Back in my Day...............

I am concerned a bout my daughters future. I am concerned that she will have nothing but pussy rock. I am afraid that she will only have rock made by people pretending to be “glamorous” or produced by corporations to sell coke and sneakers.

They will have albums called “Nabisco’s Cereal Lineup” featuring songs like Special K is great although the Special K will not have the cool drug reference that you may think it has, it will actually mean the cereal.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want my daughter any where near any kind of drugs and have made up my mind to strip search any boy that ever comes to my house for my daughter. It won’t be gentle. It will almost be a felony that any father on any jury would forgive me for. Dad’s got to watch out for each other.

But I am a little sad that she won’t have some of that little rebellion that maybe I had. Yes, I am going to be the guy that says “Back in my day……”

Do you know why? Because back in my day Rock was hard, it was out there. It spoke for the generation. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Sound Garden—they all rocked. They knew how to take prepubescent pent up sexual frustration and turn it on the world of our fathers. We weren’t about money or the corporate sponsorships. We were about monster guitar solos, heavy drums and groupies that might give you a little if you lied and said you were with the band. We called them Lisa and they were all good.

They were about the music for music’s sake. They were about telling the “man” that were not going to take it, no we’re not going to take it, whatever “it” may have been.

It was about not caring about how you looked. It was about taking more time to figure out how our father’s screwed up the world and how we could fix it with a torn flannel shirt that we wore in Texas. It was about combing your hair just right until it looked unkempt. It was about a generation that wanted things harder, faster and better than the one before.

It was rock that said “Hey, we know about your secret sock that you have stashed under your bed. Don’t worry about it, we all have that thing. Listen to our music because we understand.” That’s what it was. It made the jizz sock ok for teenage boys that only had the jizz sock.

You went to the concert not to buy anything. You went to mosh. You went to slam up against people that you didn’t know to get out all that pent up anger and frustration. You went to see a 110 chick throw an elbow into the gaping maw of a big fat man. It was all love.

You went to the show guaranteed that sometime, somewhere, there would be an empty stage, a guy with a guitar and a spotlight. That’s it. You knew that shit was coming and you couldn’t wait for it. And also for the chants for the chick in the 5th row, balcony, to take her shirt off and flash her tits.

Now? Now? Now what do you got?

You go to a concert and you have assigned seating. Seriously, assigned seating? You go and see dance teams performing the Cirque de Soleil while someone with a microphone strapped to the ear sings about humps. Good lord.

You see Vegas in a traveling road show. You see whole families going together. What the hell is this unity, that is not what rock is about. You get streamers and encores. Back in my day, you were lucky if they didn’t spit on you.

I have been tivoing the top twenty countdown on VHI for the last six months or so. Every time it’s the same thing. It’s the same girl, barely 18, signing about love song’s and how you don’t deserve one. Or it’s some guy who’s smooth, with his cute little throwback 1950’s fedora hat singing about how you are beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true.

Out of a 2 hour show it takes me roughly 7 minutes to watch the whole thing and that’s because my Tivo only moves at 300X. I just don’t get it, I swear to you. And I’m sad that my daughter won’t know how rock is supposed to be. She’ll think it’s all bout midriffs and glitter, not about an identity, not the voice of a generation.

I try to raise her right, I throw in some Metallica when I’m cooking. I rock some AC/DC when the time permits. I have introduced her to G and R. But now she’s starting to pass all that by. She used to love it but now she just wants Twinkle, Twinkle and songs about god damn spiders. If the spider has some ear piercings and the Little Star wore a chain wallet, maybe it would be better.

Today’s rock just plain sucks. Today’s rock’s best bets are Amy Winehouse. And everyone is shocked that she is on heroin. Shocked? Really? First off, have you seen her? I look at her and think, yup, that’s a heroin addict. It’s a no brainer. Back in my day we were shocked that they were not on heroin. We knew the only reason they went to rehab was to beat jail time. That’s rock.

