a net.

Half way through the celebrating of Daddy Cheat Death day, I realize that I am going to be a light strand short. This is what we call “Tradition.” Pay attention class, there’s a quiz on this later. So down the ladder I go, into the car, and to the nearest gouge mart I can find.

This is where all the father’s gather about three hours into our celebrating this glorious day. All of us are in some kind of sweatshirt, blue jeans and with frozen snot hanging just above our upper lip. For those of you that go Black Friday shopping, you’ve actually seen us. You think we are the homeless guys and give us a quarter which we very much appreciate because we put it toward a purchase of lights that don’t quite match the ones we have and are guaranteed not to work next year.

We give each other a few grunts, slap a few asses and then head up to the checkout with whatever supply we have, but couldn’t find until it’s summer. The cashier, so very nice, will always ask us if we want the Rapids Reward Super Saver Card. We always say no, because saving 35 cents on my 4 dollar purchase just isn’t worth it. But wait, they explain, it’s so easy to do and takes less than 14 hours so why wouldn’t you do that? Let me get my manager so he can explain more fully why you need the Rapids Reward Super Saver Card.

What the cashier is doing is saying “Look, I want a bribe.” And because we don’t want to spend anymore time than is absolutely necessary in this crowded 5th circle of hell, we gladly give her a bribe making that one light strand cost 54.35 instead of just 4 bucks.

I hurried home and back up on the roof I went. 2 hours later, I was done and the lights switched on fine. I believe in a tacky Christmas. I want colored lights, I want big inflatable Snowmen smacking down Santa. I want Halloween decorations mingled in with the Christmas decorations because some dad just got whipped and didn’t care anymore. That’s my kind of Christmas. Unfortunately, my new neighborhood doesn’t think so. Most of their lights were done by paid professionals and all of them, every single one, is bright white lights. And then there is my house, at the very beginning of the neighborhood, with the colossal colored monstrosity exploding with Technicolor fabulousness. Awesomeness.

I have celebrated another successful Daddy Cheats Death day and all is as it should be. Tomorrow, I set the lights to music and leave them plugged in, day and night, for the next two months. Heckle me now, montherfuckers.


Happy Thanksgiving

I want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. May your turkey fly straight and true towards who's ever head you have thrown it at.


Mr. Handyman

Never put a spatula down the lint filter of your dryer. Seriously, this is not a good idea and one that may cause you some headache in the future. I speak from experience, so let Hossman help you out a little.

I should have given this advice to Hossmom before she attempted a little home repair herself. It would appear that there was some extra lint that wouldn’t come up when she cleaned the filter. Her solution was grab a spatula and attempt to coax it out, perhaps sweat talk into just popping out on it’s own. But she is a mom so she took the kitchen utensil approach.

The last time my own mother took the kitchen utensil approach was when she used a wooden spoon to give me licks. Two problems with that. 1. The wooden spoon broke. 2. I was getting, um how you say, “to big for my britches” and thought that it was absolutely hilarious that my mother broke a wooden spoon on me. It didn’t even come close to the licks my father had given me or the daily little brother beatings that my older brother administered.

So my advice to all mothers is to use kitchen utensils for their intended purpose. And I really mean that. If my own mother had headed that advice we wouldn’t have ruined a perfectly good wooden spoon. If my wife would have followed that advice then I wouldn’t currently be sitting behind a disassembled dryer trying to get everything out of a lint filter.

Now let me be clear. I have no idea how a dryer is put together. But I appear to be one of those mechanically inclined individuals that can take apart things and put them back together with little effort. My father is like this but unfortunately my brother is not. It got to the point where his wife would call me to come over to do repairs as he forgot to turn off the electricity when changing a light fixture. I agree, I wouldn’t give a screwdriver to my brother either.

I have my trusty helper with me, Little Hoss. You wouldn’t think that a 2 year old that is prone to earth shattering temper tantrums would be the ideal candidate for handyman helper but you would be wrong. Believe it or not, she is by far the best helper that I have ever had. She makes my wife’s brother, Uncle Bricksalesman, look like a monkey writing Shakespear. I guarantee you if I said “Hand me the 5/8th socket” she would give it to me way before he would. Most likely he would turn chimpanzee on me and start throwing poop as soon as he got frustrated when he couldn’t remember how to divide fractions.

She is great. She knows the difference between a flat head and Phillips screwdriver. She knows what needle nose pliers are. She knows what a socket wrench is. And she never, ever drops a screw. It would appear that my little girl has a talent for this and I would be lying if I didn’t say it made that Father’s pride in me swell. Plus, she is got those little carnie hands that are really good to reach into tight spaces. She has started more than one screw for me.

I don’t ask Hossmom to help me because frankly she sucks. The last time she helped me I was installing a ceiling fan. Her solution to every problem was “just turn that thingy a little.” It got to the point that I actually debated how bad it would be if I just dropped the fan on her head. Give me my two year old at anytime and I bet we could build the space shuttle if we only had the blueprints.

As I pull out the lint filter from the dryer, I think that this is the only real reason Hossmom keeps me around. She knows that I am handy and she enjoys knowing that I can fix things when needed on most occasions. It’s either that or she considers me expendable and if I get shocked by an electric current she can classify me as collateral damage. That is another reason I keep Little Hoss with me when I fix things, she knows how to call 911. Pretty soon I’m going to teach her how to dress a hand that is missing a finger.

By now I have the entire back of the dryer disassembled and Little Hoss has all 14 screws neatly in her hand and begins to line them up on the floor. We work on counting them as I poke and prod. We are having trouble with 11 and up at the moment but I’m feeling confident that after a few more spatula incidents we can knock that out in no time. I also take this opportunity to show Little Hoss the difference between a sheet metal screw and a woodscrew. Always learning. I give Little Hoss a screwdriver of her own and she starts poking around herself.

To my utter amazement she finds one of the clumps of lint that has been balled up back there and knocks it out all by herself. It was the big one that we were looking for.

Here’s some truth about my daughter. She may refuse to pick up her toys. She may throw the biggest fit you have ever seen if she doesn’t get to watch Tinkerbell. She may enjoy chunking bits of chicken nuggets at her brother’s head. But she can totally dismantle and fix a dryer that she has never seen before and she can do it in a dress with her hair all made up. That’s my little girl.

Then she farted and we both laughed. Life is good.


The Dentist's Office

I hate the dentist. I hate the dentist as you would hate that bastard that ate the last donut. As you would hate the referee that clearly made the wrong call. As you would hate Sanjia and his goofy ass hair. I hate the dentist.

But Hossmom says that unless we want to be gumming our food by the time we are 40, we have to go. She said we could have ice cream afterward.

And to Hossmom’s credit, she picked a swank place. Normally my dentist has an address such as “behind the warehouse, next to the Chinese restaurant’s dumpster” and sharpens all his instruments using a leather strop. She was hoping that this high class establishment with it’s high class hand paraffin dips would put me at ease. My first impression was that Satan has new digs and they are quite nice.

One of the benefits that they have at this office is the ability to watch movies as they jackhammer your jaw and then ask you who’s their bitch. I’m your bitch but at least now I’m your bitch while I get to watch a little Harold and Kumar Escape Guantanimo. And I get to do this while I’m sucking down the funny gas like a pimply teen huffing spray paint from a bag. At the very least I get to watch what very well may be an unfunny movie, but I get to do it for free.

I relax in the chair when Ms. Hotty the Hygenist shows up and puts in my movie. We make some small talk, she gets lost in my eyes a little bit, and eases me back in the chair. Things are going well as she leans over to exam my mouth for what I’m assuming is it’s kissablity score when the movie starts.

