5/28/08

The Free Show

My daughter likes to sing the itsy bitsy spider when we do bed time. This is what we were doing, hand signs and all when I look out the window. She’s on the second floor of the house and so we have a great view of all the neighbors. As it turns out, my new next door neighbor’s 13 kid was having a makeout session.

Which guy do I want to be here? Do I want to be the guy that is a peeping tom spying on prepubescent nookie. Do I want to be the guy that calls a mom and gets everyone busted and embarrassment ensues therefore ensuring that my neighbors will hate me before they even meet me. Or do I want to be the creepy calling out techniques and suggestions to help the youngsters out? And let’s not forget that I am already the guy that was watching a pool party naked with a beer. Mmmmmm, visualizing is fun.

No, I don’t want to be any of those guys. No one likes those guys and he never gets invited over to play lawn darts. I want to be the guy that wishes he never saw what he saw.

Now don’t get the wrong impression, I wasn’t standing drooling at the window whispering to the air. I was singing to my daughter. How can that be unwholesome? We were singing itsy bitsy spider. You know the song:

The itsy bitsy spider gets action in her back yard.
Out come the neighbors looking through the window
Up come the lights out on the back porch
And the itsy bitsy spider moves it back inside.

Or something like that.

I called my wife over so she could catch a gander, thus negating any creepy window guy thing going on. We both had a pretty good giggle over it because I think that we both remember what it was like.

I too my friends got some action in my backyard that wasn’t so private in my teen years. But in my defense, I was a guy and as long as someone was putting out I didn’t much care who was watching me. I realized at a young age that it very well may be the price I had to pay to get some southern loving and between a choice of a neighbor seeing my ass or getting laid, I was taking laid every time. We sell Whoppers at the counter folks, BYOB.

Things looked like they were getting pretty heavy and Mr. Grabby appeared to be coming out so we quickly turned away. I told my daughter that she was never to do anything like that ever, with anyone, ever. She responded by asking if Elmo was outside. If he is he is doing a special for HBO and you are way to young for it.

I decided that I wouldn’t bring this up when I meet the neighbors for the first time. What am I going to say? “Hey Susan and Bob, nice to meet you. And you must be the exhibitionist of the family, little Sally right? How’s Mr. Grabby doing?” Awkward, but maybe a good icebreaker.

Of course, if they mention that they saw me naked in my uncurtained house then I will go straight for the jugular. Oh yea! Well your daughter was getting to second base right outside! That’s right, outside! What do you think of that now!

Ok, who’s up for some lawn darts.

5/27/08

Ode to my Big Fat Dumb Dog

Oh, my huge fat white spotted dog, why are you so dumb?
In the history of the earth I don’t think there has been an animal this dumb.
Have your brains leaked out your ears and been replaced with corn?
Oh, my huge fat white spotted dog, why are you so dumb?

It is time for you to go outside and be attached to the leash.
You are excited, you slobber on the cat in your excitement
I attach the leash to your harness and pat you on your way.
The first thing you do is chase the squirrel that you have no chance of catching.

But you try and are shocked, shocked I say!
That every single time you are amazed your don’t catch the squirrel
Or that your leash is only 20 yards long
And you are jerked back in your surprise and failure.

Your attention span won’t let you focus on your failure though, no!
You are to good to dwell on past mistakes and I salute you madam.
But do you really have to then run immediately around the pole that you are tied to?
You run for a freedom that you can’t handle.

Run
Run
Run
Run

You run around that pole until there is no more rope left
And your head is tied to that pole, yet another failure
And yet, you don’t move backwards to untie yourself.
You will sit there for hours wondering why you can’t move.

People hear stories of animals that accidental hang themselves.
They are referring to you, you are legend.

Oh, my huge fat white spotted dog, please, please, explain this to me.
Explain to me what the hell you are barking at
Explain to me what sound or sight has caused you to go insane?
Do you see dead people?

I watch you tied to that pole barking at the vast emptiness
The emptiness that is between your ears, the cavern of your stupidity
I watch and I watch and I watch
Seriously, what the hell?

You have been out on the leash many, many times
And each and every time it is the same thing
Chase the squirrel and then wrap yourself around the pole
It is time to change your strategy.

You see that pile of rocks that you peed on?
They are smarter than you.
You see that dirt clod by the house?
It is smarter than you.


A big toe, a piece of lint, or a blind ant
They are all smarter than you.
If someone offered me a pickle in trade for you
I would turn them down because I knew I would be ripping them off.

And of course, my big fat white spotted dog, I will come untie you.
I will unwrap your leash from the pole and I will curse the squirrel
I will pat you on the head and tell you it’s ok
Because God loves the stupid creatures and so do I.

And when you immediately tie yourself up once again
As soon as the leash is on you, not wasting a second
I will think to myself, only half seriously
I could have had a gerbil.

