One Year

Today is my Blogaversary. None of you bastards made me a cake. Not that I really expected you to but the thought would have been nice.

But that is not the point of today’s anniversary blog. Today’s blog is to actually thank all of you that have read me over the last year. It always does feel good to have people out there actually wanting to read the drivel that I sometimes come up with. It surprises me every day when I get on and I see that more people have read.

I hope that a lot of you have really enjoyed what I have written, even when I seem to get off the beaten path like my Ode to Trekkies. I still think that one is one of my favorite all time blogs but I completely realize that I may be the only one.

I also know that I have written some pure crap, seriously, Grade A primo camel dung. I can still read them today, a year later almost on some of them, and think about deleting them almost every time. And now that I am on that topic, I think that today’s blog might be utter crap as well. You expect a story, you expect a fallen hero to rise from the ashes and get the girl with the big hooters but instead I’m going to basically just talk about my blog for a little bit and answer some questions that people have asked me. I love talking about me, who doesn’t.

Why don’t you write everyday?
I have tried and some weeks I am inspired to do it. But this is basically a story blog where each post takes the reader through my mind at whatever event has popped into my head. I really do have to “feel” it to blog a good story and if you look back over the last year I think you can see where I actually forced myself to write. Jesus, that sounds so artsy I should go ahead and get a Mapplethorpe poster.

I Want my request!

Ok, here’s the deal. I can’t do requests. This has nothing against all the people that know me and have listened to my stories for years. It’s just that I start to force it when I do that. For example, there have been several requests for me to write about my rhythmic gymnastics routine. In college I had to take gymnastics and my final was a rhythmic routine, full on with a ribbon and I ended it with a very nicely executed tumble and wrist swish. I am 250 pounds. Get that images stuck in your head. But I can’t write it better than I tell it and when I try, it’s just crap and loses something.

Is this a Dad Blog, is this a Humor Blog, is this a gamer’s blog, is this a memoir?

All of the above. It’s kind of hard to say and throughout the year you can look at the blog you’ll see all of those things. I don’t stick to just Dad stuff but try to write whatever story is in my head. You have seen some from when I grew up in Arkansas on a farm—really just a couple of acres with cheap labor. I have ridden pigs, cut the heads off chickens and got my ass whipped in a homemade boxing ring. This is a far cry from me taking my kids to the home improvement store or teaching my daughter how to say touchdown. But the first blogs that I started reading and the ones that inspired me were the Stay at Home Dad blogs. It was a year ago when my wife and I thought about doing the SAHD thing and those guys gave me courage to actually do it. So yes, it’s a dad blog, a humor blog, a gamer’s blog and a memoir.

Why don’t you have anything in your profile?

I get this one a lot. I should probably put something up and I think that I just might. I know that I get a lot of new readers daily and they want to check out what kind of nut job is spewing the gospel. But at the same time, I like my stories speaking as to who I am. But if you have to know: I’m 33, have to kids and am a Texan, at least for another month anyway.

How did the blog start?

I get this one a lot too. Many years ago I would write funny stories for Hossmom. I was very shy about my writing and wanted only her to read them because it made her laugh. I have no doubt that the only reason my wife is with me is because I made her laugh so I kept it up. She would pass around this stories to her friends and family and that is how I slowly began to build up my confidence. So she suggested that I start this blog and then set it up. And as you all know, I do exactly what my wife tells me because I prefer to stay married. She laughs, she stays married to me, pretty simple. If you look at the very first post on this blog you will see that Hossmom is the one that actually wrote it. This marks the one and only time she has ever commented on this blog. She reads it several times a day and goes through all the old ones as well again, and again, but never comments. I have no idea why.

Am I really like that?
Some of the people that appear in my blog have been, well, a little less than enthusiastic at times. However, other people generally love how they are portrayed. I explain to everyone the same thing: you are a character, it’s not a shot at you personally. It’s just some of your personality triats magnified. Besides, if everyone was normal and great, I wouldn’t have any stories to tell. I also point out that I make fun of my fat feet and my receding hairline more than anyone I know.

Are your stories true.

Even my wife asked me this one. The simple answer: Yup. For example, my wife thought I was just making it up that I taught our daughter to say “beep beep!” while in the stroller. So I called my daughter in and told her say it. At the top of her lungs she screamed “BEEP BEEP!” I also told her that yes, I actually did paint small flames on our double stroller. She can also do every football sign, yell Victory during the movie 300, do Tarzan and a host of other things. Let’s face it, she’s half of my material.

So now it has been a year and I have seen this blog grow from something small to something a little less small. I’m still small time (for now!) but we’ll see what the future brings. I do hope that you all get some joy from reading this because I do enjoy writing them. One year later and 227 blogs posts. That freaks me out just a little. If you are new to the blog, might I suggest “The Trekkie Cult Support Group”, “The Flat Tire” or “Me Take Smarrt Test.” Those are some of my favorites.

And just to leave you on a happy note since this has turned out to be a pretty boring blog: We took Little Hoss to a crowded restaurant. Right before the meal was served, she let the juiciest fart I have ever heard from someone that small. Everyone with in 5 tables heard it. She then pointed at her butt and yelled “Daddy, Poot!” I about wet my pants.


Boxes Suck

I hate boxes.

I hate any and all boxes. I hate big ones that come double reinforced. I hate the small ones that have the premade easy to carry handles because they always fucking rip. I hate the thin ones that you can never seem to get a comfortable grip on and the fat ones that force you to lift with you back thus proving how very, very old you are. I hate my lost youth as well.

I hate the ones that you have to buy because you are to damn lazy to go begging for boxes and you would prefer that your clothes don’t smell like Panama Bananas. I hate the boxes the boxes that come with the cutsey little picture on it, in our case—the Huggies boxes that we have been using. They look so smug and so happy, my guess is that it’s because they don’t have to deal with the very box that their picture is on.

I hate all these boxes. I hate all boxes that ever was or shall ever be.

I hate the guy that invented boxes. I want to kick him in the nuts and scream “See what you have done to me! Now get me my Icy Hot!” I would then stuff him in a box.

But most of all, I hate everyone that must put stuff in boxes. For you, a special hatred in my heart swells every time I see someone putting something in a box. I hate you FedX people, I hate you UPS people, I hate you bulk mailer people. I hate you all, so very very much.

I hate you all and everything that the box stands for. I hate it because at some point, at one time or another, I’m going to be forced to lift that box. It won’t matter who’s box it is. It won’t matter where in the world it is located at. Eventually it will make its way to my house and I will be forced to lift it and because of that, I hate everyone in the boxing industry or anyone even remotely associated with it.

We are in the process of moving and I am tired of boxes and I am tired of lifting them. I am tired of grabbing the untold boxes that I have used over the last week and trudging them up and down the stairs. I did not realize that I had such an aversion to boxes until this and now my hatred are cemented in the deepest wells of my soul.

I’m the only one in this house that lifts boxes. Little Hoss tries, bless her, but she just craps her pants. Been there. You have to breath through your nose or it’s going to happen every time. Let Daddy teach you. Bubba Hoss can throw up on boxes and I appreciate the effort.

Hossmom on the other hand, can only pack the boxes. She will do no lifting of the boxes up and down the stairs. But I have only myself to blame for this.

