I don’t like fucking with Karma. It’s a bad idea.

I’m not saying I believe in Karma, but I’m not saying that I don’t believe in Karma. I figure if I play both sides of the coin I won’t be tempting Karma to come around and kick me in the nuts to show me how real she can be.

It’s like ghosts. I take absolutely no stand on ghosts, spirits and the like. Because if I say that I don’t believe in ghosts then I am positive a ghost will show up and haunt me, which is one of my biggest fears. Fruit that flies on it’s own freaks me out.

So I tend to do what I think is the right thing with the hope that good things will come around. For example, I choose not to get involved with Britney and now Karma has rewarded me by not giving me trailer trash crotch rot.

However, now I find myself in somewhat of a conundrum.

My wife and are continuing to look for a house to buy. Let me recap for everyone so you can fully appreciate my position.

The Hoss Family lived in Dallas, TX. For some reason that I don’t think we really understand yet, we decided that we needed to move to Kansas City. We don’t know anyone here. We have no family here. Words like “adventure” and “family drama” came up and so we decided to move. Let’s go, let’s live a little.

Hossmom got a new job and a promotion and off we went.

We put our house on the market and got lucky. We sold it within two weeks and everything was going well. Now we have to buy a new house in our new city. While we are shopping for a new house we are living in a rent house. I have 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 cats and Hossmom packed into a 1000 square feet of ghetto loving. The term “motivated buyer” is an understatement for us.

Which finally brings us to my current discussion on Karma.

We are looking at buying a house that was recently foreclosed on. I’m excited, it’s a great house. It’s big enough for planning world domination but still has that down home feeling. And it’s somewhat in the country so I’ll be getting back to my roots and Hossmom can listen to my stories about riding hogs and handpicking squash.

But it’s a foreclosed house and I just have this feeling that I’m pissing off Karma somehow.

I know that it’s not my fault that the home was foreclosed on but I just feel a little creepy benefiting off of someone’s misfortune.

I feel like that I have forced the previous owners, with 2.5 kids and a lab and probably a great apple pie baker, into some trailer park living with there mother who happens to dabble in meth on the side. And I’m taking their house.

I know that it’s not true. I did nothing to facilitate their inability to pay their mortgage. It’s the system that screwed them, not me. I’m just using the same system to have a little cha-cha dance over their ruined credit reports. Thanks for the house, get out. Pancho’s is having an all you can eat buffet for 5.99.

All in all, it’s creepy but the more we look at houses the more I discover that misfortune is what seems to drive the real estate market.

Houses become available for a variety of bad luck moments that happen in people’s lives. We have looked at houses where people died (not in them), foreclosed homes and the all time boon to the housing market: divorce.

That is the driving force for people moving. If I move into a house where the people were divorcing, am I inviting bad luck into my marriage?? Am I setting myself up for a nasty divorce where I get to be one of the first males in history to request alimony? Ok, that would pretty cool. I WANT HALF! K-Fed is my hero.

And what if I buy one of the houses where one of the people died? Do I get haunted, kind of like in Beetle Juice? I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but you know my policy on this.

So maybe it’s not so bad that I’m buying a house that went through foreclosure. At least I can assume that the family is still together, probably selling rock on the street, but they are still together.

And they will get back on their feet, I’m sure of it. They will have to take out some rivals, of course but if you just make a few examples of a couple of people the rest will take the hint and then whamo! the street corner is yours.

Its while I’m wrestling with these inner demons and trying to rationalize myself buying this house when I remember another important lesson of real estate. Very simply: every one is trying to fuck you over.

I’m sitting here feeling bad for the family and hoping that they are ok. We met with the real estate agent and to be thorough we asked for a history of the house, price wise.

Well, it turns out that this house was bought and then 3 months later they tried to sell it. The only problem that I see with this is that they added 75,000 dollars to the price they bought it for. Now I’m not an expert, but given today’s market, it is hard pressed for a house to appreciate that much in 3 short months.

So I asked if any improvements were made, maybe it was a couple trying to flip the house. The answer is of course, no. It’s the same as when they bought it. This gets me going a little as I look at the history. Of course there were no buyers because I’m assuming that other people did the same thing we did and checked the history of the house and knew it was way over priced.

You can see the price drop each month, sometimes each week as the house remains on the market until it finally reaches within $3,000 of what they bought it for a year ago. And it dawns on me: there is the cause of their foreclosure. They were hoping that some dumb ass would come along and bid for this thing without doing his research. They would float the payments for a short while then walk away with a pile of cash thanks to someone else. In short, they were hoping to fuck someone else over.

As the house sat on the market they couldn’t afford the mortgage and whamo! foreclosure.

Now I don’t feel so bad, they brought it on themselves. They were hoping to over extend some other poor family while they sipped martinis and flew around in their leer jet dropping puppies on the poor.

So screw it, give me the house. I shall cleanse this house like the little hobbit chick from Poltergeist.

But I won’t do anything about the ghosts, if they exist and are there, which I’m not saying they are. But if they are there, they can stay. Unless they are not real.



Hey. Hey you. Yes, I’m talking to you, the curmudgeon behind that little desk there. The woman running the front desk at my pediatrician’s office, yea you. Yoo-hoo, over here. This is our first time here, a little help?

You know I’m here. I’m right in front of you. Why are you not looking at me? At least acknowledge my existence because after a good 10 minutes of being ignored I’m beginning to have my own doubts.

Seriously, just look up from your game of mine sweeper and give me some eye contact. I’ll even help you out a little, click on the blocks on the corner.