Fitting In

How’s my hair? I should shave, yes, I should definitely shave. Do I stink? I probably do since I have been moving all day. I look fat in this shirt, don’t I have something a little more slimming, like stripes?

All this crap sounds silly as I write it but I’ll admit that I thought every single thought as my family and I moved into our new neighborhood. It’s just human nature. And just for the record, it’s not the shirt that makes me look fat; it’s the fat that makes me look fat.

Sure I want to be accepted, who doesn’t? When you check out a neighborhood for the first time you are not only looking at the house that you might buy but you are looking at the neighbors as well. Is there anything on there houses that scream bat shit crazy, don’t live next to me? Are there a group of rusty barrels in an alley way that look about the right size to hide a body in? How will they react when my dog takes a shit in their yard because let’s face it, eventually that’s going to happen.

Basically, you don’t want them to be a nutjob that gets his jollies by throwing hams over your fence.

As a kid we had a neighbor somewhat like this. He shot my cat right in the head with a pellet gun, killing it. It turns out that my cat jumped his fence and beat the shit out of his dog, a 50 pound bastard. In true Hoss fashion, my cat jumped on the dog’s face and clawed the shit out of him.

Normal people would see this and think Gee, my dog’s a pussy. But this neighbor decided that the best course of action was to shoot my cat in the head. That’s the kind of neighbors we are trying to avoid. Which shouldn’t be too hard since we are not living in southern Arkansas where the biggest day of the year is Armadillo Days. Yes, you actually eat armadillos that have been painted read, that’s good eating. Most other people would have called this road kill but we called it fine dining.

After choosing this house and being here for a grand total of 5 days we are starting to pay attention to those around us a little more and I’m sure they have been paying attention to me as I can sense their eyes undressing me every time I carry something heavy, my muscles glistening, my buttocks tightening.

This is our second move in 2 months. The first move my wife’s company paid for which meant I got to be the full on union worker for a day and calmly lean against a stump and critique how they were moving me. And of course since someone else was paying for it I got all the bells and whistles. Sure, full insurance incase of Hurricane, we’ll take it even though we are moving to the Midwest.

But the second move I basically had to do myself because the company only moves you once. I don’t feel so bad now getting the deluxe super tanker truck with the air conditioned boxes and wetbar in the back

. So I rented a big truck and got a dolly and started the heavy lifting into the house that has stairs because any house that my wife picks out that I move into myself always has stairs. She is looking at “living space” and “flow” when she picks out a house while I’m hoping that a good chiropractor is near by. But you do what you have to do to take care of your family even if it means hefting an elephant up a flight of stairs while juggling flaming tiki torches.

When I pulled the truck into the driveway of our new home I took a look around and got a little nervous. I knew that eyes were just beyond the shades of the other houses looking at me. I looked at there extremely well groomed lawns and their swimming pools. I looked at their freshly painted houses. The first thought I thought was “I bet they think I am too poor to afford movers.”

I have no idea why I thought this or why it made me embarrassed but it did. This affected my whole move. Instead of taking my time I practically raced up the flight of stairs daring injury to thwart me. Anything and everything went straight into the garage because that was quicker.

But then I got to thinking that if I stack everything in the garage then we couldn’t pull our cars in. Which meant that we would have to leave our cars parked in the driveway which would immediately peg us lazy and sloppy neighbors and I didn’t want this judgment either. So after putting every thing in the garage I then moved it into the house, by myself.

Halfway through I tripped in the front yard and now believe that everyone here thinks that not only am I fat and lazy slob but I am a fat and lazy slob with no coordination. At that moment I decided that I would move everything into the garage, close the garage door, then move everything into the house away from prying judgmental eyes. I may need mental health treatment for schizophrenia.

This continued for three days and I even refused to move my patio table to the actual patio on the second floor because I didn’t want my neighbors seeing me lug that thing up the steps. I vowed to do that in the middle of the night.

Insane I know, but you really just can’t help it. You do some pretty stupid things when you want to make a good impression.

Luckily though, I think that I have permanently ruined that first impression so that I don’t have to worry about it anymore.

After the second day of moving, while my family was still living back in the hut with the meth addicted cockroaches I decided to try out our brand new Jacuzzi tub.

This is a new experience for me and was a must-have in our new house. All the real furniture had yet to be moved and everything else was still in boxes. No worries though, I had the house to myself and figured I would just walk around and air dry after my foray into that sweet muscle relaxing heaven. I jumped in, grabbed one of my few remaining beers and settled down. I sat there with a big fat chaw, letting my dip cup float in my own filth, enjoying the pulverizing massage my back was getting. Life was good and I thought we would be happy here. I knew that my wife would never let me drink and dip in the tub so I was taking full advantage of this.