Hossmom and I were together when I was a young and dashing 19 year old. There was no such things as “back problems” then and my legs were as strong as pillars. My arms were the cannons of rightousnous and I could lift all the live long day. For some insane reason I thought that the more that Hossmom saw me lift heavy things the more impressed she would be. So I lifted everything. She would need to vacuum, I would pick up the couch one handed. She needed a Lazy Boy chair brought up three stories, on the back it went. I got her believing that I could lift anything at anytime, and I would wait for the O’s and the Ah’s that would surely lead me into her pants.

Now I am 33 and have 2 kids, things have changed but the boxes remain. I have moved Hossmom around 8 times, almost always by myself or with very little help. I have created the Hossman legend and I am afraid that even myself have bought into it. I am a believer of my own propaganda. I am William Wallace and if the English were here I would smote them with firebolts from my arse.

And as a result, Hossmom does not pay attention to what she puts into those boxes or how big those boxes are. All she knows that she needs a box to put lead weights into and the first one she gets is the one she uses. On the sly I have tried to convience her to use the small boxes for the heavy things, like books. Ya know, so it would break the box. And those pillows? Well, those go into the big boxes.

I figured that way I could keep the propaganda going, afterall, I still want to get into her pants. I could lift the small heavy boxes one at a time—or two at a time if she is watching. And the big boxes filled with pillows, well those I could make an example of how big the box is and look how the sweat glistens off my ever expanding forehead.

But she is spoiled and pays no attention to what I say figuring it is only friendly banter and not a way to avoid a hernia.

So big boxes get stuffed with old bricks, ya know, because we might use them in the new house while small boxes have become a myth along with my lower lumbar vertebrae. And I can’t back down because she still watches me and I continue trying to impress her with feats of strength because it would appear that I will never grow up.

I had the bright idea this time to hire movers. Genius, I tell you, genius! But Hossmom, clearly not concerned with my glass ankles, stated that we still had to do a lot of packing so that people seeing the house would not see how much a pack rat she is. And she is, good lord help me, she is. It runs in her family. I once saw her mom whip out a 1983 Polaroid camera from a closet and place it in a box. I think that they both secretly hate me. Eventually, I was required to lift that box.

And this life will continue until I can no longer lift any boxes. At that time, Hossmom will go and marry a guy named Chester, who’s 19 and thinks that lifting boxes are fun. I think I hate Chester most of all.


The Toddler Jihad

It’s the pacifier. No, no, it’s the Blankie. No, it’s neither, it’s both, it’s the last bit of my reason draining out of my ears.

In the check out line of the Home Improvement store, every grandmother, mother, cashier and manager was crowded around my kids watching them in the mother of all screaming meltdowns. They have launched a joint operation codenamed “Fuck Dad” and have unleashed it like a Blitzkrieg through Poland.

As stated before throughout this blog, I am an idiot. What I should have done the moment I saw that they had both decided to join forces against me was to turn my ass right around and put everyone in their room for some nap time. But for some reason my mind doesn’t work like that. I saw it, as I see most of these, as an attempt to usurp my authority. I saw it as a push to question all that is the greatness of Hossdad. I will not be questioned. I will forge ahead which brings us back to our central theme: I am an idiot.

I had some home repairs to make so I thought that I would take both kids with me to the home improvement store to pick up the required items. No big deal I thought, I take them everywhere with me. Besides, I spend hours doing what they want to do, so they owe me this.

It started bad and I have no one to blame but myself. It was cold out and I bundled up Little Hoss (2 years old) and Bubba Hoss (4 months old) and put them in the car. We hit a snag right off the bat because I currently had washed all of Bubba Hoss’s blankets. So I grabbed the only one that wasn’t in the wash, Little Hoss’s favorite Blankie. I know, this was a mistake. But I honestly didn’t think that she would mind because she wasn’t using it. Not only that but I was very sly about it as I distracted her with a cookie while I wrapped up Bubba Hoss in it.

I get them in the car and everything is going well until we pull into the parking lot. That’s when Little Hoss notices that her brother has her Blankie and that she has now decided that she wants it because the cookie I gave her is gone.

I don’t know why, but every parent tries to reason with a 2 year old. We all do it. It’s stupid, but I was actually explaining that she wasn’t using it, that if she loved her brother she would let him borrow it and fin ally that if she would stop crying I would give her 100 bucks. None of that worked, she just wanted her Blankie. This was the first test of my authority.

In the middle of the parking lot, in the middle of the cold rain was when Little Hoss staged her first “Sit Down” Gandhi style. She knows that a non violent protest is her only hope against my awesome power. So she sat on the wet concrete and started to scream her head off.

My daughter weighs only 30 pounds so I hosted her up by her jacket and told her to again behave. She didn’t listen but I was to cold to argue so I put her on my hip and we went into the store.

Once inside was when she asked for her Pacifier. We have rules on this. She can have a pacifier in the car (for my sanity) and when she goes to bed. No other times. But that rule has now changed. She can have one when I need her to shut up.

The second sit down occurred the moment I put her on the ground after telling her that she could not have her pacifier or her Blankie. She retaliated by taking a squat right next to the person who followed us in. I think she was trying to make me feel awarkward, which she did, good move. I looked at the lady and said “Yup, that one is mine” although in hindsight I should have said something like “have you seen this little girls father?”

She refused to follow me to the aisle I needed to go to so back up on the hip she went, kicking and screaming. I consider myself a pretty big guy but at this point my arms were getting tired as I am pushing Bubba Hoss in the cart and Little Hoss is in my other arm. Try pushing a cart one handed, it ain’t so easy.

Little Hoss continued to stage her protest very loudly as we went up and down the halls. This was the only moment that I actually considered turning around and going home. It’s such a parent cliché but I swear to God that was my thought. Then I realized that is exactly what she wanted and every one knows that America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists so we powered on.

In the light bulb aisle I could take no more. I actually caved, I gave in. I admit it. I couldn’t take the looks from EVERY SINGLE PERSON that we passed as they watched my child screaming her head off. And I even tried the walk away. I put her on the ground, she went down into her usual “fuck you” position and I walked away. I walked all the way to the end of the aisle-like a mile away. You have been to Home Depot, you know how long those aisle are. She didn’t budge, she just continued to scream and even spiked up a notch as people walked by. They would then to look to see where her parents where and since I was down at the other end of the aisle, a couple actually stopped.

So I went back and collected my screaming daughter and that is when I caved into her demands. I took the Blankie off of Bubba Hoss and gave it to her. I actually smacked talked her. I said “Fine, here’s your stupid Blankie, Santa hates you.”

This is when Bubba Hoss decided that he didn’t like this arrangement and his screaming tantrum began. But I am a father that knows how to improvise. I had bought a new welcome mat so I placed that across his lap figuring it would give him something to play with and keep him warm. That didn’t work. At this point, I was done, I was a broken man. I had been broken by two individuals who can’t even spell their name.