But not today’s rock. Today’s rock is about all love. It’s about everyone singing the same song. Mom, Dad, both kids, all singing together like the Partridge family in a big hippie bus. That’s not supposed to happen?! It supposed to create strife. Mom is supposed to shriek when she hears rock and then run to Jesus. Little brother is supposed to fight with big sister about who rocks harder. And Dad is supposed to tell them that today’s rock sucks and back in my day when they knew how to rock……………


Sweet Jesus I think I just passed a threshold. I think, maybe, I have become my father. I think I am an old man. It’s ok everyone, no one panic. I may be mistaken. Let’s take a quiz to find out:

Do I finally know what my mom was talking about when she mentioned how awesome the Beatles were. Answer: Yes.

Do I listen to talk radio regardless of who’s in the car. Answer: Yes.

Is it mostly news talk radio. Answer: Yes

Can I tell rain’s a’comin by my trick knee? Answer: Yes

Do I often think that young people should get a hair cut and a job? Answer: yes

Do I think Hawaiian shirts and black socks with sandals are ok for a dinner party yet still useful enough to mow my lawn in. Answer: An undoubtable yes.

Ok, ok, everyone go home. Pay no attention to this rant. I am apparently my father and thus hate today’s rock. And therefore, that must mean that today’s rock is right where it needs to be.

If anyone needs me I’ll be reading my paper and writing letters to the editor.


The Parade of Babies

Bubba Hoss, my 10 month old son, was looking sweeeeeeeeeeetttttttttttt!

He had on a little Haiwian shirt that screamed “Hey chicks, it’s party time. Bring Spuds Mckensie and some Enfamil and let’s see where this night takes us.”

He also has a birth mark on top of his head, directly in the smack middle of the top, where black hair grows out of it. We call it his sprout and when contrasted to his light brown hair, looks like a racing strip. Sure, his ears are a little big, which is Hossmom’s gene pool, but when combined with his cute 4 teeth smile, he is damn handsome. I mean damn handsome. If alien’s came to our world, my son is the first person that they should meet. Bring out the hotties first, then let them get a look at the rest of us. It’s all about first impressions people!

This is how he looked as we went to the local Kidfest and entered him in the cutest baby contest. This is was done on a lark, not something that we really scouted and prepared for. We are not the parents that drive to get there kids in show business so that we can leach off them and hook up with any groupies that I don’t think he could handle, not that that wouldn’t be sweet, don’t get me wrong.

Yes, my daughter was in a commercial once but her scene ended up on the cutting room floor. It was obvious that they couldn’t see talent when it spit up right on there face. Bastards.

The kidfest was down the street from our house and we thought, since the first kid doesn’t have it to make it in the biz, we would try with number two. It was also a chance to show off how cool my son is thus making all other parents insanely jealous of my genes. And if this doesn’t work out, well, we brought knuckles with us, my daughter. She, uh, has a punching problem currently. Well, not so much as “currently” as “still” but we’ll get to that later.

There were 12 other babies in the lineup. It was officiated by 4 gorgeous young vixens who had booths to sell us stuff. If they pick my kid, then I promise I will buy one of whatever they are selling.

The pageant is also referred by a giant rat. I suppose a mouse is more of what he is, but it is a giant rat, about 6 foot tall, with huge ears. Unfortunately for me, a man in a giant fur suit is my daughter’s kryptonite. She see’s this cartoon character and then freaks out. The pageant hasn’t even started yet and Little Hoss is throwing punches already. I try to get her to calm down, but she’s not having it.

This takes dad out of any preening or politicking that I could do on my son’s behalf. Little Hoss can be a handful especially when she’s trying to land round houses. My suggestion to any around this is to duck and cover under the nearest desk. Although I was tempted to let her have one go at the rat thing, just to see what would happen.

The pageant starts while I’m the middle of trying to hang on to Little Hoss, the Texas Tornado.

There are 12 kids that are going to come in second to my little boy. The first kid has a block head. I kid you not, it’s like someone put a brick on a neck and dressed it in a little sailor suit. And it was large, like the size of a volleyball. Mom was carrying the baby around in her best halter top and I’m sure just finished a bong hit from the honey bottle in the parking lot. The competition doesn’t look to stiff.

Kid number two is going for a Dennis the Menace kind of thing except with a curly blond fro. It’s obvious that someone has given up on trying to comb that monstrosity and I can’t say I blame them. I want to tell the parents to go ahead and prepay for his spot at Devry University, that kid was born to fix copiers.