Eventually I got out after about 45 minutes and started walking around imagining what the house would look like when we fully moved in. Everyone does this when moving in. What goes where, what color will that be painted, which room can I watch porn in without getting busted by a toddler, you know, the basics.

I looked outside into our backyard and imagined my children playing out there. Sipping my beer, I started to feel ownership. I also noticed that my neighbors were having a pool party, perhaps one day we’ll be invited. That would be nice.

It wasn’t until I walked away and started putting my pants on that I realized that I was looking out a second floor window with the light on behind me, wearing nothing and drinking a beer. Second day in and I have flashed the neighbors at their pool party.

I have no idea if anyone saw me and my man glory. I didn’t hear any screaming but that could have been just from shock.

Hossman has come to your neighborhood, what better way to introduce myself than looking like creepy Flashing Jim.

5/21/08

I'm Back!

For two months I have been without internet access. I have had to go to many lengths to get anything posted on my blog. There may have been some prosititution, maybe some trips across the border with a package given to me at the airport that I did not keep in my possesion the whole time. I feel dirty.

But you do what you have to do man, you do what you have to do. What happens in Peter Pan's World of Midget Wresteling stays at Peter Pan's World of Midget Wrestling.

I have had to hear about my comments from other people. I have not been able to answer any of them personally. There may have been a few comments posted in the guise of me but I hope you were not fooled, I am way more funny and my words are way more attractive. Titikaka.
Easy tiger.

The preceding blog is my first post after getting back online 20 minutes ago, I hope you all enjoy it although I think that it is crap. But it sets the scene for my next several and you can't have a good story without some background, then it's just porn and I don't do porn. If I did though my name would be Johnny Whackadong and my first movie would be Johnny nails the Brady Bunch.

Enjoy and I want to say thank you for all of you that have stuck with me and my lack luster postings and low volume over the preceding months. Welcome to my new readers and I hope to embarass myself even more for your amusement as all I really want is to be loved and praised, but in secret.

May I Please Buy a House?

I am never again going to have anything to do with real estate. Never. Ever. Fuck it, I’m done.

I have my new house, I am happy with it and I am going to die here. I don’t even care if I don’t own it anymore, I’m just saying that I’m not leaving. You know that movie “People Under the Stairs”. That’s going to be me because I’m never, selling or buying another house. I’m completely content to be the scary old guy in the neighborhood who you see in his window holding candle in his bathrobe which he never takes off. I WANT to be that guy, thank you real estate market.

This seems extreme. I know it’s extreme, but I’ve had enough. I’ve sold my old house and bought my new house, most of it while Hossmom was away and out of town. I’m whipped and I’ll admit that I am a broken man.

You see, my problem was that I went into this whole selling our house/buying a new house with the idea of a “fair” deal. That’s all I was looking for. I didn’t want to put one over on anybody, I didn’t want to screw anyone over and I didn’t want to get away with anything.

In hindsight, that’s where I went wrong. It went wrong because basically everyone is trying to fuck over everyone else. I’m worried about karma about buying a foreclosed house while everyone else seemed to be worrying about which rod to ram up my naïve ass. I’m thinking that I will sell my house for what it’s worth and it will be a friendly negotiation. I’m a sucker, I admit it and there is no way I should ever be involved with this shit again. I’m just the pretty face you put on the poster, I shouldn’t be in the backroom making the decisions.

You know how I feel? I feel like the 110lb white guy that got convicted of insider trading and through a paper work error he gets sent to San Quinton with The Gang of Ass Pounders as his cell mates. Except I feel like that guy after the mistake was finally found 6 months later. That is how dealing in the real estate market has made me feel.

Maybe I’m exaggerating here. Nope, that’s still pretty much how I feel.

They said that this was a buyer’s market, that it was a good time to buy because you could get some real deals out there. I’m sure that’s true, but the process to get the deals makes you consider getting kicked in the balls instead. If I knew then versus what I know now and a man came up to me and said he would sell my old house and buy my new house, all for the low low cost of a sledgehammer to the balls, I would have accepted his offer gladly.

It started with selling our house. We sold it in two weeks. I know, that sounds pretty good but it only sounds that way because you don’t fully realize what a sucker I am. I made a profit off it so that should make me feel better but it doesn’t. It doesn’t because in a nutshell I gave away 10,000 bucks to make it happen. I paid the buyer’s closing costs and threw in money to have the house painted as well.

My thought process was that we had to move to Kansas quick because of Hossmom’s new job. I didn’t like the prospect of carrying two mortgages. I should have just painted “sucker” on my forehead and been done with it. What pissed me off is that the people buying the house kept coming back and back and back with extra shit. It was always something new and petty, like there is a shelf on the garage wall, we want to take it down.

Do you really need to ask me to do this? How fucking lazy are you? It got to the point that I told our real estate agent that I didn’t want to hear anything else. I gave instructions that any other conditions the answer was no and that they could walk away.