We were going, I would get the rest of my crap later. We went to the check out line and that’s when everyone and their dog decided to come see what the fuss was. The comments I got were “Oh, isn’t h e upset!” or “I bet you he’s hungry.” And my personal favorite: “He just wants to be picked up.” Little Hoss had gotten upset again, this time I assume just for fun, and then joined in he wailing. I almost broke down and told them that No, she wanted her blankie and her pacifier and I said no so now she has decided to call the cops on me but then decided public humiliation would be much sweeter.

Seriously, there was a point there where I bet 20 people were gathered around my cart. And they all assumed that I was an idiot. “Boy, you have your hands full.” And “Just Dad today, huh? Aren’t you brave.” There was a part of me that wanted to explain that I was a stay at home Dad and that I had them everyday. But since I am a Dad, people assume I’m an idiot with my own kids and at this point, I can’t really disagree with them.

I kept a smile on my face and joked around, Yup, just good old dad today, to bad mom isn’t here, yuk, yuk, yuk. They continued state of how brave I was and what I good father I must be since I was taking them both out. What was really going through my mind was that as soon as we got to the car I was going to take off my socks and roll them up in a ball. Then I was going to pelt my daughter in the face with them.

Mom’s can throw shoes, Dad’s have to be a little more creative.


The Stay at Home Dad's Day

I am three weeks into being a stay at home dad and I think that I am finally ready to give everyone a look into what this life is like. I have been getting the question a lot lately so please come inside my humble little mind and walk around as a stay at home dad for a while.

First things first: I don’t like being called a house husband. Seriously, knock that off. It makes it sound like I’m the gimp from pulp fiction. Trust me, you don’t want this thing dressed up in all leather with a ball gag while you wait for a guy named Zed, bad idea. I prefer to be called Krull the Conqueror if you must label me. I don’t mind Mr. Mom because I liked that movie and I have let my daughter eat chili before and I have dealt with the consequences.

Ok, that’s out of the way, now welcome to Krull’s day with his 2 year old daughter and 4 month year old son. Take a look around, don’t steal anything, I have counted all the silver.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t really tell you what I do on a day to day basis. I have no real idea, seriously. I’m actually very organized doing this but with two kids in tow I would imagine we do about 20 different activities a day.

Number one: I don’t sleep in. Yup, I’m up usually no later than 7:30 most mornings if not closer to 7. I’m actually surprised at this one too, I thought we would all being sleeping until at least 9. But nope, Bubba Hoss demands action at precisely 7 and god help you if you don’t get up and get his God Damn bottle. Just wait boy, I shall have my revenge.

Second: There is no such thing as day time T.V. Or I should say that there is but we don’t get a chance to watch it. I have no idea why but we are usually so busy with something that we don’t watch a whole lot of T.V. during the day. We are either on an outing or doing something else around the house. On those moments when we do get to watch a little T.V. it’s Backyardigans all day, all the time. This is somewhat of a problem, not because I want to watch Jerry Springer but now that I’m not working I find that I don’t know what is going on in the world. It’s actually a conscious effort on my part to watch the news when I can just so I can play Trivia Pursuit and not get my ass kicked. CNN on mute actually works pretty well while I cook breakfast.

Third: We do shower. Try taking a couple days off and you just feel like shit and I am determined not to feel worthless. We usually do a family shower right before breakfast and everyone has a great time. They take turns peeing on my feet and I stomp around when they do it. Ok, that’s a lie, I just sit there and take it. It’s gross, I agree but both are in diapers and have no idea anyway. To top it off, hell, I’ll pee in the shower as well. It’s a family bonding thing.

Fourth: We try very hard to get out of the house every single day. Our car was in the shop for 4 days at the beginning of this stay at home dad thing and we were housebound like Hossmom’s indentured servents. We all almost went crazy. For anyone thinking about being a stay at home dad, take my advice, go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where, just go. We visit my father, Little Hoss’s cousins, a mom group, home depot and the fire hydrant on the corner of Main Street. We have named him Steve and we see him everyday. Hi Steve!

Fifth: I spend no money. This is the weirdest thing of all, but it’s true. It may be because it’s winter and none of the attractions are usually good to go out when it’s cold out, but on the whole, we spend very little. We go in the morning on our outings and most of the things we do are free. I find this weird as well but I think we will pick up the pace once summer rolls around.

Sixth: A smart man will wear his kids out. I make it my goal every day to have my kids begging for a nap. It is essential to my mental status: I need a minimum of a two hour break in the afternoon. I will put my daughter on a treadmill and tie my son to the dog in order to get them tired. During that two hours I usually do clean house which has been nice for the wife and I. I take 30 minutes for myself usually to lay waste on the Xbox. I have no idea why these kids aren’t in school so I try to humiliate them on line, kind of a scared straight program but without the bitches being sold for cigarettes.

Seventh: I do cook. Not always well, but I do cook. It is surprising how this makes our family much happier as we eat at the table now rather than on the floor next to the dogs. I also try to get Little Hoss to help and we treat it as an activity. We actually made bread from scratch, no shit, just so she could really get involved. You know that scene in Rocky where he is beating on a side of beef? That was basically my daughter except with some uppity dough from the rough side of town. No worries though, we taught it a lesson and sent it packing.

Eight: We make lists, like this blog.

Ninth: I also find it very important to install a mosh pit in our daily routine. It’s usually while we are cooking breakfast. Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you are moshing with your 2 year old daughter while you are trying to make French toast. White Zombie is our personal favorite but we will accept lesser bands such as Faith No More if we are pressed.

Tenth and final: We try to do something education every single day. Hey, I’m a teacher as well as a stay at home dad. Harvard has already starting trying to recruit my kids. Yesterday we spent the whole day trying to teach Little Hoss how to say “Tonight we dine in Hell” or “Give them nothing but Take from them Everything!” She didn’t quite get it and after about 8 hours of these we did get her to say “Victory!” and throw her arms in the air.

That’s right darling, Victory!

So that’s about it as far as this goes. The weirdest part is that I am 10 more times more tired doing this than I ever was at work.


The F-Bomb

My sweet little innocent girl dropped the F-bomb today.

Her purity has been shattered. She was an angel, something that was unique and untouched by the villainy that is this world. And now that has been ruined because she cusses better than a sailor, with more vigor than an NFL coach and with more imagination than a porn writer. My little girl. My sweet, sweet little girl. Fuck.

She was in her room today helping out. She looked at something that she didn’t like. She pointed at it. Then she said “Oh, Fuck.”

At that moment I could hear the collective gasp from every parent that inhabits our block. I could hear both of her grandmothers sit straight up in bed as if they have some ESP for this type of thing and scream. I could feel the shame of the Christian right bearing down on me. Why don’t I go to church more often? Because church sucks. But that’s another blog.

And right now, all of you that are reading the Monday Morning blog, I can feel you shake your head back and forth as your judgment rains down on me like molten wax. I can almost hear you going “tsk, tsk, tsk, stupid Hossman.”

Normally I would shun your judgment. I would tell you which body part you could suck today and then move on with my life. But I cannot do that today. Today I will face you all, word to reader, and let you bore your parental judgment down on me. I will take crap from even those of you that don’t have children as you naturally assume you could parent better than a man that lets his daughter use the devil’s words to communicate.

Give me your shame, place it on my back. Let the sounds of your sighs fill 1000 cathedrals.

And now come closer, because now is the part that I let you in on something.