See, I helped you out now help me out. Let me know that you know that I am here. Seriously, this is about to get ugly, but not because of me.

You see that little thing with her little hand on your desk? That’s Little Hoss the Destroyer and she is about to go ape-shit on your desk. And guess what, I’m not going to do shit about it. I hope that you are not real fond of that glass nameplate because in about another minute I can see it flying through the air, courtesy of the Destroyer.

I’ve said Hi several times but you still ignore me. I’ve said “excuse me” and all I get is a finger and then more silence. I don’t get this, I don’t know what to do. You are not on the phone, I see no ear piece tucked behind your monstrous ears so I know that it’s not a wireless thing either. So come on, just stop ignoring me.

This is a doctor’s office, this is a helping profession. You should really be a people person if you are in this line of work. It’s kind of a prerequisite, ya know?

Look, I know everyone is busy. I’m busy too. Right now I’m busy trying to keep my two kids from going Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome in your hallway. I don’t want this but yet, this is where I find myself. In another five minutes they are going to get into a big ring and duel Master Blaster for methane. You don’t want none of that.

My kids are new patients and all I have to do is drop off the information sheet that you gave me. You don’t even have to say anything to me, just take it. Come on, it’s easy. Just stick out that claw you call a hand, grab the clip board and I’ll go coral the dragons to your waiting room; which I have noticed is a mighty long way from your desk.

You would think that you would also like kids if your work in a pediatricians’ office but I don’t see many smiles on your face. Maybe this is a bad career choice for you but I don’t see why you should take it out on me, just please take the God Damn Paper so I can get my daughter near the one toy you have in the waiting room instead of trying to pull down my pants to show the world that she knows where Daddy’s booty is.

It’s her new word and unless I distract her she will not stop trying to do it. It’s embarrassing. But are you enjoying this? Are you enjoying seeing me fend off my daughter with one hand, keeping my pants up with the other, and rocking my son’s car seat with my foot so he’ll stop crying? Is this like the parenting circus to you? Am I the big fat dancing bear, is that what I am to you?

This is one of those big doctors’ offices, with 10 docs and we never really know which one we are going to see so I understand that it is all about making money. But the quicker you take this paper and file it anywhere, the sooner you’ll be able to charge me for something I don’t need. I get how the game is played, I’m with it, I’m hip to it.

But we really can’t get to the over-charging and bad service until you take this form. So please, just stick out your hand and take the fucking form.

Wait a minute, ok, I get what this is. This is your power trip. I understand it now. This is where you get your kicks because you know tonight that Hector will probably stand you up at the laundry mat and wash his man panties with that prostitute he’s been hanging out with.

I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. It’s just that you’re a really horrible, horrible person.

Is it because we are in Kansas? Are you taking the whole Wizard of Oz thing a little too seriously? I thought that everyone here treated that as a joke, kind of a yuk yuk yuk thing.

But no, you seem to be taking it very seriously indeed as you are obviously the little mustache man that guards the gate to the Emerald City except your mustache is much better than the dude in the movie. So I get it that I’m just a little munchkin to you and I’m not near as cute as Dorothy. But you got to eventually let me in.

Seriously, I’ve been here in front of you for so long that I’m beginning to feel like I’ve got squatters rights. Maybe I’ll just unpack the bedroll and fire up the Hibachi and grill some rat.

Did I offend you in someway when I showed up 30 minutes ago? Was I too early for my appointment? Did I sandbag you and give you too much time to get ready for the new patient? Did I misunderstand your initial instructions when I first got the form, is that it? “Fill out this form and return it to the front when you are done” you said. That’s what I heard but is there some “read between the lines” thing that I missed? Because I’m not very good at that.

How about you just get one of the 20 people behind you to take this form from me? That’s a compromise, isn’t it? You get to do no work and I look sufficiently stupid for not understanding your directions in the first place. I’ve tried getting their attention as well but they seem to be terrified of speaking around you.

I mean, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but aren’t you the receptionist? Isn’t part of that job description that you are supposed to greet people? I’m just asking, because maybe you should think about going into another line of work.

Ok, you hear that? That’s my other kid losing it. Now both kids are screaming and I hope to god that is fucking up your mine sweeper game or have we moved on to Cubis? I’ve been able to keep both kids quiet and entertained for 30 minutes by using nothing more than funny animal sounds I make myself, because you have no toys in your kids’ waiting room, while I fill out this one sheet of paperwork. It’s a pediatricians’ office, for fucks sake! Are you shocked that kids even come in here!? So fucking seriously, what do you want from me?!

“Sounds like Dad has his hands full.” you finally say.

I hate you so much.



Welcome to my inner monologue. Admission is 5 dollars.

Evil Hossman: Dude, where are all the hot moms at? I mean, I’ve been at the playground for a good ten minutes and haven’t seen one G-string pop out of low rider pants. What kind of shit is that?

Angel Hossman: Brother, the stay at home life is more than just ogling at hot moms in G-strings. It’s about the sense of community that you get from your fellow man. It’s about watching the development of tomorrow’s leaders.

Evil Hossman: Fuck you douche; I want the hot mom begging for a tube steak to break up her monotony. Seriously, I have only seen one chick that I would do and that’s only a maybe.

Angel Hossman: Our job here is to raise Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss so that they become positive forces in today’s society.

Evil Hossman: Sure, no problem. We can do that while we are checking out the titties on the 20 something nannies. Ha Ha, I said titties! I love that word.

Angel Hossman: Ya know, this is probably why people at times think we are pedophiles.