I don’t know if you have seen this movie, but I would suggest that you not do it in a public place where no one knows you but everyone knows you picked it, especially the hot chick checking my molars.

Right when I think she is about to lean over and gently rest her boobies on my arm, the first scene of the movie roars into life. Maybe I was high on the gas, it’s possible, but it seemed the volume was very, very loud. And in the first scene is a man taking a massive dump on a toilet, complete with all the sound effects. I didn’t think that embarrassment would be one of the things that I would feel at a dentist’s office. I stand corrected. And to my ever loving dread, it’s really more a stall that I’m in so that these very unpleasant sounds are reverberating throughout the dentist’s office as well, all to the tune of the Bee-Gee’s that someone decided to play. Fantastic. I’m the creep with the toilet movie in stall 3.

The mood is ruined, there will be no happy ending. And since that’s that, and the gas is kicking in good and plenty, I start laughing. It’s a weird laugh as she’s got the hand mirror halfway down the throat. It just gets worse from there.

She calls in her hot friend, boom chicka boom boom, to check out my jacked up teeth. When she walks in the movie is on a scene where the term “Cock Meat Sandwhich” seems to be uttered at least 50 times and I’m like a 10 year old laughing at how 8008 spells Boobs on a calculator. I can’t help it, the gas is awesome.

I almost have tears running down my eyes, I just can’t stop. And then, to make it that much worse, is when I realize that apparently this is the “uncut” version of this movie. Normally I’m all about uncut anything, but not this movie at this particular time. As the dentist and Ms. Hotty are using their steel toe boots to correct one of my teeth, a beaver shot pops up on the screen. And not a quick one, but we are talking like 10 minutes of a close-up koochie shot, complete in high definition. And this goes on, on and on with different shots of different women. I’m watching porn. In the dentist’s office. With a hot chick judging me all the way. Again, fantastic.

Normally I like to watch my porn very late at night where there is absolutely no chance of anyone watching me.

At this point I was actually hoping that my teeth were WAY worse that I had previously thought. But no good and the hygienist actually looks around at the exact moment a very harry penis comes on the screen. Now I don’t know what to do as she looks back down at me. If she’s embarrassed there is no indication but the fire that I noticed in her eyes at our first meeting is long gone.

Finally we are done and I’m lead out to the waiting room and say bye to Ms. Hottie the Hygienist right before ,I’m assuming, she puts me on a “do not serve” list of some kind. Hossmom comes out a little later to drive me home.

We get no ice cream.


Crayon Rules

We have very strict rules in the governance of crayon use in the Hossman household. You wouldn’t think that we would need to, but we do. Sure, it doesn’t sound like an issue that you would actually have to come up with rules for but after the destruction that I have seen caused by these little tainted death sticks, I feel that it is necessary for my sanity. However, it would appear that I need to expand these rules so that everyone, and I mean everyone, understands them that comes into my house.

This last weekend I took off for a couple of hours to get a little Dad time and watch the football games at a bar with some other overworked dads. It was great as I got to watch several games without being pawed like a stripper on dollar lap dance night. I got eat my own nachos without having to stand up to do it so that no little grubby hands would pull the cheese lava to the abyss that has become my carpet. And I actually got to have a beer without anyone asking for a sip. It was awesome.

However, when I came home I was not prepared for the carnage that I saw. It would appear that Hossmom was talked in to coloring with my minions. She was further talked into letting this happen in living room, no table, and with the entire box of crayons and an entire ream of paper. Hossmom looked a little whipped. Crayons were everywhere. An entire ream of white paper was crushed and scattered to the four corners of my house like a warning to other paper products not to rebel. All my hard work, all my crayon rules—ignored and flushed away. An entire 64 count box of crayons we gone, somewhere.

When I asked what happened Hossmom said that they simply colored. I just assumed she meant they were coloring at the table when a pack of wild mongoose attacked and they were fighting for their lives with Passion Red and Indigo Blue thus fully explaining the carnage that I had witnessed. I inquired to Hossmom about the coloring rules that I had set down.

“What rules” she stated.

Ok, this is my fault. It is my fault that I didn’t fully explain the Hossman philosophy when it comes to crayons. It is my fault that I didn’t warn her that Little Hoss sneaks crayons into the most unpleasant circumstances like a drug mule getting through customs. It is my fault that I didn’t warn her of the “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today” mentality that my children have when it comes to crayons. Hossmom said not to worry, that she would find all the crayons—all 64—and place them back in the box. As of this writing there are exactly 6 left in the box. To her credit though, I smashed several as I walked across the living room to sit down, thus using my 250 pound frame to smash them into the carpet

So it appears that I must spell out my crayon rules and have them written down and posted as if it was our county health certificate. Don’t hate me Hossmom, just follow the rules so that my life isn’t consumed with scrubbing walls and trying to find the best paint color to cover up Violet.

1. All coloring shall take place at the table, in a chair, with guards posted on all the towers. They have orders to take whatever action is necessary to insure that no crayons escape.

2. If you take a crayon out of the box, you must place one crayon in the box. Think of it as a hostage exchange. One of mine for one of yours and we will continue this war like civilized gentlemen.

3. The minions may have as many pieces of paper or coloring books as they want, however again, only 2 at a time. If there is a rebellion regarding this policy and a certain someone throws a fit and chunks crap on the floor—solotary confinement in the nearest corner is recommended.

4. No crayons in your nose, mouth or other orifices that a human my have. An extension of this rule—no crayons in the nose, mouth or other orifices to the person sitting next to you. I have seen what happens to good crayons that have come out the business end of a one year old and it is a sight that no man should have to bear witness to.

5. You break a crayon, you lose a crayon. If you take the crayon and snap it over your knee like Bo Jackson, then that crayon is gone forever and we will lay that brave soul to rest. The smaller the pieces are, the easier they are to smuggle on the toddler black market back up to the bedroom.

6. Crayons should not be thrown like a rock from a midevil catapult. This is not the invasion of North England and William Wallace is not your commander. Any crayon caught in flight will be banished to the box and the operator of the siege engine shall incur harsh penalties.

7. No crayon shall be sharpened like a shive. This is not San Quentin and we shall not act like a prison gang.

8. You shall not stab your brother with a crayon. Again, not San Quentin.

9. Under no circumstances are markers ever allowed in the house. Any person caught using markers shall face severe repruccisons as well as the person responsible for giving the crayons to someone who still can’t manage to understand that Tinkerbell can't fly out of the T.V. This punishment shall include giving a bath to my two year old until every mark is gone from her body, which could take hours. And if you think she won’t actually color her face or hair with markers, then obviously you have never had kids and your ego is way overinflated if you assume that you can control this. It’s like a hurricane—nature isn’t controllable so do us all a favor and don’t build your trailer park on the coast.

10. Shall I ever come home and find the crayon rules broken, I am immediately turning around and going back to the bar until such time as my demands are met.


The Call

Welp, I finally did it. I finally made "The Call".

I have been a stay at home dad for a good 10 months now and have never made the call. I take pride in it. I take pride that I have never been so fed up with my kids that I have had to call my wife and demand that she come home and take care of them.

10 months with no call. 10 months of handleing every little bruise, scrap and cage match between Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss. 10 months of proving myself. 10 months of taking every possible beating and surviving. 10 months. And now the streak is broken and all gone to shit.

It started in the morning. Little Hoss got up at 6:30, went into my closet and started tugging on a blue jersey I have hanging in their.