It. Wasn’t. Me.

Suck. My. Balls.

That’s right baby! It wasn’t me that she picked up that word from. I’m an innocent man! Now all of you that were passing judgment I want you to place that same judgment down on yourself for making assumptions! I want you to feel what you were trying to lay at my feet. I want you to pick up this burden and suffer with it as you wanted me to. You are terrible people, seriously, tsk, tsk, tsk.

I am Free! You naturally assumed that if Little Hoss said Fuck it had to be good old Hossman that taught her. It had to be the guy that cusses rampantly in his blog. It had to be the guy whose own niece told him he needed a time out because of the words that came out of his mouth. Well, it wasn’t! I’m a fucking saint.

It was Hossmom! That’s right, Hossmom. She was upstairs with Little Hoss cleaning and dropped something. Then, without thinking (how callous!) she let fly with the queen of all dirty words. It dripped from her mouth as if she were controlled by a demon and my sweet, innocent, angel of a daughter heard her say it. Then she repeated it, in an appropriate context.

Where is your judgement for Hossmom, I ask you! Where are your looks of shame that you were surely ready to lay upon my brow? Do not her big hooters deceive you, she cusses as well as I. Although granted, when she does cuss it sounds very funny because I just can’t seem to take it seriously when a woman calls me a “Dickhead.” It’s just funny.

And why do I sell out Hossmom in today’s blog? Why do I throw her ever so quickly into the fire? Because better her than me, that’s why. It would appear that I have no spine. Many people, including almost all of my family, have asked me to watch my language around the kiddos. I tried, I really did. They gave me much crap for it. And I have no doubt that as soon as they read the first sentence of this blog, they thought that it was me. But no one ever says anything to the wife about it. It’s always Hossman.

Well, today Hossman is guilt free. And for those of you who are about to comment that she’s had to hear that word a million times from me: to bad. It doesn’t count until she says it and today she said it because Hossmom said it. Glory, Glory, Glory, let’s all march on.

I sit here watching my son sleep with a clean heart, knowing that one day he will grow up and perhaps cuss like his older sister. He is smiling and I an only imagine that he is dreaming of the day when he learns of the best cusswords from his mother.

Fucking-A twatscicle.


What the Hell Is That?

I have something on my pants leg. I have been staring at it for a good 45 minutes but I can’t figure out what exactly the hell it is. Seriously, this is starting to bother me. I get only about 45 minutes a day to myself and this is what I have chosen to do with that time today, stare at the mystery stain on my pants leg.

It’s an oblong shape, around 6 inches long. It looks like it was once liquid but now it has a hardened outer crust. You can see the stain where it first hit my pants leg and the crust makes it look like it shrunk back up once it hit my pants leg. I like these pants and don’t want to have to wash them everyday.

Seriously, what the hell is that? The crust has started to flake off like some weird sort of alien scab. It’s a pretty thin scab but underneath is got almost a yellowish tint to it. I smell it, it doesn’t stink to bad so what the hell is it?

Is it some sort of new jeans eating bacteria? It might be, I heard that they where having that problem at the club down at the airport. It’s supposed to eat away the entire jean until only a string is left. God that’s such a crap joke.

What about formula? No, can’t be that. I consider myself somewhat of an expert on old expired formula stains. They turn more of a brown other than the current scabby yellow that I see.

What about urine, there’s enough of that going around in this house with myself, two dogs and 2 kids under the age of 2. For those that are disgusted by this and surprised to learn that urine is not always contained in a toilet, it is obvious you don’t have kids. I would say that the urine only makes it to the toilet a good 80% of the time. I count that as a success. But this stain does not have the salty after affects of urine stains, so that’s not it.

It might be breast milk. That’s a good guess. I have to defrost the stuff and feed it to Bubba Hoss. They make you freeze it in this little zip lock bags. I want to kill the people who invented that shit. Have they ever tried to pour the bag into a bottle. No, I didn’t think so. But what else are we to use? If someone invents a way to make this an easy transition, they will be millionaires. But it’s not frozen breast milk, that has a blue tint to it and smells like a jock strap that has sat out to long.

Ok, what about the obvious: Baby vomit. That is the most likely guess. It’s gross, comes in a variety of colors, and stains like nothing else. I am something of an expert on baby vomit as well but this answer just doesn’t feel quite right to me. Baby vomit has more of an impact velocity than what I am seeing here.

I realize that I am limiting my answers to the earthly bound realm and not exploring the complete possibilities.

In the movies Alien, there is that pod creature that comes out all slimy and gross. They have 6 little grabby arms so that they can latch on and suck face with whatever vixen happens to be around their galaxy. That slimy stuff is what this stain looks like a little. Have I been infected and not no it? If I was, I bet it was Burke, that bastard.

If this is the case, then the little pod alien would have to come at me while I was sleeping because I’m much to alert any other time of the day where I wouldn’t notice something that big on my face. Unless it’s during the same episode of Backyardigans I’ve seen 1000 times. I tend to zone out. But I don’t think it would have worked when I was sleeping either. My wife is the king of Judo sleep. This is when her arms and legs flail about wildly while she snoozes, thus protecting us from face sucking aliens and hitting me in the balls. There’s always a price to pay.

But if she did karate chop one of those bastards then they would bleed. That could be the stain, alien blood. Though I might have to chuck that suggestion because their blood is acid and that means that it would eat right though my favorite pair of jeans. Unless I have acid washed jeans. And the hits just keep on rolling. I should so end this crap blog right now.

Let’s stick with the alien blood thing though, I like where this is headed. It’s either this or I hunt down Pablo the Penguin and make him watch his own episodes 1000 times. Ok, alien blood. Predator, that’s what is jumping to everyone’s mind. They have greenish kind of blood. When it’s shot up by Jesse the Body Ventura’s black buddy, it bleeds green although no one sees it. I would have seen it though, then I would have said something badass like “Show me your face and I’ll take away all your pain.” Yea, that would be cool and badass.

I think a Predator creature would want to hunt me because I would be a threat to them because of my muscles. That and I would be a very easy skull to clean, I have no messy hair on my head to get in the way of a good trophy.

Ok, so maybe I’ve gone off the deep end here. It’s probably just a combination of baby vomit mixed with kid snot. That is what it looks like which means that there is a good chance this will stain my jeans. Fuck it, I’ll wear them anyway.

But just in case, tonight when I go to bed I’m going to hang a large Brazilian rainforest tree trunk above the door to my bedroom. It will be triggered by a stick because that’s all you need to hold up a 2 ton hunk of wood. It’s really just a safety precaution. You can never be to careful when you are carring around guns like these.


New House Rules

I found myself yesterday sitting in the house at about 2 pm. I had not showered. I was eating an icecream sandwhich. Jerry Springer was on the T.V. And so help me god I was reading a book from the Oprah book club.

I have been a stay at home dad now for a week and a half and it’s clear to me that there are some rules that need to be put in place, both for me and the kids or someone is going to be chucked out the god damn window.

So Rule #1—No, you can’t have a bite of whatever I’m eating. You can’t have a bite of my ice cream sandwhich, you can’t have a bite of my lunch time low fat fajita and you can’t have a bite of my cholestral medication. You have your applesauce and if you would quit throwing it at the dogs head, you might actually enjoy it.