Kid three looks like a cross between foot disease and stale bread. No winner there. Although I wouldn’t have gone with the plaid on this one, it brings out his vampire pale like skin. Dear Mom, get your kid some sun or fake tan. Do something before he gets sunburned by the florescent lights.

These are how things started, little innocent children parading by while I judge why they are no where as cute as my son.

Then the twins come. Fucking twins. I’m about to call bullshit when they parade them out there together in their smarmy matching outfits. This is called the cutest baby, note the singular form of the word. Either put your kids in a chewing gum commercial or do TV work because this is a baby, one baby at a time, pageant. Oh, okay, so they can walk while holding hands to, sure, why the fuck not. Seriously, I call bullshit.

People love twin babies. I don’t know why, no variety, no diversity. They keep the black man down, that’s what I say. They get into all the best schools and it leaves my big eared kid out in the cold. Again, I call bullshit.

But all hope is not lost yet as the very last kid to be rolled out is my kid, Bubba Hoss. He’s got his smile on, he knows it big time now. That’s right son, kick those twin asses. Show them how to do the cat walk.

He’s doing pretty good to. He’s smiling, he’s laughing and I hear one of the judges say “Look at that smile!” That’s right baby, eat it up. Keep up the charm Bubba Hoss, let’s show those bitches how we do things downtown.

In. The. Bag.

I’m feeling pretty confident and it did help that when my son went out there my daughter forgot her fear of the very large sewer rat and starting yelling and cheering for her brother. Humiliating ugly babies, it would seem, is a family affair.

My son walks off the stage and the judges get together in a little group. I’m telling my son to accept it graciously when they hand him the trophy bottle and make sure to thank his Momma. Hey, I’m Dad, I know I’m the guy behind the scenes pulling the puppet strings, I don’t need public acknowledgement. I just need 10% of your future earnings and a corvette, that’s all. But no need to thank me in your speech.

The judges come up to the microphone and are ready to announce the winner. I got Bubba Hoss on my shoulders ready to give him the Rudy type send off, please hold your applause until after his speech though.

The winner is……………………….

The block head kid.


What do you mean the blockhead kid wins the cutest baby award, what kind of shit is this?? Put a yellow sweater on that kid and he’s basically Charlie Brown. Jesus H. Christ on a rubber crutch, the block head kid?

That kid could replace the green monster at Fenway. Seriously, that waterhead could be used as a land mark in travel directions. Seriously, that thing is the winner????

Recount! Recount! Recount!

They then announce why they chose this lovely child. He has the longest eyelashes. Again, I ask what the hell? Did they not see my son in his Hawaiian shirt? Did they not see the racing stripe on his head? They chose eye lashes over that? C’mon man, seriously.

In the end everyone had a good time, even Little Hoss who never did have to confront her rat monster. I have decided that none of my kids shall be in show business. It’s time to take them out back and have a look at their throwing arms, let’s see how far that gets us.
In the meantime, if your interested, they are showing the latest Indiana movie on the winners forehead at midnight.



The AC guy came yesterday. I almost fell on my knees and offered him a hand job to fix my AC. I explained that I'm not to good but that I would give it my best shot.

He fixed my AC anyway.

And how do you fix it? Why, you crank up the heat to 90 fucking degrees. That's the fix. In order to cool down we had to sweat some more for a day.

God hates me but finds me very entertaining.


It's so very, very hot.

The AC is out.

The AC is out and I’m sitting here making my own nut soup. It’s a complicated dish that requires you to be a 250 pound man sitting in an 85 degree house on top of a electric blanket. The secret ingredient is ginger. Mmmmmmmmmm.

This shit happens to us every year, every god damn year. You may be asking us why don’t we just go ahead and buy a new air conditioner. I’ll tell you why. Because we just bought this house for Christ’s sake. It was our old house that the AC went out in every summer.

This is not supposed to be in the new house. What the hell? Do I have some Chernobyl type radiation coming out of my sweaty pores that breaks down air conditioners? Or maybe it’s the glare off my blinding bald head that reflects my misery, maybe that’s it. You like that god? You like seeing a fat man sweat? You like that back sweat stain that I keep leaving on every piece of furniture. When Hossmom kicks me out for soiling all our fine linens, I expect some goodies coming my way. I want my own comandment. Thou shalt not run out of clean underwear.