"Daddy, wear this." She says. At least I think she says this but I can't really be sure because at the exact same time Bubba Hoss decides that it's about fucking time that someone start paying attention to him. Then the dogs start going crazy because they want to go outside and chase the squirrel that has been giving them attitude. I spent 5 minutes laying in bed wondering if I was going to get up at all. Maybe if I "accidently" broke my arm Hossmom would have to stay home. I didn't answer anyone while I was thinking this. And what happens when the needy don't get a response. Do they pipe down? Do they find something else to entertain them. Nope, they just all scream louder and go crazier.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy, WAAAAAAAAAAAa, daddy, daddy, BARK, WAAAAAA, Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, BARK, BARK, BARK, DAddy, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."

Not the best way to start the day but we get it going. I put everyone in the car at 7:30 in the morning just to get them all to be quiet for a minute. We drive around aimlessly. It was great.

We get back 30 minutes later and just hang out. 2 temper tantrums occur. No biggie, I'm rocking them now. She gets out barely a scream before we are sitting in the timeout chair.

We go to my SAHD playgroup. this is usually a fun time. Not so much today. Every kid there is in a mood. Every. Single. One. We have more meltdowns that I thought possible. And believe it or not, the worst were the kids 1 and under. One would start screaming and it would start some chain reaction of toddler screaming until we had a good 5 or 6 going at one time. It was like a little screaming toddler avalanche of chaos and scream. Then there are the chorus from the other kids who all need daddy.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, WAAAAA, WAAAa, WAAAA, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy she hit me, Daddy, WAAAAA, Daddy he has my toy."

We end it and come home. I've had about enough and am ready for a little break. That's why god invented naptime. I put Little Hoss down and went and played a little video game.

2 hours later I go back up to her room realizing that she never went to sleep and just played by herself which is fine by me. I open the door and she's smiling. I'm thinking that maybe we can salvage this day a little bit. She comes out and gives me a hug and we start walking down stairs. Then I notice the nub of a crayon in her hand. It's no more than a half an inch long, paper torn off and dull from over use. How did she get a crayon in her room? I never allow them. What could she possibly be doing with a crayon in her ro...................................


I run back to her room and there it is. EVERY GOD DAMN WALL IS COLORED BLUE. I'm not just talking about a couple of marks here. I'm talking full on Picasso at his finest art exhibit. I'm talking crazy coloring fuck the lines kind of thing. I'm talking enough color to make that blood vessel behind my right eye pop but not quiet enough to give an ever loving stroke so that I can purge this memory. It was fucking everywhere. Even the back of the god damn door. Last time she just colored 1/2 a wall and it took me an hour to get it out. Now, everything below 3 feet is a pretty solid blue. Or to be more specific for you art critics out there--Royal Navy Blue. And all that is left from a 4 inch crayon is a small chunk of royal evil blue.

I just cleaned this. She snuck a crayon in here like some prisoner sneaking herion. She probably kiestered it. I have no idea. So I just stood there, looking, not saying anything, about ready to call it quits and move to a cabin in Montana.

I must say, I am quite proud of how I controlled myself. This type of thing would normally set me off where anyone who is even breaking a minor rule will incur my wrath. But I kept it together with only a slight twitching of the eye to give away how angry I was.

You know what your parents said "We can't have nice stuff with you around." They weren't fucking kidding. Whatever you have, whatever you most cherish, if you have kids they will fuck it up sooner or later. Sticky hand prints on walls, people taking dumps in tubs, colors on walls, broken Ming Vases--all of it gets fucked up. A couple should have an honest conversation about this when they are considering having kids for the first time. They should say "Do I have anything that I really like? Is my shit irraplaceable?" Just throw all your good shit away, or store it, and buy crap until they leave the house. It's called the Patrick Swayze approach. In the movie Roadhouse he bought a POS car becuase he knew it was going to get jack up. That's what your life becomes--a Roadhouse POS car.

I slowly, and very quietly went and got the telephone. I calmly called Hossmom, for the first time, and let her know what HER daughter had done and want HER kids had put me through today and so fucking help me god if she was not home on time or EARLIER tonight I was going to tie everyone to the tree in the backyard and break out for Vegas. Let me know how they turn out, I'm done. Make sure you tip your waitress.

The timeout that followed was not pleasent. She listened to what she had done wrong and said she understood but honestly, I don't think she had any idea what I was talking about as her vocabulary only includes a few words and I don't don't think "responsibility" is in them yet. It was by far her longest timeout yet. I cleaned the whole house while she was in timeout. It was pretty great.

When it was done she gave me a hug, said she was sorry, then asked if she could color. Seriously, where is the fucking phone.


My Little Angel

It occurs to me that through the last several blogs I have written it may appear that my charming 2 year old daughter is a complete nightmare. There have been temper tantrums and there continues to be daily. I have also written about how she has pegged people with rubber balls in the grocery store and thrown food at unsuspecting restaurant patrons.

I don’t want to give everyone the wrong impression about my angel. My own experiences with her on a daily basis bring all those blogs to life. There is not much “funny” to be written when she does something good. Where is the drama? Where is the obstacle to be overcome and the lesson to be learned? Are the terrible two’s correctly named?

So in the effort to present a fair and balance report of my daughter, maybe I should tell you some of the good that she does.

For example, last week we were at our playgroup. She was playing with a few other kids when suddenly all wanted to play with the same toy. I have no fucking idea why all the kids want to play with the same toy even when there are 1000 other toys present and none wanted to play with that toy until someone else picked it up.

As expected there was a fight where my daughter may have been the winner if I hadn’t broken up the Thunderdome scenario. She was upset and came and put her head in my lap. While I was explaining the virtues of sharing, as I thought I was making head way. She bit me. Right on the leg.

But to her credit, she didn’t break skin. I mean, look at that restraint. She could have gone Hannibal on me, but she didn’t. She pulled back and all I had were several teeth marks. That’s my little angel, she’s learning.

The other day I asked Little Hoss to share her fish crackers with Bubba Hoss. Instead of arguing, she did share with her little brother. Except instead of handing them to him she would chunk them at his head. She could have refused to share or, as more her style, punched him in his piehole. By the time I walked back over there to check on them there was a good 2 foot pile of fish crackers around my son. One might have actually hit him in the mouth. I’m so proud.

At the library she picked up her mess and put all the books that she was reading the assigned blue basket so that the librarians could put them back. Then she helped them even more by going to the adult section, grabbing an armload more of books and even a few CDs and put them all in the blue basket as well. Now she’s being helpful too.

Finally, she actually ate her dinner tonight without me having to sit right next to her and shove it down her gullet like a butcher stuffing a sausage. All I had to do was give her a knife to cut up her own chicken nuggets. There were times that I was a little concerned that she would go Kill Bill on me and throw the knife at my head but I was smarter than that. I gave her a butter knife because I don’t think she has quite got the knowledge yet to make a shank.


Toddler's Reform Party

She demanded that every meal end with candy. She demanded that every snack time begin with, and end with, cupcakes.

She demanded juice with tons of sugar in it instead of the sugar free shit that her oppressors have been giving her. She demanded Blue’s Clues and Dora the Explorer be broadcast 24 hours a day with no interruptions.

She demanded later bedtimes and in fact, came to the conclusion that the abolition of all bedtimes was even a better idea. She demanded that there be no such thing as door locks and places that are deemed “off limits” by the man.

She demanded that her little brother be tickled merciless merely for her own amusement. She demanded that she be allowed to lead the dogs around by their collars whenever she wanted.

She demanded strollers for all and oppression for none. She demanded equal opportunity to everyone under the age of 3 so that they may pursue any interest they the deemed worthy—such as coloring on the walls.