Second on my list of new household rules: We will shower every day. If you would like to join dad in the shower, it is ok for now until you start either A: asking “Daddy, what is that” or B: Laughing while you are pointing and asking what is that. I feel that I am doing pretty well as a new stay at home dad but every shot at my ego deflates my confidence.

Rule #3: If any single hot looking moms ask you where mommy is while we are at the park, your response should always be “She left my dad with my brother and I and he’s all we got. He’s trying real hard but I wish he wasn’t so lonely and well hung.” Not that we would do anything, but I think it would add some spice to our lives.

Rule #4: Oprah and all of her kind are hearby banned from the Hossman Television. They shall be replaced by Anderson Cooper, he’s so dreamy.

Rule #5: Breakfast is at 8, lunch is at 12 and nap is at 1:15. Any deviation from said schedule will result in the before mentioned window tossing.

Rule #6: When Daddy is whipping ass on the Xbox, whether it be night or day, your only response should be “Whip ass, seabass!” It should never be “You Suck.”

Rule #7: You are not allowed to cry when Daddy finally gets to sit down and eat some lunch with his daughter. You are allowed to cry before or after, but never actually during. I have no idea what kind of sixth sense you have, my 4 month old son, but it’s starting to freak me out. Unless you can turn this into some kind of advantage during on-line video poker, please respect my need for food.

Rule #8: No one is allowed to kick anyone else in the balls.

Rule #9: No one is allowed to hit anyone else in the balls.

Rule #10: No one is allowed to bite anyone in the balls. Seriously, I didn’t think that you had that in you.

Rule #11: I will get you your Blankie as fast as humanly possible. Screaming “Daddy Blankie!” repeatidly will not actually change the laws of physics that govern my girth and allow me to move faster than the speed of light. It would also be a nice touch if you didn’t yell this while the Blankie is currently right in front of you and you don’t want to bend down and pick it up. As you may have noticed, my hearing is selective and my only response will always be to pick it up your damn self.

Rule #12: If you continue to tease the dogs with the goldfish crackers do not get upset when they push you over so that you actually spill all your goldfish crackers. Do not expect another cupful of crackers when we both damn well know that you have brought this on yourself. Daddy has no sympathy and you will not get a cookie to torment them with instead.

Rule #13: Let’s review the steps of going potty. First, pull down pants. Second, take off diaper. Third, sit on potty and do you business. DO NOT, first pull down pants. Second, take off diaper. Third, crap on the floor. Fourth, go sit on the potty and say all done. And let us also remind you that only poop and pee go in the potty. Not cell phones and remotes.

Rule #14: They are called hooters and you are free to point and stare as long as you like when we are out in public.

Rule #15: We will eat vegetables every day and apple sauce does not count as a vegetable. As a kid my dad made me eat a raw carrot everyday for lunch. Thank your lucky stars that I haven’t gotten to that point yet.

Rule #16: Everyday you should thank god that your mother loves you both so much. You should run to her arms everyday when she gets home because she is the only person that is saving you from getting licks. I grew up with licks. I deserved everyone I got. My dad once beat me with a vine. However, your mother wrote it into our wedding vows that we would not give our kids licks. So seriously, you owe her.

Rule #17: It will not bother me when you melt down in the stores. I will leave you in the aisle. When people look at me like I am a monster, I will pull out my old CPS badge and explain it is a new parenting technique and tell them to suck it because Rule #9 says we can’t hit anyone in the balls.

Rule #18: I will watch the same episode of Backyardigans as many times as you want to as long as it keeps you occupied enough so that I can read a book. However, do not come up to me and close my book, throw it on the floor and then grab my chin to point my face at the T.V. and say “Watch.” I will kill Pablo if you continue to do this.

Rule #19: Mommy and Daddy go to bed at 8:30 to have, um, relations. It does not help Daddy to hear that you are still up in your room banging on your metal garbage can. Cut that out or I’m digging us a basement and that’s where you new room will be.

Ok, that’s about it. I think things should run much smoother now.


The Negotiator

They both look across the living room with a hardness in their eyes. Neither one has given any ground and remain steadfast in their claims.

Possesion is nine tenths the law but Hossmom refutes this. However, Little Hoss refuses to be intimidated by her. She knows that she has the damn cookie and that is the way it’s going to stay. Maybe she stole it from Hossmom and maybe she didn’t—she’d never admit it anyway. All she knows is that the cookie with the Hershey’s kiss on top is in her grubby little paws.
Hossmom remains adamant that it is her damn cookie and that if Little Hoss knows what’s good for her she will cough it up right the hell know.

Silence. Nothing happens. No one blinks.

That’s how I got involved. As a hostage negotiator you are on call 24/7. The call could come in the middle of the night, you never know. You just hope that you do your best and no stuffed animals get mutilated in the process.

They don’t always end well, even with your best efforts. In the Pizza incident I was trying to talk a dog out of doing the unthinkable while Little Hoss had the other end of a pizza. I pointed out to both of them that they didn’t find a way to work this out, it was only the pizza that would suffer. And it did suffer. I’m sorry, it’s just to tough to talk about.

Tonight I got called in between Hossmom and Little Hoss, as you can tell. There is a poor defenseless cookie involved and damnit Jim, I’m going to do my best to make sure that little guy has a chance. I’m told that it was on Hossmom’s plate and then Little Hoss swiped it when Hossmom wasn’t looking. Little Hoss disputes these facts and claims that the tooth fairy gave it to her fair and square. Going into this I know that it won’t be easy, but if it was easy they wouldn’t pay me for what I do.

I point out to Hossmom that there are other cookies on the counter and that she could probably have one of those. Hossmom is not buying my opening argument. She says that this is about more than just a cookie. She says it’s about discipline and setting boundaries. At least I got her talking.

I tell Little Hoss that she has already had a cookie today and that if she has another one she won’t get any tomorrow. She’s not budging either. She convinced that she will have all the cookies she wants tomorrow and she can have this one too. It’s a tough logic but she may be right.

I tell them both that maybe we should all just take a deep breath and think this thing through a little bit. I say that what we do in the next 5 minutes could affect us for the rest of the night. I tell them that there’s no reason that any cookie should get hurt here, maybe we should all just back away a little.

Neither one of them moves. I can see that there is not trust here and I don’t have much time to build it. A cookie is counting on me.

I turn to little Hoss and say that Hossmom may be willing to pay a ransom for cookies. I don’t think she will but it’s important to get them thinking that we are working on a solution. I tell her that I can’t make any decision myself but I understand how hard it is for her to have a cookie and then give it away. Hey man, I’ve been there, I’ve been there.

I say that Hossmom needs a proof of life with the cookie so how about just sending over a little corner of the cookie so that Hossmom knows that the cookie is safe. She thinks about it and then she does it. I think I can see a way out of this without any bloodshed, god help me. My style may be unorthodox but it gets results and that’s what matters.

Little Hoss hands over a piece. I tell Hossmom that she should probably say thank you, as a sign of good will. She does and we are starting to get results. I look at Little Hoss and say that since she was a good girl and gave up some of the cookie, maybe she should take a bite herself. She does with a grin and I know it’s a good sign that she’s happy. That way there is no unexpected violence.