When this happened last time, why just last year, I bought two fans to help keep us cool. One is a standard box fan and the other is the deluxe Porter 2000. It’s what the Japanese car makers use in their wind tunnel. That one was all mine. I would place it by the bed and prepare to have the gentle breeze of a hurricane pass over my supine body while I dreamed of the freezer aisle at the local grocery. Good times.

That was when we only had one kid. The other one was safely tucked away in Hossmom’s belly thus letting good old Dad enjoy his Porter and a glass of bourbon. But now kid number two is in the house and they are both asleep.

Anyone want to take a guess where my fans are? That’s right, both the kids get the fans and I get ass crack sweat. Let’s chalk that up on the good old Dad Scoreboard of Sacrifices. Let’s see, where do I stand.

I quit my job to raise my children, that’s a point. When Little Hoss was puking her guts out 4 months ago she demanded to be held, which I did, which allowed her to puke on my back, that’s a point. Bubba Hoss didn’t want to sleep through the night on many occasions, that’s at least 50 points. And finally, I never ever under any circumstances get the last cookie.

Ok, let’s run that tally. Let’s see, carry the one, divide by the number of years I will use this to guilt trip my children, minus the number of years I’ll be in a nursing home because I can’t live with them and……..

It’s a million to 2. They got the two points for Little Hoss punching a nurse during Bubba Hoss’s birth and I like family loyalty and they got another point for Bubba Hoss being cute enough at the pool that all the hot chicks wanted to come talk to me.

So you guys owe me. I want my fans back. I want my fans back and I want to live inside a working refriderator complete with air holes so that I don’t suffocate, because ya know, that would be bad.

But I’ll tell you want, we’ll call all this even if someone would keep the dogs away from me. They are licking my legs at every turn. It’s not enough that I am sweating enough that my body has it’s own low and high tides. I’m dodging mutts left and right like little slobbering tongue mine fields and I’m beginning to get annoyed. And yes, I tried kicking at them but they think that means HUMP ME! GET OFF MY LEGS!

This is the Midwest, why is it so hot? I don’t get it. They say, oh, it’s not to bad, just wait for the winter.

Ok, here I am. I’m ready for the winter. Show me some snow. Let’s see some of that good old snow. Just scoop up a big handful and stuff it in my pants, that would be great. Let’s cool off that chode a little people, go ahead, dig around in there and get it packed nice and tight.

But there is no snow. There is only the heat waves coming off my forehead so that I’m distorting my own vision. It’s like a F-16 is in my living room running an engine test. Knock it off admiral, I’m sweltering here.

The A/C guy couldn’t come until tomorrow to which I replied “Prick!” but I went ahead and made the appointment anyway. What are you supposed to do? It’s not like I have a whole lot of choices here. No, if you can’t come now then don’t even bother coming at all. I’ll just sit here and sit in my sweat of spite and prove to you how valuable a customer you lost. And no, I wouldn’t like a nice drink of water. I want to be able to get up off my leather chair without having to be rubbed down with cooking spray first, that’s what I want.

So I’ll wait, unable to sleep, unable keep my clothes dry, until the A/C repairman comes. I wait for you sir, you are my new Santa. Until you get here, I silently pray for a Tornado to crash through my living room.


The Deathtrap

I should have known that it was a trap. My inner warrior should have realized that I was being set up. But kids have made my senses dull my friends, dull like the scissors I give my daughter to cut up construction paper. I am ashamed that my lack of awareness caused us such grief.

The trading store owner said to just go down the path, just down the hills there and then he pointed nonchalantly, disguising his smirk as a smile. I should have known, I should have known.

At first this seemed like a good idea. I had planed well, I had brought my provisions of juice and gold fish crackers. I even brought sun screen. My Rambo stroller was packed.

We arrived at Fort Osage early in the morning not sensing the evil in the air. This was part of my “Appreciate America Week” that I was forcing on my 2 year old daughter and 9 month old son. There’s nothing like learning about history when it’s forced down your throat by a crazy dad. Included in this week was a trip to the library to find out about the civil war and topped off by our main event: Missouri Town 1855. This was the week of July 4th and I am an awesome dad.