She demanded that all books be pop ups. She demanded riding in the front seat of the car. She demanded being able to throw dirt clods at whomever.

She demanded change and she demanded it now.

She went to the polls looking for this change. She smiled at first, winked a little and threw some “You Betcha’s” out there just to win over the crowd. However, the crowd was insignificant to her and all she wanted was for everyone to get out of her way or behold the power of the stroller of death and it’s ability to break ankles at will. Her little brother was a hapless passenger in this machine of carnage but she did not care as long as the cow catcher did it’s job.

She took a cookie when offered but gave no thank you. Thank you’s were for people more deserving than these mindless drones that stood in her way.

With confidence she took her ballot and her crayon that her “father” had given her. What a chump, yet useful when needed.

She looked at her choices. She looked and looked and looked. Slowly, her smile of confidence faded as the grim reality of her situation forced her to accept a horrible truth: There was no candidate on the ballot that supported toddler rights.

How could this be? How could the under 3 demographic be so forgotten, so ignored? Where were the groundbreakers, where were the leaders, where were the pioneers for toddler rights that should be present. Where they being repressed? Where they being imprisoned ? WHERE WERE THEY?

With disgust in her voice she yelled, the frustration of her screams echoing off the high ceiling of the church that was their voting venue. With a movement so quick it went unseen by most, she flung her crayon at the nearest pee-on and bolted for the door.

She heard a “Oh Shit” echo behind her as “Dad” realized that she was making a break for it. She knew that she could never out run him, but damnit if she wasn’t going to try. She made it as far as the lobby before she was captured. With all her might she kicked and screamed at him, at the situation, at the injustice. But it was all to no avail. The harder she kicked, the more she struggled, the more hopeless it seemed.

Suddenly the 100 or so people in line stopped their conversations and looked at the spectacle seemingly enjoying her pain as surely as they were judging her “father.” The hell with them and she screamed louder.

All attempts at reasoning with her went unnoticed. Bribes of candy and of soda went unheeded. Threats of punishment and the banishment of all TV were no more than dust in a tornado swirling around her hopelessness.

She knew that she had lost, she knew that it was over. She knew that no candidate on the ballot would bring her the equality and justice that she so craved. She know longer cared, how could she?

“That’s it!” her “father” bellowed. “Time out!”

Dutifully, as she had many times before, she found the nearest wall and began her ritualistic punishment. Another move in the game had been made and once again she had lost.

She would have her candidate, even if she had to run herself next time. And on the top of the platform that would inspire millions of 2 year olds, she vowed that no more time outs would be used.

God bless the temper tantrum. God bless them all.


An Educated Voter.....I think?

In preperation for tomorrows big vote, I took some extra time tonight to review all the candidates for all the spots open. I have kept pretty good track and I do thin that you should be educated about whatever issues you are voting for. For instance, in my state we are having a vote on storm water funding. There could not be a more boring topic, second only to the flow rate of ketchup--which was a real study once.

First, a piece of advice.....................................wait, the Guitar Hero commerical with the hot chick in her underwear is on. Man, that's good stuff. Come to me.

Anyway, a piece of advice for all the candidates who are running for office. If you don't have a website or if your website massively sucks, then you are probably going to lose my vote. Honestly man, get with the times. If you can't figure out how to work this new fangled Interweb thingy then I'm thinking that you can't deal with more serious issues.

One of the races that I wasn't sure on in my home state of Missouri is for Attorney General. So as a good voter, I went to one of the websites of the candidate. In his issues section he makes it pretty clear that he is against: human cloning.


Seriously, you spent time to make sure that everyone knows that you are against human cloning. In Missouri. Really?

Now I admit that I've only lived in this new state for less than a year, but c'mon, human cloning? Is there some big human cloning conspiricy here in Missouri, of all places, that I am not aware of? Do we have some secret govermental or scientific complex that would rival anything that Lex Luther would come up with, that works on human cloning? I could understand it if this was on one of the coasts or some place where there are big research facilities may be, but again, this is Missouri. Missouri is not synonymous with the cloning of human beings?

At least make it more realistic. Say that you are against cow cloning. That I could buy because at least we have alot of cows here and lord knows that we don't need more of them. But we are not the mecca of Mini Me's as you might suspect.

John Hopkins is not here. In fact, I would be surprised if we even had a think tank dedicated to smelting.

After reading this I was pretty sure that I was not going to vote for this guy just for the absurdity of this pander. If you are going to go this far, then pander all the way. Say that, under your watch, human cloning will never become an option in Missouri unless it is used to clone Christ. There, at least now you have sold out all the way.

But because I don't want to be just a one issue voter I checked the rest of his info. Lucky for me I disagree with him on just about everything so now I can feel fine about not voting for a this guy.

If, however, he could secure an endorsement from the Guitar Hero chick, then I'm his all the way. If you are going to pander, at least pander my way.


A Father's Revenge

When I was a kid, I asked my dad if I could go play laser tag for the low low price of 10 dollars. Afterall, what is a kids happiness for only 10 bucks. He looked down at me and then said, calmly, “No” I was devastated. Why couldn’t I go play laser tag? He said because we couldn’t afford it.

When I was a kid, my father often made lunch for us during the summer. However, along with my bologna sandwich of goodness, I was forced to eat a whole carrot, raw. Seriously, this thing was huge and pulled from the ground not only an hour earlier. It still had dirt on it and we were expected to eat the dirt along with it. We couldn’t leave the table until it was choked down. When I asked why he said “because it’s good for you” and didn’t offer any additional explanation.

He also made me mow a 3 acre plot of land with a push mower. It took my brother and I three days to do it and it was tough. My dad said that it would build character.

I am a father myself now. And all the years of senseless excuses by my father have finally made sense. Whenever he told me why I couldn’t do something it just never made sense. His reasoning was off, his logic was skewed. Raw carrots aren’t good for you, they are fucking terrible. But as a father, I finally know why.

It was a father’s revenge.

That’s all it was. It was a complicated conspiracy designed by my father, and in fact all fathers, to get vengeance for all the shit I did to him. I couldn’t go to laser tag because 5 years earlier I used a screwdriver, a wrench and some good old 5 year old ingenuity, to dismantle his riding lawnmower then not tell him so that when he got back on it, it flipped over on him, then fell apart.

The carrot was a direct result of the countless times I would piss and moan to watch He-Haw instead of Solid Gold and it’s zesty dancers. Of course he was going to break down and let me watch He-Haw. Who wants to disappoint his kid for some 80’s style soft core porn? That doesn’t look good. But in his head, he knew that for every fucking episode I watched, I was eventually eat a god damn carrot.

The lawn mowing thing? A direct result of sneaking out of bed late at night to play video games and thus waking my father up.

I understand it now. I get it. I know that this seems far fetched to a lot of you out there but stick with me. How can I possibly correlate actions that I did wrong as a toddler to the possible consequences that stretched throughout my life?

I’ll tell you how, because I am now a father and I spend my nights plotting the same revenge on my children. It’s going to be sweet.

Today, Little Hoss kicked her little brother. That’s a carrot. She then threw a temper tantrum when I sent her to time out. That’s another carrot. Finally, she kicked the door when it was bedtime. You better believe that’s a carrot.

And if you don’t believe me—answer me this. What is the purpose of a brussel sprout? Those things are fucking disgusting. I have never, ever met a person that says “Man, I could really go for some sprouts right now.” No, and you never will meet those people because brussel sprouts were invented by fathers solely for the use as a revenge tactic many years later. That’s the whole reason that they exist.