I then tell Little Hoss that maybe Mommy would like another bite. She thinks about it and then gives her another corner. I tell Hossmom to say thank you and she does. Then Little Hoss gets her bite.

The rest of the negotiation takes another hour but in the end, I did my job and I did it well. There’s nothing more satisfying to me in these situations than to have a little piece and quiet without anyone screaming so I can finally get a chance to blog. I may not get paid well, but I don’t really do this for myself. I do it for the innocent cookies.

I’m about to go to bed satisfied that I am the best. My head hits the pillow. It’s been a long day and I think that I should lay off the sauce for a while.

That’s when I get the call. It appears that there is a glass of milk that is being held ransom for some gold fish crackers. I get out of bed knowing that maybe this ends bad, maybe this ends good, but either way—it’s going to end.

Profesional Tailgaters

You should always have an alcoholic be the designated driver.

This is a great idea but it was not mine. It was the idea of our Team Beer Manger who also happens to be a professional tailgater.

I had no idea that these people existed but it appears that they do. I was invited to go to the Cowboys/Giants football game and tailgate with them. As I live football, I accepted but only after I begged and the Manager called my wife personally to ask for permission. I’m not a proud man.

Our driver showed up and we all piled in ready to cheer for victory. But she didn’t start the car right away. Instead she took a blackbox with a white nozzle on it and started to blow. Bitchin. I was intrigued. What new fangled contraption is this that allows man and machine to become one? You all know my feelings on cyborgs, I love them and this would is the closet I have ever got to one. I wanted to reach over and start playing with all her car knobs to see if Kit would talk to me and ask me where Michael is.

Being who I am and lacking any tact whatsoever I immediate asked “What the Hell man?” hoping that she would give me her secret to this symbiotic relationship. She stated that mistakes where made and no one was hurt but unfortunaly she had to blow into this contraption to start her car. I’m going to blame a man on her behalf. I have no idea if this is true or not but I’m feeling like supporting the sisterhood in today’s blog. Fucking men, pigs.

The Manager was agitated because the game started in less than 5 hours and we were not yet tailgaiting yet. I looked at my watch just to make sure. Yup, 4 hours and 24 minutes and the game would start. In my mind that looked like plenty of time to get to the game but then again I am not a professional tailgater.

Breaking every conceivable traffic law, we arrived at the game 4 hours and 23 minutes before kickoff.

The speed at which our site had been put up was amazing. I sat around dumbly because I was no professional as surely these people were. They were actually a little upset because someone had taken “their” spot. There seems to be a code of ethics to tailgating and one of which is that you try not to take another person’s spot. But as they were there first, my group made due.

In no time the little slice of home was up. We had a tent, around 10 chairs and enough beer to get a professional German Wrestling team hammered. My contribution was 18 beers which I gladly pointed out. I had done my part. We also had a flat screen TV and a HD antenna. This was better than my house and I secretly cursed my normal cable. Again, I will blame men for no reason, fucking pigs.

Then I started looking around. It was surreal. It would appear, that although I thought we were very well equipped, there were others that made tailgating look like a full time job. Ours wasn’t the only antenna, they were strewn across the landscape like a trailer park. There were other tents, some a lot more lavish than ours. There were flat screens every where, some erected on long flag poles so that everyone could see them. There were tables covered with nice linen and crystal was being used, fucking crystal I kid you not. Who comes to a football game drinking out of crystal?

Of course there were grills, which seems to be the most basic item anyone needs to tailgate with. There were several people that had brought their grills from home and unloaded them from the back of trucks. There were smokers that were being towed in. Look, I’m a Trekkie and I know I have serious hobby issues, but Christ people, that’s a 2000 dollar grill you are lugging around.

It wasn’t the best though. The best was a grill that actually attached to a truck’s bumper. The bumper grill was not as big as the others but it was attached and specifically made for tailgating. This was my first experience with tailgating envy. We all looked at the grill and I could see behind the eyes of The Manager, next tailgating season he would have one.

3 hours before the game and the shanty town was basically complete. It looked like some weird medieval market. There was meat on hooks, flags and fabric waiving, advertisements, people yelling. I expected to see skinned cats being sold for a shilling. I shutter to think what these people’s houses look like. I imagine that they are bare because they have all packed up and moved to the parking lot outside of Texas Stadium. They were no longer fans going to a game, they had become squatters.

It was great. Football, meat and beer. Although I am ashamed that my tolerance for all is starting to wane a little. I can’t eat greasy meat as much as I used to and I was basically hammered after 4 beers. You hear that kids, you have robbed me of my alcohol intake. I used to be able to pound them, now 4 beers in an hour gets me ripped. All that work I’ve done in college is useless along with that Russian class I took. I can speak only one phrase and 4 beers does me in.

We did eventually end up going to the game and as we tromped through Guatemala I was handed a bottled beer by the Professionals.

“Stick this in your sock.” They said.

?? What? Stick this beer in my sock? Why don’t we just buy beer at the game, although I think from here on out I’m sticking to water. They informed me that beers at the game were 7 bucks a pop and that this way we could get one up on the man. I’m always up for getting up on the man so I said ok although the last time I snuck a beer into a game was when I was 20. But I’m afraid that If I didn’t then the professionals would break out the rack and stretch me for lack of loyalty.

At the entrance people were being searched and I actually thought “O Fuck. I’m going to get expelled for smuggling in contraband. This is how a drug mule must feel.” Then I started feeling self conscious, am I limping? Is my leg dragging from the weight of the beer that went from feeling like 8 oz to a full on keg?

I explained my fears to the rest of the professionals and they assured me it would be ok. They said that it was a crap search and If I just played it cool man it would be ok.

They were right and I am a little alarmed at the lack of enthusiasm for the search. We had to smuggle in at least a 6 pack between three of us. They guy patted down my waist but that was it. He felt my love handles and I assumed did not notice the 300 pound weight I was carring in my sock.

I don’t think I have the stamina to be a professional tailgater but I appreciate being introduced to the world of it. Although next time we go, I’m buying the grill that attaches to the bumper.


American ripoffs

Let’s take a break from writing about kids and get to something that all of you out there are into.

I know that all of you are into this because the ratings say you are.

I am talking about the awesomeness that is the new American Gladiators. This show this week has had the highest ratings so do not lie to me and tell me that you didn’t see it. Do not say “Hossman, I didn’t see it because my cat was caught in a tree when it came on.” I’m calling bullshit on that, you redneck.

So here is what I want everyone to do. I want you to go to your Tivo unit and pick up the remote. Then I want you to put that remote in a corner for a half an hour. While you are doing this, I want you to repeat after me: Bad Tivo! Bad, Bad, Bad Tivo! You know better than that! Now I want you to sit in this corner until you realize what you have done.

When the Tivo remote is done being bad for the day I want you then to use it to erase any timer that you have set for American Gladiators because it sucks major monkey balls. Seriously man, just erase that timer without thinking about it, you will thank me later. The timer will be right between the All American Co-ed variety hour that you taped on Skinamax and American Monster Trucks because if you watched American Gladiators, then you are probably into monster truck rallies as well.