Evil Hossman: They can think what they want as long as I get to see a little wayward pubes, man. Seriously, why do you have to be such a fucking wet blanket.

Angel Hossman: Now that wasn’t necessary. Wayward pubes? Come on now, that was just uncalled for. Who finds that attractive anyway?

Evil Hossman: You know that band The Black Crows? They had their first album cover pulled because of wayward pubes. That’s awesome.

Angel Hossman: How did we get to this point? It’s always wayward pubes and titties with you isn’t it?

Evil Hossman: Fine, let’s talk about ass. I’m feeling like a nice little heart shaped ass today.

Angel Hossman: That’s not what I meant and you know it! Let’s focus on what our job which is to raise our two kids.

Evil Hossman: See, you are a wet blanket. Ok, fine, let’s talk about raising the squids. If our daughter ends up as a stripper I swear to god I will fucking kill us. No shitting here, I will end us in a heartbeat.

Angel Hossman: Our daughter will not end up as a stripper and even if she was, we would love her anyway. Besides, don’t you think we could give more guidance to our daughter if we were alive?

Evil Hossman: No, I figure that by killing us it will make a pretty god damn profound statement and keep her off the pole. There, my jobs done, let get back to the T and A.

Angel Hossman: What about Bubba Hoss? Don’t think we should discuss his future as he is our only namesake?

Evil Hossman: First off dipshit, Little Hoss will keep her last name because she kicks ass and isn’t a pussy like you. Second, Bubba Hoss will be fine because that is one handsome bastard. Knock em dead, that one will.

Angel Hossman: I will give you credit there, he is a looker but he will have to rely more on just his physical appearance to get by. We need to instill morals.

Evil Hossman: I got a moral for you, don’t piss into the wind. That’s the only thing he needs to know.

Angel Hossman: It amazes me that you are a part of us, you know that don’t you? I mean we need set a good example for Bubba Hoss and teach him the difference from right and wrong.

Evil Hossman: Ok, I got an example for you. Check out that chick bending over. If we pretend we are reading our book but really just peer over the top I bet we can see down her shirt. He’s going to need to know that kind of stuff.

Angel Hossman: Don’t you ever get your half of the mind out of the gutter??

Evil Hossman: Sure, when we are watching Elmo because that shit is BOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGG! I completely check out.

Angel Hossman: So that is your contribution to raising our kids? Disgusting.

Evil Hossman: Hey, shut your pie hole, I contribute plenty. Skinamax. Totally my idea. I contribute to the complete mental health of this whole family. What do you think got us through that month when Hossmom was gone, Captain Crunch??

Angel Hossman: I don’t know why we tolerate you. You were supposed to get all of this out of your system in college. We went to parties, acted like a jackass, felt up some girls like we were 12 and went home. Remember the bathroom sink we broke because we were puking?

Evil Hossman: Ha Ha, yup, that was pretty great.

Angel Hossman: But that’s not who we are supposed to be anymore. We are the father of two children and the husband of a classy chick. We can’t just go ogling single hot moms anymore.

Evil Hossman: Huh?

Angel Hossman: Are you even listening to me.

Evil Hossman: What? Yeah, sure. Check out the new arrival. Money says she has no panties on.

Editors Note: This blog entry was not approved by Hossmom. She claims that I was angry when I wrote it. She states that she can tell because I use more cusswords. Fuck it, I still like it.



“Hossman, come down and look at the basement.” Hossmom says.

“No” I reply

“Come on, if we are thinking about buying this house, we need to look at the basement.” She insists.


“What’s wrong?” she says.

“We are not buying a house with a basement.” I inform her. I just know too much.

“What? We are not in Texas anymore, all the houses have basements. Seriously, come down and look at the basement and tell me what you think.”

“No.” I cannot be budged.

“Well why not?” She asks.


“Kracken? What are you talking about? Come down and bring Little Hoss with you.”

“I’m not bringing my precious child anywhere near the Kracken.” I begin to wonder about Hossmom’s ability to protect our kids. I have seen things before but this was nothing short than requiring a human sacrifice.

“I don’t even know what a Kracken is!” She is starting to get frustrated.

“The Kracken is the beast in Clash of the Titans. It’s a water beast. Very scary. They sacrifice virgins to it.” Everything that I have ever heard about basements, even though I have never seen a basement, leads me to believe that they are dank and musty doorways to Hell. In all the movies, whenever anything comes from Hell or the “other side” it’s always through some crack in the basement, without fail. Me and my daughter will have no part of that. The Kracken must have a lair, some sort of den. My money’s on a basement.

“Knock it off. Now come down here.”

“I can’t. It’s to close to the Indian burial ground that this house was built on.”

“There is no Indian burial ground!” she is starting to lose it.

“Good God women! Have you never seen Poltergeist II???? There is an Indian burial ground that is located, surprise surprise, in the basement!” I’m not budging. It’s either the Kracken or the burial ground and I’m not going near either one.

“Look, I don’t know what you think a basement is but this is a finished basement and it’s very nice. Now come look.”

“Pumpkin head. Can’t do it.” I’ve got a million of these. A million reasons why basements are evil.

“It’s not Halloween! I don’t even know what you are talking about.”

“And that’s the problem.” I think to myself although lacking the courage to actually say it to her face. But I probably should because I have no doubt that in a matter of minutes the Satan worshipers will show up and draw a pentagram on the basement floor summoning some horrible demon who will then devour Hossmom.

She has spent her life reading books by Shel Silverstein and chick lit about working mothers. She lives her life like the movies “Beaches” is the worse that the world has to offer. I know better.