I’m coming up with elaborate plots and ruses for my future revenge of my children that will continue until they leave my house and at that point, I am trying to decide how I can further my revenge.

I’m already saving a pair of whity tighties so that when my daughter is 13 and wants to have a slumber party, I will say yes just so I can walk out in the morning in them and get my newspaper, thus shaming her in front of her friends. I may have never gone and gotten my paper like this before, but I guarantee you it’s going to happen. July 15th, 2019 at 8:00am, I will be in my whity tighties getting the newspaper. This particular moment of revenge is because she demands to watch Blue’s Clues right when my football game is on.

I also vow that in my house, no teenager will be allowed to sleep past 7 in the morning without getting massive shit from me. My father used to do this. He used to bang into my room in the morning and tear the covers off of me. I now realize that it was because when I was younger, I never let him get a full nights sleep. This one is pretty standard really and I plan to fully employ this after a night when I now they snuck out.

And Bubba Hoss, let’s not forget about him. A couple of days ago at the movie store he ripped down an entire shelf. Let’s see, for that, I think I will fart in front of his girlfriend when he is about 16.

Kids are kids, I understand that. And most of what they do is because they are learning and don’t know what’s right from wrong yet and it’s our jobs as parents to instill that knowledge in them through well thought out cause and effect relationships. I get all that and know that I can’t overly punish my kids for things that they didn’t know was wrong or for emotions that they can’t control yet. However, with all that said, it’s still my ass fixing whatever was destroyed or profusely apologizing to the wait staff for the colossal mess we have left. Let me tell you, it’s not that fun. This theory of mine finally explains why my father acted the way he did the later years of my adolescence.

My son, Bubba Hoss, keeps throwing his chicken nuggets to the dogs. He thinks it’s funny. I wonder how funny he will think it is when he doesn’t get to go play laser tag.


Um, that ain't mine.

Are parents really judged by how their children act? Are you personally judged by the intelligence of your offspring. That is what was going through my mind as my daughter starting picking her nose right in the middle of story time.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if we were in the back or if she was near me so that I could at least put a stop to it. But no, because fate likes to play games with me, she was at the very front of the group watching the teacher read a book. And she was standing. And she was laughing very loud. And I was a good 15 feet away from her.

It was right in the middle of the story so I was trying to make as little disturbance as I could so that I wouldn’t have 20 toddlers and their parents throwing arts and crafts supplies at my head. There is nothing worse than getting speared in the eye by a gluestick.

When she first entered the nasal area I politely, in a very quiet whisper said “Little Hoss! Little Hoss! Look over here! Get your finger out of your nose!” I felt a little like Steve Martin in Three Amigos yelling “WHIPPERWILL!”

She promptly ignored me and then started to twirl in a circle right when Harry the Ghost checked under his bed for monsters. There were no monsters of course under Harrys bed. However, to those immediately around me, I had just laid claim to the child in the front who was now proceeding to her second knuckle in her quest to determine exactly how far back her brain was situated in her head.

I heard several of the parents close to me begin to chuckle a little bit, almost the snide smirk you might hear as if they are thinking “He’s a parent of that nose picker!” And I know what they were thinking. Somewhere along the way someone had to teach this kid to pick her nose because obviously she was no rookie at it. And if someone had to teach her, well, it had to be good old dad who I’m sure they also believe farts at the dinner table while making crude gestures at Baywatch girls.

I can take most judgment thrown my way, especially by other parents. As a stay at home dad, you run into a lot of people that just don’t get what you do, why you do it or the fact that you are indeed no pedophile but just want to spend time with your kids. But I also realize that the way my kid is perceived as far as intelligence goes and manners is a direct reflection on my abilities as a stay at home dad. And not just me, but every stay at home dad everywhere. This was a direct assault on all of us and our way of life.

It was with this motivation in mind that I began frantically waving my arms trying to get my daughters attention each time her twirl brought me into her field of view. If you slowed down footage from my montage of waving arms and contorted faces you can very plainly see me spelling out with my gestures “For the Love of God quit picking your nose! People are watching!”

Of course having Bubba Hoss in my arms during this time probably messed up the delivery a little bit but at least he was having a good time and started to clap every time that I waved my arms. Good times, let’s play the game “shame” with father.

She finally stopped twirling about the time that Harry the Ghost was checking behind the shower curtain for monsters and then promptly began jumping up and down instead, further driving her finger up her nose. Honestly, half the damn finger was up there and I began to wonder if there was any stopping this destruction of her nasal cavity short of me throwing Bubba Hoss at her head and knocking her unconscious.

I also realized that I had lost my little game and it was time to change strategy to “Who’s kid is that?” Rather than calling attention to myself, I decided to shut it down and just let nature take its course. Eventually she would dig out whatever it was she was searching for and this would be over. Until then, I would sit quietly in the back of the class and begin counting the number of fibers in my shoe laces. After all, only a handful of people around me knew that it was my kid, there was no need to inform the rest of the class.

I know that it’s the coward’s way out, that I should have not only not ignored my daughter but proudly proclaim that the champion nose picker that was on display was my flesh and blood. But I also know that I have taken the brunt of a lot of things like this and I didn’t see the harm of letting this one fall completely on her shoulders for a change.

We have ruined movies, we have destroyed nice restaurant meals and I’m pretty sure that every person at the zoo hates us for ignoring all the “don’t feed the animals” signs. I’m sure that those squirrel like creatures are supposed to weigh a good 200 pounds and suffer from diabetes and congestive heart failure. What do you want us to do, she’s 2 and can’t read.

So this time, fuck it, pick away kiddo. If you are going to make a display, make it a good one. Good old dad is just going to sit back here and enjoy the show with the rest of the crowd.

When Harry the Ghost finally found the monster in the mirror Little Hoss finally extracted her finger and relief swept over me until I saw the huge mucus colored booger hanging off her finger.

“Dear god, please don’t eat it. Please don’t eat it. Please don’t eat it.” That was my mantra.

To my ever loving delight she looked at it, turned it around a few times and then wiped it on her jacket.

That’s right, I’m the proud father of a nose picker. But I’m not the father of a booger eater!

Victory is mine.


The Evolution of Hoss

I have spent a lot of the last six months trying to determine what kind of blog this is. Am I stay at home dad blogger, a blogger that just tries to be funny, or a blogger that secretly thinks that I am the only rational man in the world.

I have come to the conclusion that although this blog may be all of those things to a certain extent, what this blog has really turned out to be is a chronicle of how I am growing old. How my hipness is gone and how I have become completely out of touch with the world in general.

One moment I am a young hip guy feeling very comfortable with technology. I could work any program and I would judge those who couldn’t, often wondering how they survived on this planet by only knowing how to rub sticks together for fire. Any piece of technology I would embrace believing that at any moment someone would invent a robot named Hal and in no time we would have robot hookers flying in hover cars.

What becoming a father has really done is to age me, terribly. I no longer keep up with any new gadgets other than any advancements in diaper stink technology, I would be all over that.

Not only do I not own an Iphone, I don’t even want one. I just don’t see the point. I don’t have a need to browse the web enough to own one. I have an Ipod but sometimes I think only because my old walkman will no longer work. I don’t text all that much, I have no desire to learn HTML or Java which my wife tells me could be useful and I didn’t want a MySpace or face book page.

But as I sit here with my hand hurting from an old football injury in the past century, don’t you know, I was thrust into the world of Face book but not because I really wanted one.

An old employee sent me an invite to visit her face book page so that I could see what she was up to and write her a letter of recommendation. She is 26. That’s only 7 years younger than me but the difference is startling, even to me.