I hated that month and thought it was over when I closed.

Nope, just beginning.

I thought that whatever I gave away in selling my house I would make up in buying a house since now I was on the other side of the buyer’s market. It’s like playing for the Detroit Lions and finding out all of a sudden you have been traded to New England the last week of the season.

Again, I’m a sucker, an idiot, a rube. I am basically a hillbilly that should have never aspired to live in anything that didn’t have wheels. I’m the guy running a game at the carnival except the game isn’t rigged and everyone else keeps winning all of my stuffed animals. It’s the truth, I just don’t have the knack for this. As a kid I had a buddy do all the trading of my baseball cards because I knew that he could get a better deal than I could.

In Kansas City we saw a little over 90 houses. I’m not exaggerating here, 90+ houses. Hossmom is very picky when it comes to this. It gets to the point that I don’t comment on any house until she tells me she likes it. To do so other wise is just a waste of time. After 3 months of looking and two months living in the hut from hell, we found 2 houses.

This is where the screwing begins as Fair Deal Hossman comes into the picture.

We placed a bid on two houses in those three months. Let me put this to all the readers of my blog. I want you to really think about this. Have you ever, in your entire life, met a real estate agent that was a prick? I mean, seriously, have you? Every one I have ever known is always up beat and positive thinking that they can sell any property in 2 days.

The first house we placed a bid on we dealt with a woman we will call Tina the Twat. She wouldn’t return phone calls from our agent, would come back with sob stories from the owner and was basically a lazy idiot who would only use an answering service and never answer her phone.

We pulled out because basically the owner wanted 1500 bucks if the closing papers weren’t signed. It didn’t matter who was responsible for the closing papers weren’t signed, it could have been him. So basically he wrote into the contract that if he chose not to sign the closing papers on the big day, he would get 1500 bucks of our money and get to keep the house. Dipshit. I hope his house burns down.

The next house we placed a bid on was a foreclosed house. This is supposed to be a good thing to do. Sure, the process is a little longer but you are supposed to get a better deal.

Two weeks after we started the negotiations with Jackie the Clap, the real estate agent we had to deal with, we got notice that another bidder was in the mix and that negotiations were over. We had to submit a blind bid with no idea of what we were up against. And it basically killed any negotiations. This is bullshit.

So we placed a bid and kept inquiring for a week about what was going on. Jackie the Clap’s responses to our agent were rude and condescending. I swear to you, if we weren’t living in the hut I would have walked away and told Jackie the Clap to go fuck herself. I would rather give hand jobs to the homeless than work with that lady again.

We did get the house so I was prepared to let everything go but the real estate gods decided that one more fucking of Fair Deal Hossman was in order.

Part of our deal was that the seller, who appears to be Fannie Mae, pay our closing costs. They accepted it.

Accept when I show up there are 4000 bucks of closing costs added to our final payout total. Ever so politely, I asked what the fuck, donkey balls Jackie?

I was then informed the seller was paying our closing costs but we were paying the sellers closing costs. I have always wanted to throw a chair through a window, just for the dramatic effect.

So here’s what happened. Fannie Mae apparently doesn’t pay it’s own closing costs, ever. That would have been good to know. My feeling however is that this should have been negotiated on rather than slid in there. We pulled out the signed contract and were directed to a back page. The wording is very vague and it would appear that our meaning of it is not there meaning of it. I would post the wording here but after the closing I had my dogs take a shit on it. I’m planning to mail it to Jackie.

Is it just me or should this have been a negotiated? Apparently this is Fannie Mae practice. Sure, I’m an idiot and apparently my wife and I and our real estate agent can’t read a contract but come on, doesn’t this seem backdoor to you? What pisses me off is that when Jackie the Clap faxed over the contract she made a couple things clear: 1. We or our agent were not to write the contract, ever. 2. We had to have the contract and a cashier’s check by 10am the next morning. We got the contract at 4.

I don’t write this to lessen my culpability but it does seem that high pressure tactics were used in order to fuck us over.

In the end I decided fuck it, we loved the house and I wasn’t willing to have my family continue living in a craphole.

I moved us this weekend and I’m glad it’s over. Although I admit, there is a part of me that is waiting for someone to show up and ask us what the hell we are doing in their house. Why, I’m just the guy living in the attic.

5/19/08

Moving Day - Part Deux

Please be patient with the Hossman Family while we complete our third (and final) move in less than three months. We will be in our new and entirely too grown-up house by tonight. Internet connection will be arriving on Wednesday, so hold tight for more family fun!

5/14/08

Mano e Mano

Little Hoss would not go down for her nap. There was fighting, there was fussing. There were Jihads issued but she would not go down. She is the queen of the stall.

No, no dad, I can’t go to sleep because I don’t have my pacifier. It somehow ended up being flung across the room and now is behind the bookshelves. I have no idea how this happened, Dad, I swear. But it’s behind the bookshelves.