However, I am an awesome dad without my killer instincts that I developed in the bush against Charlie. The bush of course being my backyard because I haven’t mowed and Charlie being the lumps of dog poop that ring my yard like stinky land mines.

The Fort was built in 1803 by William Clark, of the famous Lewis and Clark. We were soaking up Americana! Let the forced fun begin!

We were welcomed by first lady who is in character. Although she took our money in a modern cash register she kept asking what that “strange contraption” was that my son was in. The stroller of death and vengeance I replied, where’s the damn fort?

She pointed us down the rocky path and my family and I headed out, into the history of our ancestors.

That’s where we met the “Factor”, which is what they call the guy who runs the trading post of the fort and the defacto tour guide. You know the type, talks in a weird voice while telling you the ins and outs of the place while silently plotting the doom of you and your helpless children.

He is a devious bastard and I should have been on my guard when he picked up the red phone and greeted the other person on the line as comrade. Pinko Commie.

He did warn us about the abundant wasps in the fort which I see now was just a ruse to get my mind thinking about something else rather than his true plan.

Little Hoss, Bubba Hoss and I toured the fort and I proceeded to give my 2 year old daughter her history lesson. At only two she now knows what the Louisiana Purchase was and how the revolutionary war started. She’s very smart, genius level in fact. She pooped in the toilet today, all by herself. I rest my case.

The Fort is built right next the Missouri river. When I think of river, I really think of the ditch that we used to go craw dad fishing in, not this monstrosity. I thought it would be cool to let Little Hoss go down by the edge and tempt fate a little bit. There is a reason that Hossmom doesn’t go with us on these trips. All of her “safety” concerns about lime disease and strong currents. She’s a touch of a wet blanket.

The Factor offered to take us down to the river and that’s when he pointed down the two hills. I said sure, that sounded like fun, we would love to go. It’s a dirt path but my Rambo Stroller of death was packed for some hiking and American Discovery. All it was missing was the covered wagon part and we were pretty much ready to be pioneers.

Then he suddenly “remembered” that he had something else to do and couldn’t come with us. How convenient. He then gave us a bottle of mosquito repellent and said that they “might” be out today.

I wasn’t thinking anything was wrong, I thought he was just being nice. I mean, come on, we are a handsome family and people are always giving us free stuff like mosquito repellent and first prize cutest baby awards.

I wasn’t in my warrior mindset and I fully accept all the blame.

Sun Tzu’s art of war states that you should always pick your ground. Scout out your locations and pick your god damn ground. This should have been the first thing I thought of when we started heading down the two hills.

I was thinking that this was a bit of a weird set up at first. Why was there a hill on top of another hill anyway? Why was the path to the river so shrouded over with bushes and non-use. Why did I decide to wear flip flops? I’m just not that cool or hippy, so why the flip flops!!! I can’t pull off flip flops. A 260 pound man wearing flip flops is like an 18 wheeler on Tonka Truck wheels, it’s just not going to work out.

But we proceeded on. Me and my two kids in the double Rambo stroller of death. I’ve actually taken this bad boy hiking and I was sure I could muscle it up any obstacles.

We get to the path and it’s dark. Very dark indeed. I should have turned back but how often do we get this chance to go see a river. Besides, ya know, living right next to one and all.

We enter the path underneath the hanging tree limbs and my daughter climbs out of the stroller. She loves to hike with me and she was ready to have a good time. We get about 10 feet into the tree line when my senses finally start going off. Something isn’t right here. Something smells devious. I know it’s a trap but I can’t see how.

I feel a bite on my elbow and swat it without looking down. Then another. And another. And another. What the hell?

And that’s when they came.

The mosquitoes.

I tell you, there were a thousand if there was one. The term “swarm” usually applies to locusts or bee’s or skanks at a Kid Rock concert. But this…………….
I had never seen this before.

The mosquitoes came out of now where and there were thousands of them. There were so many of them that they actually obscured my vision. Fucking mosquitoes. And they were angry, so very angry.

I looked down at my son and his entire head was covered with them to the point that it looked like he was wearing a wig. It was gross, I admit. But gross does not stop me from action.

I start swatting his head. He thinks that I’m just popping him and starts to cry. I can’t get them off him, I can’t get them off me. They are everywhere. Normally, I consider myself a pretty tough guy, but this was to much, to much for even me and the Rambo Stroller of death. We must escape.