So I called my wife over, who is up to date on all this new fangled stuff, and created my own page. Now I am terrified. I am terrified like an old gold prospector hermit living in the hills, only coming down to talk with people when I need to trade skins and get some fire water.

As soon as I built it, I was pretty sure I regretted it. All of a sudden, my isolation and anonymity seemed to disappear. Within a couple of days I was getting friend requests from half my high school class. And I will be completely honest with you, I had no idea who the freaking hell these people were. I got friend requests from people that I haven’t heard from in a good 20 years.

It started to freak me out. Why do these people want to talk to me? I miss being the digital hermit, just a little. I want to go back to my shack and write letters to no one in particular but I think it’s to late for that.

And I totally don’t get any of this. Reading my wife’s site and others, I just don’t get it. I see a bunch of posts such as “I need to remember next time to mix peppers with my enchiladas………..” There was a ton of stuff like that. Not to harp on people’s writing skills or lives, but dude, that’s pretty boring stuff. “Johnny is tired of studying…..” etc, etc, etc. Um, ok. Then stop studying, It’s not that hard.

I began to sound like my dad, which also shows my age a little. Put down the computer and go out and get some fresh air. Then get a haircut and a job.

My wife had to explain the concept of “Twittering” to me. I still don’t fucking get it. You mean people just randomly write stuff like this all day on their pages and people read this? Why is my blog not kicking the shit out of everything else published, I have no idea. I tell a story here. I have hero, he does stuff, stuff happens. I’m a god damn internet Charles Dickens compared to what I have read. I usually have a plot that ends with me learning some kind of lesson. Seriously, why am I not getting paid for this.

And what was my thought when Hossmom explained “Twittering” to me.

Twitter = Twit.

I’ll be honest, that’s what popped in my head.

How can I be only 33 and so out of touch with all this and so blissfully out of touch? Because I have turned into my dad. I watch a good hour of CNN every morning while I get the kids ready for our day. I watch Hardball for Christ sake. If I am in the car, it’s either sports radio or some political talk radio. I actually know who most of the people in the President’s cabinet are. I scare myself, but not as much as Facebook scares me.

The final deathblow that makes me want to return to my cave and career of hide tanning was that Hossmom saw that my old girlfriend was on Facebook and that we could all be “friends.”

No fucking way. If you have read my blog, you will know that I think that my old flame is as close to pure evil as is possible on our plane of existence and it concerns me that the administrators will let Evil move around their domain so easily without being checked. Come on, let’s at least have some holy water sprinkled and garlic strung around our keyboards. Constant viligence people, constant viligence.

What if she see’s my name and sends me a message? I have already started buying plywood to bolt over the windows, but I don’t that would be enough to keep the gang banging champion of 1995 out. I know that it’s a silly belief but one that I am having problems overcoming.

The Facebook page remains and perhaps one day I will understand it more. For the time being, it remains blank of twittering, whatever the hell that is, and I will continue to wait for the robots and hover cars, at which point I will emerge from my bomb shelter to determine if the world has improved at all.


To Leer or Not to Leer

I work out at the gym three days a week, but not for the reason you think. I go because it’s the only place I can take a shower where someone isn’t throwing open the curtain and saying “Look, Daddy’s junk!”

Junk is obviously what my daughter calls a penis. Family members think that I should have not taught her that term and instead just called it a penis. Hey, I’m sorry, I just can’t get past my 2 year old daughter saying “Penis”. It creeps me out. At least this way, she will always stay away from a guys junk because it’s dirty and nasty and holding hands gets you pregnant. I have done my job as a father.

Of course I get the health benefits of working out—better heart, losing weight, and that’s all great. But it doesn’t beat the fact that I get to take a 15 minute solo shower with absolutely no one screaming in the background because Blue’s Clues needs to be restarted. I am starting to hate that fucking dog.

I am under strict orders not to do any power lifting by my doctor. Apparently he thinks that my bulk is just fine and I should probably lose some of said bulk for the health of puny guys everywhere. So I go on the elliptical machine and do the cardio workouts. If you have never seen a 250 pound man working the dire straights of balance and rhythm, it’s the 8th wonder of the world.

I set my machine up right in front of TV number 6 because this is the news channel that I watch while huffing it to the tunes of Metallica, AC/DC and the awesomeness of Faith No More. To my left is TV number 5 which carries SportCenter and to my left is TV number 7 which carries yet another news station. Not on any of the 3000 TV’s in the entire gym is Blues Clues or Backyardigans.

And it was on this machine that I found myself with a lady came right up and started to use the machine to my immediate left. I found this odd because there were plenty of machines and I felt a bit crowded. Isn’t there some sort of gym etiquette that states that you should give me my space because you creep me out? I stink, I’m sweating and I’m sure there are a few grunted cusswords coming from my mouth that you don’t want to hear as my calf tightens up. I am a mullet and a Winger T-Shirt away from being that guy, please stay away.

At about this same time, ESPN started doing their weekend football review which naturally captured my attention. So I turned my head and began to watch. After about a minute, the lady on my left looked over at me. I could see her from the corner of my eye. No big deal, I am eye candy. I continued to watch the football.

Another 30 seconds, she looked over again. After another 20, another look. She did this about 4 times as I continued to workout and watch Sportscenter. It got so I started to wonder if I had boogers snorting out of me.

Then she stopped in the middle of her workout, after only about 5 minutes, almost huffed, and walked away to my right. She went about 6 machines down.

Did she think I was checking her out? Is she under the impression that I was watching her boobs bounce and was contemplating using her in a future fantasy? In short, does she think I am infact the mullet wearing Winger T-shirt guy?

I gotta tell you, I’m a little offended. First off, she wasn’t hot. She was alright but nothing that would make me take up and notice. Second, the strip aerobics class is right across from where I work out and when my eyes do wander, that’s where they usually end up, right at the hip thrust, foot slide portion. It’s nice.

So what I’m saying basically is that yes, I have leered at the gym before. I have leered and leered hard. If she would have caught me actually leering then I suppose I would have been ok. But she didn’t. It’s like I was a criminal that was wrongfully convicted of the wrong crime when I have done plenty of other crimes.

But since I get to offer a defense, this is America, let me give you this to ponder. If you wear a G-String leotard, then you want to be stared at. You don’t wear that for comfort and you don’t wear that because it’s good workout clothes. You wear that because you have a rocking ass.

So I am a little offended to be judged for something that I haven’t done, at least not this time. And let me remind you that you came up to me to workout, not the other way around. I was just watching sportscenter, seriously man, just a little sportscenter.

I finished my workout and in her mind, stalked away like a stalking stalker. I took my awesome shower, shaved and went to get the kids from the gym daycare. Look lady, I have kids, I’m not a bad guy.

But before I go I got to make a pitstop by the strip aerobics class.


Explain this to me

I'm posting this as a serious question, because I have no fucking idea.

Gas prices are based on a large part on oil prices. Today, gas in my area is around 2.83. Oil prices are about 81 bucks as of today. Ok, keep all that in mind.

Here is my question. When oil prices were at thier high (147), gas was around 4.00 bucks a gallon. So it would only make sense that if the oil price dropped by half, then shouldn't gas be a little more than 2 bucks right now? I mean, fucking seriously, am I missing something here.

If I did my math right, and there is an excellent chance that I didn't, oil prices have dropped about 44 % but gas prices have dropped only 29%. How the fuck is that?

That just doesn't make sense to me, not at all. I'm telling you, gas should be around 2 bucks and I'm pretty pissed off about that because we are all being taken for a big fucking ride. I told my wife this when gas was 4 bucks a gallon. I said there is no way we will ever go back to a 1.20 for a gallon of gas.