However, I have spent my life studying the dark side of the universe. In my youth I began my study with monster books on Frankenstein and the Wolfman. I continued my study into the sci-fi movie realm with every scary flick that ever came out. Good or bad movies, it didn’t matter. Knowledge has sacrifices and I had to make them.

“Come down!”

“Can’t.” I say. “Vampires get pissed if you disturb them while they sleep. I don’t have any stakes but if you give me a day we can come back and I’ll take care of it.” Seriously, my wife’s lack of knowledge of the dark arts amazes me. Sure, she’ read Harry Potter but it would appear that she didn’t take it’s lessons seriously.



“The Boogieman does not live in the basement!”

She’s got me there, he’s more of a dark closet kind of dweller. I am somewhat impressed.

“Darth Maul. We are staying put.”

“From Star Wars?? Darth Maul was never in a basement and never lived in a basement. There is no Darth Maul in the basement!” she says.

“I disagree. When Darth Maul was chopped in half, he fell down a great big hole. We all know that great big holes like that lead to a basement. And if I know basements, and I do, then he has probably mutated into something worse.” My logic is undeniable.

“Get down here and look at this basement!” she is screaming now. She should be quiet before some brain sucking leech gets her.

“No. Jason Voorhees.”



“I’m warning you!”

“The Blob, suck you right through the drain.”

“Then just give me Little Hoss! I want to see how she does with the stairs.”

My daughter shuts the basement door and yells:

“No. Zombies. Boo Zombies!”

We should probably throw Hossmom a knife or something, just to give her a fighting chance.


Ode to a Grecian Led

Gather around children, I’ve got a story to tell.
It’s a story I knows and I knows it well
So grab your blankie, and get in nice and tight
Snuggle with your Elmo and turn down the light.

He’s a man, a legend, maybe even lore
He stands five foot ten but not one inch more
With a five o’clock shadow that starts at noon
A receding hairline but none to soon.

A chin carved by Zeus, the profile striking
The shoulders broad and the chest of a Viking.
The voice thunders with a slight southern pride.
And the gait rolls with a confident stride

It’s not Fred, it’s Led!
Big Bad Led!

He drives a Hummer, with an 8 grand trannie.
Sucks up the gas but it’s easy on the fannie.
He builds cars, that’s his trade
GM cars are the best that’s made.

He might judge you for your pussy import
Maybe even take you to the People’s court
Cause his cars bleed red, white and blue
His smile’s pretty because he likes to chew.

Course the Union folk he needs to settle
Dealing both with the pot and the kettle
But it’s not so easy making ‘em work
At least at lunch there’s time for a jerk.

It’s not Fred, it’s Led.
Big Bad Led!.

In his spare time he wrestles hogs
Pulling their tails while he steps on frogs
And then he might float down the river
All the ladies sigh “Led’s such a giver.”

But Sorry honeys, he’s no longer dating
He settled down and commenced a mating
She’s pretty hot, she needs no lube
He even paid for her fake new boobs.
A snappy dresser in his hunting plaid
And the creased khakis ain’t so bad
A drinking man who can boot and rally
Now pick up a shot, you fucking Sally.

It’s not Fred, it’s Led.
Big Bad Led!

Yet every hero has to fall
And our boy had to make a tough call
Dark at night, while the coyote howls
Our boy went forth, right into hells bowls

Riding four wheelers with a little beer buzz
His buddy in front passing back suds
When a ditch appeared where they were a muddin’.
And then the buddy disappeared, all of a sudden

Knowing his buddy had taken a spill
Big Bad Led started down the hill
He had to think quick, he had to be fast
Or his buddy’s time was quickly passed.

He slammed on the brakes, then started to skid
He had to be Hoss to do what he did.
A quick turn left and a quick turn right
He missed his buddy, what a frightful sight

He hit the ditch and he started to roll
And over the handlebars to pay his toll
His face hit the dirt and slammed mighty hard
It’s a story worthy of this humble bard

The smoke started to clear and the dust began to settle
His body lay there amongst the twisted metal
The smell of oil still hung in the air
The plain truth is, life ain’t fair

The injuries weren’t easy, and it weren’t so pretty
But you got no choice so far from the city.
To pay the price to save a friend
But this is not where our story will end.

He picked himself up and spit out his chaw
While the blood flowed and a crow cawed
Cuts and bruises needing more than glue
He bled proudly in the morning dew

He had two black eyes and a broken nose
And a jagged scar as the eastern sun rose.
Scraped and cut and mighty battered
But his friend was uninjured, that’s all that mattered.

So maybe now he ain’t so pretty
In the neon lights of the sinful city.
But he’s able to walk and tell his tale
And into the sunset he will sail.
It’s not Fred, it’s Led! Big Bad Led


Texas EX

I am no longer a Texan.

So much about my personal identity has changed over the last 2 years. I was a young married guy, the ladies still had an eye for me, investigating abuse in crack houses while combing my hair nonchalantly, the wind blowing the nice Texas breeze across the chest of a man descended from Hercules while I took Tequila shooters two at a time and winked at the young coed.

Now I am a Midwesterner who’s a stay at home dad with 2 kids and a secret crush on the Noggin Girls. But the young coed’s still get a wink from time to time.

And I was a Texan.

Now I’m not and this is the most disturbing change of all.

For those that are not fortunate enough to be a Texan, let me explain the mindset that we have.

A Texan believes this: We are better than you.