10 minutes later…………..

Ya know Dad, it’s the damndest thing. My pacifier is again behind the bookshelves. I think we may have gremlins but hey, what are you going to do?

This went on for about 3 hours and ended with me just putting on my headphones and rocking to some mindless violence on my xbox. It helps destroying teenager’s egos rather than beating my kids or taking my anger out on some helpless passer-by. I would not walk your dog near my house between 3 and 4 pm.

As punishment, because I am Dad and all must feel my wrath, I decried that there will be no Backyardigans for any children that do not go down for a nap.

So we didn’t watch any, which she did not enjoy and instead substituted a little forced SportsCenter—she’ll thank me for it later.

I thought that was it, I have proved my point. Again, if this blog doesn’t make this completely clear: I am a fool. Seriously, I shouldn’t be raising kids. I freely admit that I have no qualifications whatsoever. A 2 year old out smarts me on a daily basis.

Hossmom gets home and we eat dinner. Then we put the kids to bed and I think that this is it and that no revenge will be coming my way from the Backyardigans play I made earlier.

An hour into bedtime and we notice that there is noise coming from Little Hoss’s bedroom.

We walk in and there is my daughter, not making a peep, watching South Park on the TV I put in her bedroom when we moved into the hut. I know, many many mistakes here on my part, let’s just let that go.

Little Hoss is giggling under her breath while she is sitting on the floor. She knows that she isn’t supposed to be watching TV and I had no idea she could even turn it on and then find cartoons.

We turn it off and Hossmom is shocked that she seems to know the characters on South Park. I let it slip that we watch it together in the mornings.

“You let a 2 year old watch South Park?” she says while giving me the look of death. Ah, another parenting snafu compliments of Hossman.

“Um, yes?” I say trying to make it sound like a question because I am really just trying to give any answer that won’t get me in trouble.

“She can’t watch South Park!”

I try to back peddle, I try to explain but I pretty much know at this point that it is hopeless and that my conniving, manipulative little daughter played me, she played me hard. Now I am in shit and she knows it as well as I do.

Try as I might to explain that a 2 year old can’t understand the words or what is going on, that it’s just pretty pictures to her, Hossmom is not buying it.

Then Hossom decrees that there will be no more South Park.

Oh, touché my little one, touché.

I see the game that you are playing, I see it very well. I drink your milkshake, I drink it up!

This almost seems to be a Shakespearian plot of betrayal and revenge. Bruce Willis will play me in the movie.

5/12/08

Play Ball!

Before we begin today's tale, a quick "congratulations" today for our friends B & D on the birth of their new baby girl. A lifetime of pink dresses and ponies awaits you.

May 1, 4:15pm.

That is the date that needs to be kept in posterity because one day a sports caster who is covering the Yankees will ask my daughter how long she has been playing baseball. She can then say, with confidence, that her dad began teaching her how to play on May 1, at 4:15 pm.

I know that the big money in baseball is with the hitters, juiced or no. If you can hit homeruns, you can bank. There is that and a somewhat sneaking suspicion that my daughter may be a little of a clod so I figured we would start off with the long ball. This is not a knock against my daughter, it’s just genetic. Her father is somewhat a clod as well and her mother has only a vague acquaintance with grace. We are a family of fat-footed clod hoppers, and proud of it.

I bought my daughter a T-ball set, pink of course and took her to the backyard. Being a good father, I had expected this first hitting instruction to last a good 3 hours. We would work on keeping the head down and elbow up until the sunset and then go in for some supplements. Yup, I was confident that I would get a 2 year old to do one activity for 3 hours. Then I would show her the skill of charging 10 bucks for an autograph.

My first concern was the size of the backyard. It’s actually a pretty big back yard with at least 40 feet of space on the long side. I was pretty sure that I would spend a lot of my time hopping the fence getting the homers that she would surely send over the fence. My daughter is Hoss.

Ok, yeah, I’ll admit it. My expectations may have been a little high.

I set the ball on the T and told her to start hitting. I scooted back ready to commence with some diving catches and words of encouragement. You would think that I would have also put on a cup given the video’s from America’s Funniest Home Videos, but I was also sure that my little girl was not only a long ball hitter that she was a place hitter as well. There is no way she would ever hurt her Daddy. I have been proven correct but not for the reason I thought.

Little Hoss walked up to the T with the oversized bat. She looked at the ball and then stood on the right side of it. She looked at me, a smirk of confidence on her face.

She then took the ball off the T and put in on the ground. Then, she used her caveman club to hit the ball on the top while screaming “No”. Apparently she thought the ball was doing something bad. In baseball its always healthy to have anger at a ball that goes no where so I couldn’t blame her for this to much and I also realized that I may have been dreaming a little high for my slugger.