I look around for my daughter, she hasn’t noticed that she is covered in the beasts. I yell at her to get her little butt in the stroller. This is the moment that she decides to dick around and instead throws a rock at me. Great. Insolence on the battle field. I’m letting my army slip. I run over to grab her and she starts kicking. She doesn’t want to sit in the god damn stroller, no, she wants to walk around. I drop her on her butt, one leg is in and one leg is out. That’s good enough. We have to escape.

I turn the stroller around and begin to actually run. I consider ditching the kids and just taking off by myself but that would leave a lot of awkward questions that I would have to answer so we power on. We bust through the tree line and are in front of the first hill. That’s about the time that my daughter notices the legions of blood sucking evil on her arms and face and loses it. Both kids are screaming and crying and now starting to swat at each other. I help them out but it’s no use. The mosquitoes got the taste of man flesh now and have followed us out of the trees. They are daring the open field, it’s a feeding frenzy.

I remember that the guide gave us the mosquito repellent, my secret weapon. Disaster can still be averted. I take it out of my trusted cargo pants, point it at my daughter and scream “Vengeance shall be mine!” as I press the trigger.

Nothing happens. It’s a god damn dud. That mother fucker gave us an empty bottle of mosquito repellent. What kind of sick and twisted shit is this?

There’s only one way out and I don’t want to take it but we have no choice. I have to run the hill. I have to run the hill while pushing a double stroller up the 60 degree incline. Crap. I now hate Taco Bell and any other fast food restaurant that has done this to me.

But before we can begin my daughter screams “Daddy! Daddy!” I look down at her checking for obvious signs of injury. Have they fashioned bows and arrows, maybe spears? How advanced are these little fuckers.

“Daddy! My shoe!” she yells and then points down the path. And there it is. The little orange Dora the Explorer sandal that she loves. It appears that she lost it when I chunked her in the stroller.

In my best fatherly voice I calmly explain fuck Dora, Daddy’s not going back in there. We have to get out of here now and some men have to be left behind. Daddy’s not a marine and honestly I considered leaving you two dead weights back there so what makes you think I’m going to run and get your 4 dollar shoe?

But she starts climbing out of the stroller, while she’s crying, showing more bravery than her old man. I’ve got no choice. I race back in and grab the cursed shoe, fighting off those that I can and letting the others munch on my abundant belly.

I get back to the stroller and we start again up the hill, up the hill, up the hill. They are still following us but the further we get up, the less of them that there are. We come to the first plateau and I stop, gasping for breath. I swat the more vicious members of the mosquito SS and prepare to head up the last hill, to freedom. I take a step and that’s when my own flip flop slips off and I go down on my knee. I decide to take them both off of the final push so that I can dig my troll like toes into the soft earth.

I don’t know how but I find the strength. Myself and the kids are fine, we have made it with all the Dora shoes and flip flops in tow. I collapse into a pine bench while picking off any that are still with me. It’s not a pretty site. I have bites up and down my arms and legs. One little bastard even got me in the middle of my back, coward. The kids and I even have numerous bites on our face.

The tour guide comes over and looks at us. I hand him back his empty mosquito repellent.

“It’s empty” I say. As empty as your soul.


Late Night at The Hossman Family.


"Yes Honey."

"Come here."

"Yes Honey."


"Yes Honey."

"I love you too Daddy."

"I love you Honey."


"Yes Honey."


"You want me to pet you?"


"Ok, Honey. Now let's got to bed."



"Yes Honey."

"I pooted again."

"That's my girl."


And God Gave Us the XBOX

We are all lost children, roaming unfettered into this existence. We stumble and fall only to pick ourselves up to fall once more. Almost blind we make mistake after mistake, misstep after misstep, misjudgment after misjudgment. There at times seems like there is no solace, no ending to these series of abyss that we must cross. And it feels like we must cross them alone.

But we are not alone. When there is eternal darkness, there must be hope’s light. When there is never ending misery, there must be glorious salvation. When there is lawlessness and depravity there must be justice and righteousness.

The Xbox brings all.