Why should they? We'll all just be so happy that we are not paying 4 bucks anymore that 2.83 will look like a god damn T-bone steak and we'll never question it.

I call complete bullshit on this. And don't give me the excuse that gas is still high because this is what they have already paid for it. Tough shit because we all know that if oil prices go up tomorrow, within hours the gas at the pumps will go up as well. So if you are telling me that you already paid for this gas, then by that logic, that price should be locked in until you buy your next tanker of fuel. Until then, tough shit, quit trying to screw over the regular guy.

But it doesn't work that way. They are quick to raise the price and slow to lower it. And we get screwed. I know that this isn't my normal blog, but this has been grating on me for a while.

This is really what gets me. Gas is a commodity that we cannot do without. It's like electricity or natural gas for heating our homes. We cannot do without these things. We cannot decide, hey, fuck it, I'm not going to drive anymore. Sure, we could bike it but have you ever tried to ride a bike 30 miles on the freeway? Good luck. Public transportatoin is non exsistant in the suburbs as well.

And don't give me that free market right to choose bullshit. All the gas stations are always within a cent of eachother so there is no real choice here. That's why it's bullshit.

I know I'm ranting but bum fucking christ, how is this ok. I'm really asking here.


Judge Me, I don't care.

See that baby bottle on the counter. That has been there for two days. For two straight days I have stared at it until I have come to believe that it is more than just a bottle, it is an idol that I worship. An idol that is cemented to the countertop by old baby formula which is stronger than industrial glue. It will take a chisel, a hammer and several shirtless hours of glistening muscle to undo it. I could do it. I could ravage the idol and restore domestic bliss to my household. And yet, I won’t do it for reasons unknown, even to me.

That 409 bottle on top of the fridge might help, but then again, probably not. Mainly because there is only the slightest amount of actual cleaner left in there. The rest of the bottle is actually filled with water. That way if some unforeseen guest decides to check on my 409 stockpile, they will be fooled into thinking that I do clean on a regular basis. There is only enough 409 in that bottle to give you the fragrance of clean summer days but not to actually do anything. It takes real work to be this deceiving.

Little Hoss is sitting in front of the TV for the last hour with no underwear on. I had enough of changing 2 sets of diapers so we had a boot camp style potty training, complete with pushups and running up hills for conditioning. 4 days of PT and she finally got the hint. You go potty in the potty and you get candy. By the 4th day, she started giving me candy every time I took a leak. It worked, my awesomeness prevails. However, I did not realize that the true challenge would come after she was done. For some reason, she doesn’t like to wear her underwear a good 60% of the day. I’m tired and have given up the fight. Therefore, we watch Blue’s Clues naked. We call it Naked Blue Time. I admit, it can be quite fun until someone comes to the door.

My son’s shirt has a mixture of snot, formula and dog slobber on it. It has ceased to be a shirt and instead has turned into a grand work of Abstract art. As an artist, he seems very protective of his creative time and refuses to allow me to take the shirt off until he completes the tree by the lake, at least that is what he tells me in the looks of death he gives me every time I try to remove the shirt. It’s a happy tree though, a very happy tree.

For my working readers, let me explain this week to you in a way that you can comprehend. Let’s say that you are at work and your boss gives you a project. That project involves something in the nature of teaching deaf skunks to tap dance. Of course you don’t want to do the project so you just kind of sit back on it, waiting to be inspired. Then, right when you feel inspired, your cube mate comes over and takes a shit on the floor and you are no longer inspired. In fact, you want to do nothing anymore but sit in your chair contemplate why Tetris is so awesome.

That’s basically the best way I can explain this week to you. Everything was fine a while ago. The house was clean, the kids were clean, I was showered, it was all good. The only problem we had was that Bubba Hoss had a little diaper rash. So I let him run around without a diaper for about 3 minutes.

It would have been longer but then he took a big huge shit on the floor and thus we had to put a diaper on. You think that I would have been smarter than this. Hell, I think I would have been smarter than this. But I put it to you, this was a conspiracy to break my will and it has worked.

I got a phone call and like an idiot I answered it. I should have ignored it, I know, but I didn’t. I was on the phone for less than 3 seconds when my daughter came up to me and said “Daddy, poo poo on floor.” Surely she is mistaken. After all, she is only 2 and has trouble with the English language. She still calls lawnmowers vacuum cleaners.

I walked over and yup, bubba hoss had taken a crap on the floor and was playing with it. In his little fists of fury he had two clay like turds and was laughing as he squeezed them and they came squirting out of his little fingers. He planed this. He waited until I was distracted and then laid a deuce on the floor, and played in it, and smeared it around. Just to see me break. Just to see my will snap like a twig under the foot of a rhino.

I abruptly ended my conversation on the phone by telling the person the truth, my son has laid a cow pie and my attentions were needed elsewhere.

The bathtub is upstairs and the thought of caring him through the house dripping poop did not appeal to me, so we made it to the sink instead. I will admit, I considered dunking him in the toilet but after further consideration I decided that Hossmom would kill me. Not that the sink was much better, that is where a lot of food goes.

For the next 30 minutes I attempted to try and get poop out of places that poop is not supposed to be. Underneath finger nails, in-between toes, everywhere. And I’ll admit it, I washed my kid with Dawn dishwashing soap. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have Dove handy at the moment as we normally don’t take baths by the sink.

I installed the garbage disposal myself and I think you may be happy to know that it does a fantastic job on poop as well as leftovers. A good half gallon of bleach and I declared my sink sanitary as soon as the little person comes and declares This Sink is Clean.

And then for the next 2 hours I tried to get crap stains out of the carpet. Nothing works by the way. It still has a slight green tint to it in several places. I’m sure it smells but the chemicals that I have used and devastated any scent receptors that I may have had. While I was doing this Little Hoss was in the background laughing manically, like she just put a bomb on a bus that couldn’t drop below 55, constantly saying “Daddy being silly!” Yes honey, I’m as silly as a mad hater at a sewage tea party.

And so, for the last several days, I have decided that I am a broken man. I have actually uttered the phrase “rub some dirt on it” at least 3 times today and meant it. I have no doubt that I will get back on my game. But until then we will worship the bottle on the counter and call it Steve.

During the Debates

This was our basic reaction after the debate was done. Seriously, talking points do not equal a debate.

My Friend

Is anyone else tired of hearing the term "My Friend" from McCain? It sounds like he is trying to sell me a time share.

Listen, my friend, this is a deal of a life time. My friend, wouldn't you and your family like to vacation here, my friend, and own it for 2 weeks? My friend, you cannot pass up this opportunity! My friend, supplies are limited and this won't be available for long. Listen, my friend, I've got a lot hot offers on this little hot property, my friend.

Seriously man, it's starting to really bug me.


The Diner Party

Please, come and Join our Dinner Party

Hossmom came home the other day and let me know that she was going to be late this week because she had to wine and dine a client. They were going to have steak.

I gotta tell ya, I got a little jealous.

Being a stay at home dad, you do miss out on some stuff and up until now I haven’t felt any the worse for it. I don’t miss all the politics that you had to deal with. I don’t miss the cliques or the power struggles that you had to side step and I don’t miss a lot of the morons that promoted their equally unqualified friends. I don’t miss any of that.

But I do miss free food.