I honestly expected her to walk right up, address the ball with a grimace, spit and then hit one clear over the Green Monster that is the tree in the backyard.

We might have to go back to basics. In fact, I should probably teach her what the basics are before we go back to them.

We started with the two hand grip that transforms this club of destruction to a club of glory. We spent a good 20 minutes on this one facet and Little Hoss deserves praise for having that much attention span. Of course, this was a little forced on her as when she ran away from her fundamental obsessed father I was screaming “Two hands, baby! Two hands.” She might have thought we were playing chase. But eventually she got the idea.

Now that that was done, we had to go to hitting the ball. I calmly explained to my daughter that the most important part of the long ball was making good contact and hitting the sweetspot, which I then outlined for her. As her head swiveled around from a squirrel to a bird I kept shuffling in front of her pointing out the “sweetspot” and it was thus that our lesson continued.

Again I got her to address the ball on the right hand side. I spit for her because I haven’t’ taught her that part just yet. I told her to let it rip and she just looked at me. No problems, no problems at all. I am a man of patience. I got behind her and told her to swing, then I took her arms in mine and showed her how it was done.

Now she was ready for a solo hit. I put the ball back on the tee and gave her the swing away sign which I had previously shown her was a touch of my ballcap and a swipe across my chest, but only if it wasn’t followed by an ear pull which would then negate the previous command and tell her to take the pitch while the runner on first stole second. Basics, always teach the basics.

Swing away kid, there were no ear pulls today. Let’s give the fans something to cheer about.

She put the bat against the ball and very gently “pushed” the ball off the tee.

We all went apeshit. The dogs started barking, I was jumping up and down and I could almost hear the pro scouts burning up my phone lines. After all, my daughter’s second attempt and she had already made contact! This, my friends, is what we refer to in the business as a prodigy.

I have also taught my daughter the art of shagging baseballs as well. I have shagged way too much in my younger life, it’s her turn. I’m management.

She got the ball away from the dog, who just wanted to chase it and place it next to a big pile of poop, and put it back on the tee.

Again, we went through the ritual and she again “pushed” the ball off the tee. This continued for another 10 minutes but each push was a little bit harder than the last. No problems, we are just warming up like every big leaguer does.

Now though it was time to teach her the art of the swing, how the power of the hit comes from the rotation of the hips and the proper action of stepping toward the pitcher.

However, before we could get to this very important part of the game the dog stole the ball off the tee. Little Hoss, being the superb athlete that she is, quickly grabbed her bat and turned it back into the caveman club gleefully chasing after the dog.

My daughter’s first brawl, also another great teaching opportunity. I chased after her yelling “Protect the pitcher! Protect the pitcher!”

I get 10% of whatever she makes.

5/6/08

The Foreclosure

We are closing on our new house in less than a week. Of course I’m ready to leave the Hut that we are currently living in. My morning routine is to get up, feed the kids, smack the crap out of my head on the bathroom door as I sit for my morning glory, trip over two dogs that are laying in the only hallway, and then punt a cat that has mistaken that I somehow care that they are unhappy with the final art poo piece they have displayed in the kitchen. And that, my friends, is a run on sentence.

Like I’ve said before, the house we are buying is a foreclosed house. I have gone way past any issues that I have about forcing another family out. The neighborhood seems to have several nosy neighbors so I have been able to piece up a pretty good history of it.

The house hasn’t been lived in for two years according to the two senior walkers that I met the other day. There had been a nasty divorce, the police were called and it caused quite the uproar. The house was then foreclosed on but the man broke back into the home and continued to live there until he was evicted.

I begin to wonder how these two neighbors knew all this. Were they just observing or do they camp out on the front lawn? Either way, since the house hasn’t been lived in for 2 years, I felt much better about not screwing anyone over. Well, no one except the termites. They gotta go.

It was an interesting process buying this house. Everyone told me it would be and that we would get a good deal. I suppose we did get a pretty good deal but if the truth be told, I’m not all that happy. If we had more time I would have probably pulled out.

The real estate agent that we had to deal with was a complete and total douche bag. This brings up a philosophical question that maybe my readers will comment on. Can a female be a douche bag? You know I have never thought about it before today and I don’t know. But this is the time of equality. If a woman can become president, then certainty they can become douche bags.

My hats off to you real estate lady, the first female douche bag of your generation.

Every real estate agent I had ever met has always been super nice. So nice that you are sure that they are faking it and really secretly hate you. But when you are fixing to drop a load of cash, this is exactly what you want. You want someone to pander to you. You want them to agree with everything you say. You want that sycophant to be lapping up every little witty morsel you throw your way.

“Of course sir, what a witty and insightful comment. Here, have some panties thrown at you.”

That’s what your want and by god that is what you should get. When you spend more money than Peru’s gross domestic product, you want your ass kissed. After all, you know that they are about to bank on what you are plunking down, so pucker up.