We are bigger, stronger and certainty our women are way better looking. Sure you may have your models but our chicks can strut the runway right after getting into a bar fight. Nothing quite as hot as getting your ass kicked in by a girl.

We believe that our cuisine is divine and the reason you don’t like it is because you are nothing short of a pinko commie pig.

We believe that our land was molded by the big man himself, who wears a ten gallon hat on the weekends, as the first act of creation. We have the forests of central Texas, the plains of the Pan Handle and the Mountains of the south.

We know that we are hicks, but we are hicks with oil. We make Gatsby look like West Egg but we are ok with our new money because it smells better than your moldy ass.

We are firm believers that this is a great country because we are positive that Texans hold it up to glory on our shoulders, and yes, they are bigger than yours.

We believe that if the rest of the world would listen to us, then their problems would be solved. It’s simple—make it bigger, have some guy shoot a gun and then crank up the air conditioning. Now, I know the president is a Texan, but hey, he just lost his way. Come on home Bubba.

Here, right is right and wrong is wrong. If you kill somebody here, chances are that we are going to return the favor. Yes, we lead the nation in executions and we are ok with that. We know that this may offend a lot of people but here is how we deal with that: Suck it, we are Texans.

Love your Mamma and respect the power of the switch tree. We may be hicks but we’re fair. Everybody gets licks regardless of their gender. Hell, we are ahead of our time.

We still have a secret hatred of Alaska because now they have a bigger state than us. But at any given time we have plans to annex a huge part of Mexico, we’ve done it before. We’d do it just to show up those uppity bastards in Alaska and their fucking moose. Give me a longhorn any day of the week.

I know the perception of the world is that we sit atop our horses in our big hats and shoot our guns and name our kids with 2 first names, like Jim Bob. Well, we do. I actually have a cousin that has a name very similar and my Uncle does indeed wear a cowboy hat and have horses. He is without a doubt the scariest man I knew growing up because I was sure he would take that cowboy boot and stick it up my ass. I was well behaved.

So when we travel and people ask us were we are from we put on our best Texan drawl and proudly proclaim “Texas” as a direct challenge to anyone to even try to rip on our great state.

This indoctrination starts early. We are required to take Texas History for two years in school and by the end of it the Texas pride just begins to swell. You just can’t help it when you hear stories of the Alamo. It just grows and grows in you until you fully believe that you are somehow related to those brave men.

Right or wrong, that is what you believe as a Texan. My intellectual part knows that this is all false and Texans have as many problems as everyone else. But I still feel like that, you just can’t help it.

The truth is, to my ever lasting shame, is that I am not actually a natural born Texan. I was born out of state while my parents were driving though Louisiana. We never lived there, they were just passing through there when I decided to arrive. My wife and I are the only ones of my entire family not born here.

My brother and sister are both natural Texans. My Father is a natural born Texan. All my relatives are natural born Texans. Hell, my two kids are even natural born Texans. When confronted with this I just use the old adage that Texas transplants use: I wasn’t born here but I got here as fast as I could.

It’s nothing short of brainwashing. We all know but we all accept it because we like the image of who we are and we do try to live up to it. Is it any wonder that the Dallas Cowboys, love them or hate them, is known as America’s team? Do me a favor, go find a Texan and insult his mother or sister and see how quick you get your ass kicked. We can’t help it, we just have to do it because that’s the image we have built up.

But that’s no longer who I am. Now that my family and I have moved to Kansas City, I am in America’s heartland. I suppose I must now like corn on the cob and tornados. I just might go out and look up Dorothy and Toto and ask them what the deal was with the Glenda, does she put out or what?

But I can’t because I am still a Texan and I suppose that I will always be no matter where I go. I’ll keep the drawl and I might go out and actually by a cowboy hat even though I have never worn one a day in my life. A lot has changed for me over the last two years, but that is just one thing I just won’t let go of.

Now, do you want to insult my mother or my sister???


A Short Break

I know that a lot of my readers, I love you, have been wondering where the hell I have been the last week and a half.

I wish I had some witty story to tell you, like maybe I had to go help John Law capture someone very dangerous, but I don't. Instead, it's pretty boring.

It's move week at the Hossman Household. Tomorrow the packing finally gets kicked into high gear and the moving truck will take us to our new home in Kansas.

That's right, fucking Kansas. I will no longer be a Texan. My heart weeps a little.

The last week blog ideas and funny stories have come in and out of my head but I couldn't get time to write it as the 2 kids, 2 dogs, 2 psycho cats and the actual getting ready to move thing has pretty much demanded that I talk to no one, ever.

But not to worry. Once the move is done I'll keep on writing and hope to make some changes very soon to this website to "take it to the next level" which really means I've sold out and will be hosting porn.

I'll see everyone in about 2 weeks.



The Border Fence

I’m not an overly political person. I don’t really consider myself a Republican, Democrat, Green Party, Libertarian or a Scientologist. I’m more from the party of Use Your Common Fucking Sense.

We stand for a great many good things. We believe that the war on drugs is a joke that does nothing but have really cool commercials of egg frying. We believe that mandatory minimums that stem from our drug policy makes it more illegal to shoot up than it does to rape my sister. We believe that “financial responsibility” does not mean spending millions on a bridge that goes absolutely no where in fucking Alaska. And finally, we believe that the border fence currently being erected through the southern states may rank right up there with the most dumb fuck things we have ever heard of.

Our Common Sense party does not recruit because frankly, and I am shocked to learn this, a ton of people and politicians lack common sense which is really the only criteria to join our party. I thought that after college I would be swimming in a sea of people with common sense and not some of the douche bags I met in college.