No, let me be more clear. I miss the free food that someone else cooks for you. I miss the free food that someone else cleans up after you. I miss the free food that does not go sailing passed my head courtesy of a 2 year old because lord fucking forbid if she eats a broccoli that I may or may not have hidden in her mac and cheese. I miss the free food where you get to actually eat the whole meal instead of getting up halfway to take someone to the potty only to turn your back to find a lost size 3 shoe and get sprayed with toilet water. And as you dance around with equal parts disgust and amazement that someone that young can move so fast, all of a sudden you are tapping your foot and making a gay move in the guy in the next stall.

I miss those things.

I try to be positive about it when this happens. I have my own “dinner meeting” with Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss. We get out the fancy chicken nuggets, the ones shaped like dinosaurs, and grape juice 2008, a great year. We discuss the events of the day, such as if Blue, from Blues Clues, is taking a big hit in the current market downturn as he seems to be heavily leveraged into securities at the moment. Afterwards we retire to the den and have cocktails of juice and perhaps an after dinner cookie.

Then Little Hoss hits her little brother and all hell breaks lose. That’s my dinner party.

And yeah, sometimes it gets to be a little crappy when Hossmom goes out into the real world and hobknobs with the bigshots while I’m home deciding if it counts as bath time if we had to use a lot of wet wipes that day.

So Hossmom went out and I had one request, just one. I thought it was a fair request. And don’t get me wrong, I love what I do but sometimes you do miss being able to go out to a restaurant and not have to worry about if the kids are going sing “Clementine” at the top of their lungs for the enjoyment of the other patrons.

So what was my request? Bring me home a steak. Bring me home a nice, big juicy steak. Medium cooked with a slight touch of garlic on it. Surely during the dinner, as she is feeding the highpriced clients bottles of wine, she can slip in an order for an extra steak. Why not?

Hossmom came home, the kids where in bed and I was eagerly waiting for my steak. But Hossmom didn’t have anything in her hand when she came home. Maybe she left it in the car?

Nope. No steak. Nothing.

When I inquired she stated that they decided to go for Italian instead. I ask you, how often do you have to go out to get tired of steak?

No worries, we have plenty of dinosaur Chicken Nuggets.


Joe Six Pack


I’m Joe Six Pack and there has been a lot of talk about me this current election cycle. I mean seriously, there just appears to be a lot of attention coming my way. Trying to relate to me, trying to speak my lingo, trying to set me up some Hockey Mom Hooch.

Hey, I appreciate it. I really do. But in all fairness I really got to let you guys know that you should, you know, probably quit wasting your money. I know, it sounds weird. But your money would be better spent trying to actually fix shit and not trying to set up a lunch date with me in my trailer.

You see, Joe Six Pack don’t vote. I’ll say I’ll vote. I’ll even argue politics. But there is no way in hell that Joe Six Pack votes. Because on Nov 3rd, as is my custom, I will soon be trying to be Joe 12 Pack and if the cards stack up right, by the end of the night I will be Joe Keg-Stand.

Look, I know that you are trying to spend a lot of time trying to relate to me and my kind but you should really knock it off. All those “You Betcha”s and “Boy Howdy’s” just make you look stupid. Sure, I talk to my family that way but I don’t talk to my boss that way. When I’m out giving a speech to a lot of people I don’t add a drawl because I don’t want to sound stupid. Let’s face it, you are running for the highest office in the land not to be a Manager’s of Popyes. Unless you have the U.S.A. start serving taters with our foreign policy, seriously, knock it off.

And while I’m at it, I’ve got to insert a dude rule here for you. You can’t invent your own nickname then use your own nickname, ok there Castanza. If you want to be called the T-Bone Maverick, that’s fine but let other people do it. You come off a little desperate when you continuously refer to yourself that way. Unless you are P. Diddy, don’t do it.

I know that the message you are trying to come across with is that “Anyone Can Be President.” That may be so but let’s face it, not Anyone Should Be president. No fucking way. I myself am grossly unqualified to be president. If that should happen I guarantee that a slip and slide would be set up on the south lawn within a day and Secretary of state would be Larry Flint. When we decide to quit the war I’ll have my Hockey Mom wife contact the phone tree to let everyone know not to show up tomorrow. That’s my administration.

My point is, you should be exceptional in order to attain that office. I’ll make it easy for you. If you are the guy that goes to a casino and never leaves the BlackJack table, you should not be president. Our president should be the guy that goes straight to the high stakes poker room and then walks out an hour later with the owner of the casino comping him free hookers. That’s our man. We gotta have someone that can see and play all the angles.

I’m not saying that I’m a bad guy. I’m not even saying I’m a dumb guy. I’m just saying that there has to be people out there smarter and better than me to run this country. Let me focus on specializing my barbecue sauce and you guys focus on making sure my beer stays under 2 bucks a bottle. If you can do that, then we should be just fine. You Betcha.


Join the Cult, save a life

Take a look to the left of this post. You should see a link called "The Hossman Cult." Go ahead and click on it if you want to join me in greatness. Take the Blue Pill, Neo, take the blue pill.

Basically, as I understand it, it is a way for you become a follower of this blog and it is part of my worldwide plan to become a Tax Exempt entitiy. If Rush Limbaugh can have a bunch of nut job crazies following his every bowel movement, why can't I? As I write this, there is only one follower and that follower is me. That is part of the philosphy of this cult, I follow my own lead.

It's just one of the new features that I have added to the new look of the blog. If you look below the Cult link you will also see a way to suscribe to the blog. Sign up for that and you will be notified when a new blog is posted instead of checking this site out 1000 times a day and then having crushing anxiety attacks when nothing is posted. That's another part of the Cult philosphy--help out the little guy but don't drink the juice. We don't drink tainted juice here, our juice is 100% poison free. Maybe not baby vomit free but that won't kill you, just give you the runs a little bit.

I wish I could take most of the credit for the new look of the blog but sadly, I can't. I can't because I have the fashion sense of a blind monkey with the color cordination of roadkill. I often tell people I am color blind when they asked me why I dressed the way I did. I'm not. I can very much tell the difference between green and red. What you see is just very poor choices in clothing that I tend to make when not under the supervision of my wife.

I once bought a pair of plastic shoes. And not cool crocs. No, this was back in 1993 and they were plastic and purple. I thought they were cool and went great with my Brad Pitt hair. Sadly, they were not and now I've lost my hair as a direct result of my poor fashion sense. So I leave all the "look" of things to Hossmom when ever possible. So she sat down and took my constructive critiscm (That sucks!) and redid the look of my blog for me. Most of it was finished when she told me to get away or she would resort to violence. That didn't work so then she threatened to reveal my most inner secrets. I said hey, I blog, I have no more secrets. I once took a crap on a neighbors fence because I couldn't hold it until I got home. It wasn't a prank, I just couldn't make it. I was 24. What secrets do I have left?

So finally she started to pull out chest hairs, my one weakness, until I left her alone and there you go--the new look of the blog. I got a makeover, rock on.

Some of it is still under construction, such as links to other blogs, but should get there pretty soon because I know that you guys that are working need something to do 7 hours a day besides working. Hey, I used to sit at my computer and read all day, do an hour or real work, then go back to reading other blogs. Don't be shocked, you do that shit too, we all know it.

When the Cult is up and running, all members will recieve white robes and we will begin to vote on politics making us an official "Voting Block" that needs to be catered to. What will we vote for? Paying stay at home dads. That's our one issue so jump on board. If you don't, then my kids will grow up to be motorcycle houligans and ride thier bikes in convience stores and not pay taxes. Do you really want the responsiblity of that? What a bad bad person you all. Ok, I gotta go now because Little Hoss is hurling cat food across the room and making the dogs chase it. Not that I mind it that much, but she's also eating it and I should really stop that. It's the first step to houligany.