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.
11/30/08
11/25/08
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.
11/23/08
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.
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.
11/20/08
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.
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.
11/19/08
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.
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.
11/12/08
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...................................
Motherfucker.
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.
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...................................
Motherfucker.
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.
11/10/08
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.
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.
11/5/08
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.
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.
11/3/08
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.
What?
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.
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.
What?
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.
11/2/08
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.
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.
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