As the living incarnate of awesomeness I feel that it is indeed my honor bound duty to erase all things that pretend to be awesome and that is why I have to come down on American Gladitors. I too fell victim to the massive marketing machine and watched the show. It’s an hour of my life that has been murdered and I want Jack McCoy to press charges. We will miss that hour because I could have been doing something more worthwhile such as picking scabs off a mule.

Seriously, what the hell went wrong with this show? The premise is there, so how can you fuck this up so bad?? My only answer to that is that the people that produced the show didn’t actually watch it as they were already moving on to the T-Shirts market for the 18 to 25 mullet crowd.

But maybe it’s something even more sinister than that. Isn’t there a writer’s strike on right now? (I’m with you brothers!) So how could this show be developed without writers. Surely the host, Hulk Hogan, can’t write his own lines. Or maybe he did and this is why we get him saying “Gladiator Manics” instead of “Hulkmanics.” It’s just rehashed, no originality, which is basically what the whole show is anyway.

Because I am under the impression that this is not a “new” reimagining of the original seris. What I think happened is that they just took a tape of the old 1985 show and just added some CGI water. They threw it on primetime and claimed it was new. They figured that the first time around the ratings were so old that no one would have seen that episode anyway.

Stick with me: It’s the SAME SHOW AS IN 1985. NONE OF THE COMPETITIONS HAVE CHANGED. I thought that this was supposed to be new, but it wasn’t. It’s still basically one black guy contestant, one white guy contestant, vs 8 big steroid dudes. It just didn’t change. Back in the day, they did jousting, wall climbing, running through a gauntlet of big dudes, and then the final race using a treadmill.

On this “new” show they did jousting, wall climbing, running through a gauntlet of big dudes and then at the end there was the treadmill. But I will give the stage hand credit here for making the only real change by leaving his rope out on the treadmill. You know that it was just some guy who was fucking around when he put the set up and left the rope out there. By the time the show started it was to late to go back and get it so he just told the producers it was supposed to be in there.

But I will give them one piece of credit. There was one new completion called The Earthquake. It’s basically sumo wrestling on a raised platform. Who ever falls off loses. There you go. That’s it. That and the rope were the only new things.

And please stop with the interviews with the “contestants.” No one gives a shit. You are not interviewing Reggie Bush. You are interviewing a copy repair guy who has “Big Dreams, gonna give 110%, there is no I in team.” When I was 10 I didn’t watch the show for the interviews. I watched because I wanted to see some guy get his ass kicked. That hasn’t changed which is the only good thing about the show that remains the same.

I just find the lack of creativity here disturbing for something that could have been awesome. The X-games are more exciting than this drivel, the X-Games for Christ’s Sake! Some pimply kid on a skateboard is more exciting than a 300 pound guy pounding some other guy and that’s just sad.

So find some different competitions for the “new” show. Let me help you out. Have the contestants fill out mortgage applications while the “gladiators” check there credit. Or maybe have a contestant push a stroller through the mall the day after Thanksgiving while the Gladitors throw poopie diapers at them. I could relate to all that.

But the writer’s strike is still on, so let’s rip off some other shows and see if we can get some synergy here. How about everyone is put on an island, survivor style, and a rat is dropped in the middle. We’ll call this dinner and everyone goes after it. Or how about locking them all in a house together and see who gays out first. Finally, let’s get Howie Mandel to host it and ask each contestant if they can beat up a 5 year old. The catch will be that the 5 year old’s dad is Titan.

See, there you go. In a little less than 20 minutes I have fixed the show and I’m not even getting paid.

But for the time being, as I’m sure that no one of importance will read this, let’s just take our Tivo and set it to give us a shock to the anus if we ever think about Tivoing this show again. That’s a competition.


Action Blog News

Hello everyone, I’m Ronald NewsPimp and welcome to Action Blog News. We have a late breaking story from the War on Terror in the Hossman household. Let’s throw it over to Blog News’ own Johnny Exaggerator. Johnny?

Thanks Ronald. As you know I am currently embedded in the Hossman district where the War on Terror continues to be fought. The 2 year old Freedom Fighters have decided that t hey will use this day, the day of transfer of power to the stay at home dad, to make a stand against tyranny and no mid morning snack.

Fighting broke out early this morning in the downtown living room district as the Freedom Fighters began their current offensive. Shortly after 9 am this morning, all outside privileges were canceled for five minutes. The Hossman Regime gave no reason for the cancelation other than the expected “Because I said so.” Shortly there after, the first attacks began when an un-named Freedom Fighter took a glass of apple juice and poured it all down the new government’s back and into his shorts where the juice ran quickly to his asscrack.

Chaos quickly followed as representatives from the new Hossman Regime sent retaliatory strikes back towards the freedom fighters, completely destroying the remaining apple juice stockpiles. These weapons of mass soaking have long been a concern of the current leadership and they seem to have found the ones responsible.

However, fighting escalated from that point on as the 2 year old Freedom Fighters were not intimidated. What is now being called as the “MeltDown in the Kitchen” came quickly and without warning as another freedom fighter barfed this morning’s breakfast all across the arm of the Hossman Regime. The reports coming back from that incident describe it as “disgusting” and “vile.” Apparently the smell from the attack even drove the wildlife in the house to seek cover.

At that point, it would appear that full out war was inevitable in this very volatile region of home. The Hossman leadership suffered another blow as it was learned that the Finance Minister, Hossmom, had taken the wallet of the Hossman Leadership causing further chaos as the 2 year old Freedom Fighters were again denied government benefits. In an official statement released just recently, the Hossman leadership states that this was just an unfortunate oversight and that all normal activities would quickly resume. But as you can imagine, the 2 year old freedom fighters put very little faith in the statements from the Hossman Regime.

Immediately the Hossman army sent it’s best troops to reclaim the wallet from the place of employment of the Finance minister but they did not realize that the Freedom Fighters again had someone on the inside.

At lunch with the leadership and the Finance Minister, a Freedom Fighter was able to make her way to the unstable sugar packets located just east of their position. She was then able to open several of those sugar packets, some may have been Splenda, and contaminate a large Dr. Pepper, making it undrinkable.

The Hossman Regime was then forced into peace talks with the freedom fighters but the terms and conditions did not appear to be any where near the resolution required by the Freedom Fighters. Full outside privileges along with an ample supply of cat food were again denied.

Fighting resumed on the freeway home as the 2 year old Freedom Fighters again launched a salvo of screams at the Hossman Leadership. It would also appear that they have sympathizers among the 3 month old sect that occupies a small territory in the home. Together, the 3 month old and the 2 year old Freedom Fighters proved to be almost to much for the Hossman Regime to handle.

In the middle of cursing and making threats of killing Elmo and tearing his body apart in retribution, the Hossman Regime did not seem to notice that he was tailgating an unmarked police car on the freeway. A statement released by the Hossman regime only said “Oh, shit” but did not offer any further elaboration.

But it would appear that the highway patrol has some sympathy for what this new dictatorship is going through because he only flashed his lights once and then proceded to let the Hossman Regime continue on its way.

As you can tell, it’s been a series of devastating blows to the Regime that is forcibly instigating change and not all of it is being welcomed by the 2 year old Freedom Fighters. Back to you Ronald.