If you don’t get that then I suppose its ok. But when the level of attitude drops even further, then you have a real problem. Ms. Real Estate douche bag turned out to be just a rude and unprofessional bitch. I think my wife is finally going to forgo her no hitting policy that she has lived her life by and back slap this chick.

By the way, if she does, I’m so going to have me some sex. Chick fight is a total turn-on.

It started out as little things, such as her not returning phone calls or emails. It then progressed into real estate lady sending pretty shitty emails. They were usually filled with what we could and could not do and how fast we must do them. My general attitude was fuck you, I’m the one spending the cash here and last time I checked, you weren’t Ms. Whitaker my fifth grade English teacher and the women I have ever feared.

That woman was terrifying but hey, I still know that you don’t end a sentence with a preposition on fear of public humiliation. Terrifying.

It then progressed from there. The real estate lady got pissed because our agent wrote a contract when it was clear that only she could write the contract. Then there were demands. She didn’t return our calls for 4 days and when she did she put deadlines on her demands.

This kind of stuff really pissed me off. The question that I had to ask myself was do I hate this lady more or do I hate the Hut I am currently living in? I was pondering this question when I noticed that ants were apparently having a house party in my kitchen, complete with little ant strippers and underage ant drinking. I can’t have that around my children.

Besides, I have my real estate agent to buffer me from uber-bitch. Our agent is the kind that you want. We have looked at over 100 houses, Hossmom is hard to please. Our agent hasn’t bitched or moaned at all and even brings cheese on our trips. I love cheese.

Luckily this is almost over and we close on the 12th. My wife is planning a shock and awe campaign of revenge once this is all over by a series of letters and phone calls. I wish her the best of luck. Meanwhile I will be moving heavy stuff and not caring. That’s the kind of supportive husband that I am.

And for you Ms. Whitaker, who taught me true fear:

I will end a sentence any god damn way I want to.

Except when I’m sure you will read it, then I will use proper grammar. You still terrify me.

5/5/08

Lost in Translation

I was all geared up to write a very nice blog. I was going to write about teaching my daughter something or maybe buying our new house and all the shit we have had to go through with that.

But tonight I can’t. I can’t because today Little Hoss was possessed by the devil.

Now, some of my readers without kids out there think that I mean that my child was being very, very, very, very, very bad today. However those with kids know that I mean that my child was actually so bad that I am pretty damn sure that the devil must have possessed her and if she gets out of her bed one more god damn time I am going to call the Pope to take care of this.

So tonight I’m not much in the mood to write something witty or endearing. I’m in no mood to do that what so ever. Little Hoss was too much today. I don’t mean that she was a handful. I mean that I thought about looking into adoption right after she decided to stuff a handful of goldfish into the mouth of my 7 month old son causing panic attack number 9 of the day. Then she stole a half gallon of Drano from Home Depot. Seriously, she took off with a half gallon of Drano and Hossmom and I didn’t figure it out until we got home. Possessed, I tell you.

I have been forced today to whip out every parent saying that I have and a few that I made up on the spot. To the untrained ear it may seem like I am a caring parent dispensing good advice or gentle reprimands. It may even seem like I am just going about my day. However, to other parents who say the same things as me, they know that the phrases I have used have an entirely different meaning, such as “possessed by the devil.”

Let me offer you some translations so that when you hear other parents say these things, you can be clued in to what is really happening.

Parent Says: “It’s time for bed.”
Meaning: It’s actually 4 hours before bedtime but daddy needs to drink real bad right about now. Daddy needs to drink not only one but 30 and this would be easier for me to do if you were in your room quietly. So run along now, Daddy’s getting drunk. If I’m lucky, your mom will join in and then we can give you another brother or sister to help terrorize us.

Parent Says: “Honey, you need to learn to share.”
Meaning: Look, I can’t afford two of everything for Chrissakes. You don’t even like that toy and didn’t even want it until someone else picked it up. If you don’t give up that toy I am going to throw it in the garbage disposal and make you flip the switch.

Parent Says: “Honey, play nice.”
Meaning: If you are going to kick that kid’s ass at least do it away from my eyes so that I don’t have to deal with it or the other kid’s parents. If I see you fighting, I am honor-bound to stop it. It’s a parent thing. However, if I don’t see it, I can just play dumb. If you get your ass kicked, don’t come home.

Parent Says: “One at a time please.”
Meaning: The laws of physics prevent you from putting that many Cheerio’s in your mouth. I don’t govern these laws and am therefore powerless to increase your Cheerio stuffing power. I admire your ambition but I don’t think Guinness has a world record for this. And quit spitting them on the floor, the dog won’t eat them. And if the dog won’t eat them then I have to ignore them for the entire day until your mother gets home.