This most glorious gift was given to us, to men. When the screams of our anguish reached heaven’s ears we were not ignored, we were not told “no socks, no shoes, no service.” No! We were told, Hey, play Xbox naked if you wish for you are good and you are in need. Yes my brothers, we were in need. The need was great and the depth of the need cannot be measured in mere words. But perhaps examples so that you will fully give thanks for the Xbox. We were in need………….

We were in need because man invented the Oxygen network.

We were in need because the movie “Beeches” is due a marathon, for what reason I can’t imagine, but it apparently does.

We were in need because “Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood” got picked up for a second season.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need because sports can only take up so much of our day. And what happens when you are in the Bermuda Triangle of Sports when there are actually no sports on TV.

We were in need because there is only so much golf you can watch in a given day.

We were in need because no one really cares when a soccer team in Brazil plays a soccer team in Argentina.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need because the Olympics only come every 2 years.

We were in need because you have to have something to do in between chants of “USA! USA! USA!”

We were in need because sometimes our TIVO’s don’t actually record for 24 hours 3 days straight without burning out.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need because the term “juicing” means something totally different now.

We were in need because a person’s head that grows 5 hat sizes after he is an adult will still get into the Hall of Fame.

We were in need because a “Congressional Investigation” didn’t really tell us shit.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need, yes brothers, we were in need because man created Sesame Street and children who want to watch the same episode hour after hour, day after day, month after month.

We were in need because in said episode you become convinced that Elmo is smoking something fierce to get his voice like that and you wonder how much you have been watching to actually cause this internal debate.

We were in need because this day was brought to you by the letter P.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need because “Leak Proof Diapers” are not leak proof.

We were in need because “Quit jumping on my junk!” in toddler speak means “Please, crush my balls some more.”

We were in need because of the never ending “No, you can’t have any more cookies!” battle continues to be waged.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need because movies with a lot of special effects suck ass and we know it but we can’t help but going to see the 35 ton Woolly mammoth recreated.

We were in need because there is a 24 hour baby watch for Angelina and Brad and we are not allowed to change the channel.

We were in need because Madonna may be divorcing some dude and sleeping with another dude that is not us.

And God gave us the Xbox.

We were in need because the phrase “Let’s Talk” has been uttered and it never means an actual conversation.

We were in need because cuddling does not always lead to what you think it might lead to.

We were in need because when anyone has to stand in line holding the family’s spot, that guy is always dad while everyone else gets to go to the bounce house. And beer is not allowed in the face painting line.

And God gave us the Xbox. Sweet, sweet Xbox. That no one else really enjoys but Dad, who was in need. Who prayed for something to do besides watching America’s Next Top Model or giving a fuck about who the guy with the Flock of Seagulls haircut is on Project Runway.

My liege. My Lord. My Xbox.


Happy 4th

I taught my 2 year old daughter to salute the flag.

I am the greatest father ever.


I See You

I just spent the last half hour looking at all my friends houses on Yahoo maps. The satalite feature is the tool to use for the stalker of the new millineum. Were you naked back there, did you feel prying eyes glaring at you. No worries, it was just me, your good old friend Hossman.

Doesn't this bring a whole nother thing to the term "Big Brother"? I mean come on, what's to stop Al-Queda from scooping out my house?

Oh, right, I'm massively boring and there is no way that they would want to attack me.

But I bring a bigger quesiton to you: If not some extremist America hating terriorist jihadist, then what about the x-girlfriend.

I put this to you: I am more terrified of vindictive x-girlfriends than I am of Al-Queda, on a personal level anyway.

I mean seriously, they scare me. They scare me because x-girlfriends are usually crazy and love nothing better than to wish you the worst. Oh, they say they wish you the best but that's a lie. What they really wish for you is to loose an appendage and then get busted in some child porn ring so you spend the rest of your life calling Bubba the Cellmate "lover".

That's what they wish for you and with satalite maps being able to scope out my house and backyard they can use this information to facilitate a frame job, AKA O.J. Simpson.

Next thing you know the FBI is raiding your house and shooting your vicious shitzu because it was attacking. Is this really what we want? C'mon, where is the ralling cry?

Until that happens, for those hot sexy ladies interested including x-girlfriends, I will be doing some nude sun bathing in my backyard from 3 to 4 pm. Please remember to share your bandwidth.