Thank you Johnny. Please keep us in……………

Ronald! Ronald! I’m just getting word here that we have some sort of sneak attack. Yes, details are sketchy but it would appear that the Hossman Regime has just begun nap time and the Freedom Fighters are down! There is jubilation in the streets of the hallway and prayer circles have just begun at the wailing wall. The Freedom fighters may have just expended themselves to far to fast and it does not appear that the could continue this type of onslaught.

Wow. Again, thank you Johnny for that fascinating report. Are thoughts are with you and please come home safely and without baby vomit covering you.


With Your Friends...............

Your backyard friends, the Backyardigans!

For the love of all that is holy, someone please stop this song going through my head. I know every lyric and there is no reason that I should no every lyric. I know each Backyardigan’s name, supposed gender and what animal they are. Except Uniqua—what the hell is she? She’s purple but that’s no big deal because the penguin (Pablo) is blue. And she has spots. I don’t trust things that have spots on them. So is she some sort of pig? I have no freaking idea.

Together in the backyard again,

Don’t these kids or freaks go to school? Why are they in the back yard again all the time? I mean, are they home schooled? I bet their parents are weird hippies.

In the place where we belong,

Austin is another one of the group but I actually feel sorry for him. For one, I think that he is some type of rat creature. That can’t be good in his long term career goals. Austin, what do you want to be when you grow up? A sewer rat in New York? Well son, I don’t know, that’s going to take a lot of work. Austin is also left out of a lot of the episodes. I think that he may be dying and they haven’t told us yet. My money is on brain tumor.

Where we'll prob'ly sing a song,

Tasha is a princess bitch. Seriously, she’s not very nice and likes to pout. They had a whole show once on showing her how to say “please” and “thankyou.” She didn’t get it until the very end which makes me think that she is pretty stupid too. She’s a snob and I bet her room looks like some pink nightmare with everything she ever wanted in it. Spoiled brat.

And we'll maybe dance along.

I can do the backyardigans dance to. Will someone please explain to me why I can do the dance in the opening credits? I have tried to teach my daughter so we could be some father/daughter mixmaster duo but she isn’t getting it yet. Instead, she substitutes jumps for most of the moves and then runs around in a circle. But she has got the shoulder shimmy down though. The problem is that she likes to climb on her little kid table and do the dance. As a father this freaks me out. All we are missing up there is a pole and for her to take the stage name of Candy. My one job in this life is to keep my daughter off the pole. Please god, just keep her off the pole.

We've got the whole wide world in our yard to explore.

None of the houses that these kids live in have fences so that they all open to the same backyard. Except for Austin of course, but that’s because his mom is a hypochondriac and doesn’t want him mixing with “that” crowd. That and he has a brain tumor. But it makes me think that these parents must be pretty good friends. Or they’re Mormons, like a Big Love thing going on. That’s hot.

We always find things we've never seen before.

Pablo has severe A.D.D. That kid is wired nonstop. Someone needs to grind up some Ritalin in that penguins afternoon juice. And I don’t get how a penguin can dance. His arms AREN’T supposed to move that way! He has no elbows! It would appear that I can take a mouse talking, a rat with a brain tumor and a hippopotamus in a dress but I just can’t seem to get past a penguin dancing. I can only suspend my vision of reality only so much. And someone needs to cut that bow tie off Pablo before he gets beaten up.

That's why every day we're back for more

This is what goes through a parents mind as he watches kid shows with his 2 year old daughter. I have taken something sweet and innocent that teaches kids how to act right and turned it into some sort of daytime soap like Days of Our Lives. Is Tasha shacking up with Tyrone? Is Austin going to make it? Did Pablo know that his mom hates him? But if you have seen the same god damn episode 1000 god damn times, it’s the only way to keep your sanity.

With your friends, the Backyardigans.


A Screwjob

For my birthday this year, which was just over the holidays, I was going to get a big screen plasma TV.

Let’s let that sink in a little bit. Can you imagine the 50 inch screen? Can you see the soft glow of glory coming off of Monday night football during the playoffs? Can you almost smell the mystery while “Lost” is on. That shiver that you are feeling, that may be the crabs you are getting from Rock Of Love.

It. Was. To. Be. Greatness.

I didn’t get it.

I didn’t get it because Corporate America hates me. It was supposed to be a big “Stay at Home” dad gift. I was taking on a challenge that a lot of guys don’t. I was going to face ridicule and awkward looks from those that were uncomfortable with my new role in society. It was supposed to be something that we could watch Backyardigans on. It was supposed to inspire me to achieve new heights. It was supposed to be something from my sugar Mamma, Hossmom, to show how much she appreciates what I am doing and what I am giving up.

However the world has different plans for the Plasma and somehow saw more fit to put it in some no name bar with Drunky Mcdrunk-drunk than hanging above my mantle.

We were going to buy this greatness of a gift with my wife’s bonus. We eagerly awaited the bonus check the Thursday before Christmas. It came and our mouths dropped. Not to be ungrateful, but it was pathetic. It was 1/10th of what she had received in years past.

As you can imagine, this was very disturbing. There would be no big screen plasma for my birthday. There would be no whatzits, no whozits and no roast beast. There would be no world wide domination on Xbox! What the hell, I ask you, What the Hell!

Well, maybe it’s been a tough year for the company? Nope, that ain’t it. They pulled in more than a 60% increase in profit than they did last year. Is it my wife’s performance? Nope, she is doing very well. Then what could it be? Possibly that she went on maternity leave for 3 months, unpaid leave I might bring up. I hope it’s not that but hey, if it looks like Gelfling, smells like Gelfling, I say it’s Gelfling.

Any minute I expected the Griswald family to show up at my house and have Christmas with us. Seriously, how does my life resemble movies so much, and not the cool ones like Predator where I get to whip a little ass and arm wrestle Schwartzenager?

So yup, we were a little disappointed but we were still going to have a great time. Hossmom went to work the next day and see what she could find out. What she found out was a little shocking. One of her bosses appears to have bought a brand new Escalade, fully loaded. A 90,000 dollar car screams corporate loyalty, doesn’t it? But he had to have the car because he needed something to pull his new speed boat with.

But because this is a story about the ultimate screwing, it’s not over yet. The company announced, on the Friday before Christmas mind you, that they had made a mistake with the bonus checks this year. It would appear that they deposited to much money in everyone’s bank account and would be withdrawing half of what they deposited.


I think that what I am most impressed by is that this was the Friday before Christmas. Ya know, the day when everyone does a lot of shopping. There were only a handful of people at the office that day, the rest were at home with their families putting that down payment on the new swimming pool. They had no idea that their bank accounts would very shortly experience a shortfall.

Thank you Corporate America. I mean it, from the bottom of my heart and I’m sure that all of the rest of the world also offers their thanks for that jelly of the month club bonus. What could be better at Chirstmas than bouncing your mortgage check. It’s the gift that will keep on giving year round.

And people wonder why there is no employee loyalty to corporations that they work for? This is a big old hint, right here.

So instead of the plasma screen T.V. that I was going to get, I will use the money to frame the advertisement of that T.V. and dream of a day when I can sit back and enjoy The Star Ship Enterprise in HD. Welcome to 2008.