For example: I was going to drop my chemistry class in college halfway through the semester. A guy behind me got the impression that I knew chemistry. I tried very hard to tell him me and chemistry were not the correct oxidizers that he believed us to be. He offered me 50 bucks to cheat off me on the next test. I reminded him that I was dropping the class. He told me good luck and still asked to cheat off me. At that point, I figured I had given him a full disclosure that I was not going to study one lick for the test but he could cheat if he wanted to.

The night before the test, I got drunk and showed up at the test without even attending the last 5 lectures. Of course my score of 40% was a lot higher than I expected and the 50 bucks went to a trip to see Hossmom. I had sex. It was great.

But when I graduated college I found that people like that guy not only made it out of college somehow but also are in positions to think up great ideas like the border fence.

Here’s what sparked my interest: I read an article today about a Texas woman who refuses to allow the government to build a fence on her property. They claim imminent domain and try to take her land. She tells them to get bent. They go to court.

Now there is something you should know about Texans and I feel qualified to speak for all my hick brothers in ten gallon hats. We don’t want you to take our fucking land. That “Alamo” thing you heard about in school and saw movies of, um, yea, that really happened. We have tremendous state pride and love the fact that we could probably kick ever body’s ass. True or not, just about every Texan believes it.

The lady stated that the land in question has been in her family for centuries and she’s not selling. The governments prosecutors response? You’re going to love this: That they needed the land for the fence because it was a practical solution to a practical problem. Seriously, that’s it? You don’t want to claim national security maybe, or perhaps the general welfare. That’s constitional stuff ya know and might work a little better than “Well, we just couldn’t think of anything else so we figured fuck it, let’s build a fence.”

And those my friends, are the type of people that are making decisions. The warm blanket of security just wraps around me so tightly, I’m comforted.

I don’t claim to be an expert on this issue but thanks to Wikipedia, I’m quickly becoming one. There are a little over 1900 miles of border with Mexico. The government (all parities) want to build 700 miles of fence. Now help me out here. The Common Sense party hired some MIT dudes, ya know, the ones that can count cards real well, and we came up with this fact: Dude, you’re going to be a little short. We re-checked the numbers, did the fuzzy math and yup, still short.

But I know I’ll get the argument that it the fence will be placed at strategic places. Ok, so let’s say that is the case and that all the illegal immigrants, drugs and coyotes come through only those “strategic places.” My first question of course is what genius decided what strategic places those are. If it are the same ones that came up with the fence idea, I’m not feeling to good.

Second, and think about this, who do you think is going to build the fence in Texas? That’s right, Mexicans. The truth is that most Hispanics are very hard working people that do a great job. But what exactly is there motivation here? If they build this fence, even if they aren’t illegal’s themselves, do you think some might have relatives living across the border that want to come here? Or maybe perhaps they might have a little national pride?

But let’s ignore that argument and claim that I’m a raciest. Let’s look at this from a common sense stand point. Do you really think that people that cross raging rivers, fight hunger and drudge through a fucking desert are going to get to the fence and go “Welp, I’m licked. Pablo didn’t bring the fence cutters. Everyone turn around and go home.”

Fucking seriously? Really?

Look, a fence barely keeps my dog in and she’s fat and stupid. These people are determined, resourceful and tough as shit just to make it across the border WITH NO FENCE, so what do you think a 700 mile fence is going to do? They are going to say, hey, let’s walk to the end of this thing and just go around.

Now what about drug runners? Surely this will stop that. Ok, common sense check. You have 3 tons of Columbian Marching Powder. You can either have 1000 drug mules walking hundreds of miles OR you can have a bunch of cars going through customs knowing that 10% are going to be caught but 90% are going to make it through. You call that 10% the price of doing business and then take your billions and invest it in a tire shop that posts the best quietly profits ever.

The Berlin Wall didn’t even keep people out or in and that had fucking machine guns on top of it. What do you think a chain link is going to do? Wait, wait, we’ll put barbed wire on the chain link. I’m pretty sure Pablo or Johnny the uber terrorist can deal with that.

I hope this woman wins. Not because I have a particular stance on immigration or drug control but because it’s just the dumbest fucking thing that may have been conceived of.

I’ll tell you what, because I’m a patriot, I’ll let you fence my yard. If the Fat Belly Newt can figure out a way to get out in a year, we’ll spend the millions that you are going to spend and let’s finish that bridge in Alaska.


Come Home Hossmom

The kids get up at 6:30 am. There screams of Daddy pierce even the coldest heart. I go throughout my time day at times thinking I couldn’t love my kids anymore to the other extreme of wondering if I can get a muzzle on my daughter. I actually did an internet search once to see if they make a pill for 2 year olds that prevent them from having a meltdown every time she runs out of juice.

My infant son decides that good old dad is not rising out of bed fast enough and hits a whole other octave. His nuts haven’t dropped yet so I guess to myself that this is the purpose—to reach a whole other universe of morning scream.

I decide to stage a sit in protest because Hossmom says that spanking kids is wrong. I calmly tell my children daddy’s going to get a little extra sleep and if they don’t want to find themselves doing a vaudeville act for their dinner, I suggest they shut up and go with the program. I also remind them that Hossmom is not here and we may be revaluating the no spanking rule.
They call my bluff and continue the scream. It is now 6:33 which may qualify as my longest sit in protest ever.

I get the kids up and head downstairs as my daughter exclaims that daddy has a nose and my son lets fly with the morning poots.

I debate whether or not I should cook or let the kids just have at it with the dog bowl before I come to my senses. My dog is fat and there is no food in there anyway.

My daughter demands that Jack’s Big Music Show be put on the Tivo right now. I used to love Tivo but now I hate it. It has no sense of discipline and restraint. I’m trying to teach my daughter patience while it just gives up Jack any damn time. Jack’s Big Music Show has ruined my love of TV.

On the TV it goes and it’s in the middle of a song sung by puppets. Later they have special singing guest stars come on to sing kids songs. A girl name Laurie seems to make this show every day and I appreciate it because during the 20 minutes that the show lasts I think two things: Are the puppeteers squatting on their knees or is the stage built up? That must suck, probably a short life span as a puppeteer and lousy pension. A 5 year career that is brought down by an MCL tare, I hope they have a good union.

My next thought is I wonder what Laurie looks like naked. I can’t help it. After seeing the same episodes over and over again things just start wondering into your mind. I wish Playboy would do “Girls of Noggin”. I would so buy that. Don’t worry, I’m disgusted with myself too.
Breakfast is served. We are having omelets with some spinach snuck in there. I’m sneaky. Little Hoss decides to give me a big fuck you and only eats a banana and gives the omelet to the dog. This is the real reason my dog is fat. I scold her for it pointing out that Hossmom works hard for that omelet and damit she should eat it. I even use that old “the kids in Africa” speech that every parent must use and I am ashamed that I have brought myself to this. Instead of agreeing with me she decides that she wants to throw her fork at the dog as she blames him for getting her in trouble. We then do our first of many, many, many timeouts during the day and it’s barely 7:30.

I get the kids dressed at about 9 and we head out for our day. My goal every day is to wear my kids out so bad that by the time naptime comes around they are begging to go to sleep. I can’t remember if it’s Sunday or Monday. To every one else, they cherish the weekend. Since Hossmom is gone, every day is the same to me. There is no weekend. There is no chance to kick back and relax. There is no change from one day to the next as we try to make it without Hossmom.

I have put my daughter in a dress today because it occurred to me that I may be raising my daughter like a tom boy. It’s been jeans and t-shirts for 3 weeks straight and this just reminds me of another thing that we are missing now that Hossmom is gone. She brings a softness to this family that I didn’t realize at first. There’s a sweetness that is around when she is here and now it’s gone. If Hossmom stays gone much longer my daughter will take up gambling and totally clean out my infant’s son collection of pacifiers. Pacifiers are like toddler crack, she’ll cut you to get one.

This brings us to our second meltdown of the day as my daughter wants a pacifier once we are out of the car but that’s against the rules. She decides that hitting her brother will get her results. I tell my son that it builds character and rub some dirt in it while we get to time out number 2 of the day.

We run errands, do various things, mail some stuff. 3 hours later we are back at the house and having lunch. Little Hoss eats the hotdog but skips the applesauce. Bubba Hoss decides that this would be a great time to lay the stinky poop he’s been working all day on. It’s huge and comes out his diaper. This is his only his second outfit change of the day and I’m proud. Right when I finish with Bubba Hoss, Little Hoss informs me that she has pooped to. These are the moments that I don’t know if I’m going to make it or not. Everyone goes down for a nap but protests. I remind them that protests not work in this house and point to this morning. I let them scream but I’m ok with it. Maybe Laurie’s on Tivo, she understands me.

They get up from their naps and it’s time once again for Jack’s Big Music Show. This is when my day gets to be a little crazy. It’s snack time and as soon as I do that it’s time to cook dinner. I still do that but I usually have a lot of leftovers that eventually go to the dogs anyway. Now I see where my daughter gets this from and chastise my own self.

While I cook I am constantly stopping to break up fights, yell at the dogs for barking at the slightest wind change thus scaring the kids, changing diapers, moving my son from baby station to baby station until I find one that entertains him longer than 2 minutes, kissing hurts, changing a diaper, an outfit, an attitude, or telling the vacuum cleaner it is “Bad” because my daughter is terrified of it and this makes her feel better.

6:30 pm rolls around and I vaguely calculate that I have been doing this for 12 straight hours. This used to be my old quitting time and Hossmom would come home and give me some alone time. Now it’s just me until bed time. Bed time gets a little tough tonight as no one seems to want to give Daddy some peace and quiet.

I put everyone down at 7:30 and proceed to clean the kitchen. I run upstairs because my son is screaming but by the time I get up there he is asleep. I go back downstairs just to hear him screaming again. I head back up and rock him to sleep. My daughter then starts calling “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” until I come into her room to. She has decided that it was very important for her to tell me that the farted. “Daddy, I pooted!” she says. I have to laugh at this but again miss Hossmom’s softness.

An hour and a half later the house is clean (er?) and the kids are finally asleep. I watch 30 minutes of TV then head upstairs to play a game for my one short break of the evening.
Then the power goes out. Seriously Karma, fuck you. I just ask for like 30 minutes of this a day. I walk outside to see if I forgot to pay the electric bill but discover my whole neighborhood is out as well. This is also when I make the most startling discovery of my day.

It snowed outside and I had no freaking idea. This is Texas, snow is like finding a hooker without VD, it just doesn’t happen all that much. I hadn’t looked out a window since 5:00pm and sometime between then and 10:00 it snowed and I was completely clueless about it. It would also appear that Jack’s Big Music Show does not run the severe weather report like normal channels and I decide that I will write Laurie about this serious problem with her show.

“Fuck it” I think as I also realize that this might be the most depressing part of my day, my complete and total immersion in all things kid related 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I’m going to go poop myself. Just sit in the dark, in the quiet and enjoy this glorious bowel movement. I’m hunkered down when the power comes back on. I hear the TV come right back on to Jack’s Big Music Show that the Tivo is currently recording. Now I have to sit there in the dark while I listen to “This is me and my energy.” Very fucking funny Karma, very fucking funny.


The Bookstore

Any jewelry that I own has a lifespan of about 5 years . At that point, it either becomes lost or stolen. And I only say stolen to my wife because when I lost my wedding ring I couldn’t come up with a better excuse than “I may have been saying hello to the one eyed monster and can’t remember where I put it.”

So in defense of myself I may have insinuated that an Afghan drug lord, possibly Al-Qaeda, flew all the way from his country just to rob me of my wedding ring. It was a titanium ring, they make rockets out of those and everyone knows that any drug lord worth his salt is trying to develop a weapons system that can reliably deliver a substantial payload to the USA. WMD’s, that’s my story. If it worked for the President, it can work for me. Thanks George, you give me credibility.

It’s besides the point of whether she bought the stolen theory or not. The point is that I am an awesome liar to my wife.

But with Hossmom going away for a month she thought it would be a good idea to get a new wedding ring. She apparently harbors some suspicion that some super hot stay at home mom would be all over my jock if I didn’t have a wedding ring. This confuses me somewhat because I don’t really consider myself a babe magnet by any means. I’m not bad to look at, don’t get me wrong, but I have absolutely no game. I got Hossmom to marry me because I got her drunk first. I was one rufie away from making a clean break. That’s the extent of my game.

But Hossmom sees it differently. She sees me with our kids and the lengths that I go to make them happy and make our family happy. I am not embarrassed to get right on the floor and mix it up with a 2 year old. Sure, I’ll color but I’ll do it while making bombing sounds. I kick ass. For some reason, Hossmom finds this very attractive, more so than the bald head, and insists that it is not beyond the realm of possibility that a single mom would see me as great with kids.

But here’s my inner secret.

I only like my kids. I think yours are uncontrollable thugs waiting for the first available jail cell.

I didn’t argue and went to order a new wedding ring. It has to be special order because it appears that I have the fingers of a West African Gorilla. For those keeping score at home, my ring size is 14. That is to compliment my enormously fat feet. Seriously, I’m a freak show on ice. Tickets are 10 dollars for adults.

I didn’t think much of this until I went out the other day. My daughter, son and I went to the book store to kill some time. We all enjoy the bookstore and make sure we do our part to fund wealthy authors with more money.

I was on the floor with my daughter and son. We all had on matching tiaras from a Barbie Princess book and were reading the story with as many silly voices as I could muster. The kids were loving it and I must say that I look very good with diamond headgear. Christmas isn’t to far away.

The first thing that I really noticed with kids is that I no longer give a shit if I embarrass myself. It just comes with the territory. It didn’t occur to me that tiaras and 20 books splashed out on the store floor may draw attention to myself. If anything, it was the voice I was doing of the Beast that I would say really caused the stares.

I’m sitting there going over the part about how Barbie helps her servants and says thank you when this lady comes up to me. Let me rephrase that: this super hot young mom comes up to me. I didn’t have my special order gorilla chain wedding ring on yet. My wife interprets this to me that I was practically naked in the bookstore.

“Wow, it looks like you guys are having a great time” super hottie says.

“Yup” I say. There it is. That’s my game. That’s all I got.

Super Hot Mom has 2 little girls with her close in age to my own girl. They seemed very interested in the tiaras that we were sporting so I did the friendly thing. I offered them a tiara of their own and asked if they would like to sit with us and read the book together. Super Hot Mom thought that was a great idea.

This happens when I go out sometimes. I get involved with my kids either with playing or wrestling and soon I have 20 others hanging off my back. But I’m ok with it as long as no one hits me in the balls to many times.

Anyway, Super Hot Mom decided that she wanted to stay to. This is where I think it might have gotten a little weird.

She sat down at first but then quickly got up and starting picking up stuff all around us. I was just assuming that we made a mess, which is something else I do awesomely. However, I didn’t think it was that bad but appreciated the effort. But I got to admit, I had a hard time concentrating because she was bending over a lot. And not like 20 feet away, more like 2 feet from my face. But I don’t want to presume anything here.

It was on the 10th time that she bent over that I noticed that she had on a black G-string that was poking out the top. Ok, that’s a lie to. I noticed that right off but I thought it wouldn’t make me look like such a pervert if I wrote that it took me a while to see it. So there, I’m a perv.

I finished the story and Super Hot Mom decided to hang around a bit. She was asking me what I do and why I had the day off. That’s when I hit her with the “I’m a stay at home dad” thing. I will say this: chicks honestly seem to go for that in the right circumstance. She said how great that was and how great a dad I must be to want to stay home with the kids. I failed to mention that it’s really because Hossmom makes a hell of a lot more money than I did.

We talked for a while and then she leaves. But she keeps coming back and back to add little comments here and there. Little Hoss and I had by that time abandoned the tiaras and moved on to the fuzzy pink boa.

As I was leaving she stated that she was in a Moms group and thought it would be great to have me come around. She gave me her email address to set it up.

I swear to all that is holy, I was thinking she was just being nice. And showing me her G.

I told Hossmom this and she explained how clueless I am. She stated that I was being scoped out for future use. She then called the jewelry store to see when my ring was coming in. It looks like the Afghans might have that one to.