Parent Says: “Do you have to go potty?”
Meaning: Look slick, do your really have to take a whiz or do you just want to go sit on the toilet for 2 seconds so you can then stuff a roll of toilet paper in there and watch it go down? If you have to take a leak, fine, we’ll do that. But if you are just getting me up out of my chair to play Toilet Overflow again I’m going to be pissed. And no, splashing in the toilet water when it overflows is not funny.

Parent Says: “No honey, you cannot have any Go-gurt right now, dinner’s almost ready.”
Meaning: Dinner is still a good two hours away but you can’t have any Go-gurt because: 1: Yogurt in a tube is gross and I can’t believe I was such a sucker to the advertising that I actually bought this filth. 2. You don’t so much as eat it as you smear it on the carpet and 3: When you eat this stuff you get really smelly gas and your poop steams when its time to change your diaper and you know what, I don’t want to have to deal with that today.

Parent Says: “Let’s go to the park.”
Meaning: Why don’t you run around on the playground equipment while I sit my lazy ass down on a bench and read a book? That sounds fantastic. And sure, you can jump in that big mud puddle as long as you have the understanding that you are walking home if you do.

Parent Says: “Sweetheart, eat your dinner.”
Meaning: You have a couple of options here, let me explain them to you. You can either eat your dinner like a nice little girl or I can open your mouth with a rib spreader and pour in the macaroni and cheese. It’s really your choice and I am good either way.

Parent Says: “Don’t throw this again.”
Meaning: That’s a hell of an arm you got there kid, I’m actually impressed. If you do throw it again I’m probably going to be ok with it.

Parent Says: “Leave the cat alone.”
Meaning: Go ahead, piss off the cat and don’t listen to your old man. When that old bag of evil scratches you, it will be your own damn fault. Of course I will give you a hug when it happens so that you know that you should always, always, always listen to your Daddy, for the rest of your life. Don’t date guys named Chester either. Or guys in a rock band. Or guys that drive a T-bird. Just don’t date, ok?

Parent Says: “Elephant. Can you say Elephant?”
Meaning: As a parent, I am judged on your performance in the world. If you can say words, big words like Elephant, then I look like the greatest parent in the entire world to complete strangers. If you continue to say words like “poot” and “booty” then I look like a redneck hick from Texas. Let’s keep the redneck at home, ok? No one likes that guy.

Parent Says: “Honey, Dad has to go to the bathroom now, ok?”
Meaning: Go away, I want to crap in peace.


Parent Says: “Don’t steal the Drano.”
Meaning: Steal it when I’m not looking so that I have plausible deniability. That shits expensive and it never hurts to have Drano around.

5/2/08

Assault with a Decorative Weapon

In my defense, the lady stopped in the middle of the aisle. I just want to make that clear from the outset here. Seriously, who stops in the middle of an aisle?

This is a pet peeve of mine that runs back many, many years. In high school it is was the group of people that stop in the middle of the busiest stairs to chat while 200 people try to get around them. In college it was the drunk chicks that stopped right in front of the bar, thus preventing anyone else from getting a beer. And in the real world, its people that stop in a busy walkway to answer a cell phone, chat to a friend or just go brain dead and keeps the rest of us cattle securely locked in the chutes. I need a cattle prod.

You know these people, we’ve all seen them. Are you one? If you are, you should hate yourself.

I was in the grocery store, right at the beginning. We weren’t actually anywhere near the food aisle, we were just coming in. I had Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss loaded up in the deluxe cart, the one that looks like a police car. It’s the Cadillac of shopping carts; nothing but the best for my kids. Normally, I handle these big behemoths like I’m on the shopping cart racing circuit. I can whip your ass to that last loaf of bread.

Hossmom is afraid to drive these big carts. I don’t think she can handle the power. Give me four on the floor baby, I rock.

Today though, Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss were having somewhat of a problem. Little Hoss wanted to ride in Bubba Hoss’s car seat and was trying to pull him down from his precarious perch. I am also an expert at pushing the cart with my hip while I whack kids at the same time. At least I thought so.

So I admit it, I wasn’t paying attention. Whamo! I smack a lady right in front of me.

It wasn’t a tap, it wasn’t an easy bump or shove. You know when a shopping cart smacks your heel and your shoe comes off and you get really pissed off. This was worse than that.

I hit this lady bad. The top of the cart whacked her square in the small of her back causing her to actually hyperextend her back. She grabbed onto her cart and stumbled forward, for a moment there I thought she was going over. If a cop was nearby, it would have been assault.

She whipped her head around and stared right at me.

What do you do in a situation like this? It was an accident, I swear. I was distracted by Darth Maul trying to pull the gimp from the cart. I admit that I wasn’t looking ahead. Immediately I said I was sorry in my most mortified voice. I limply pointed to the two weasels who continued to fight for the primo spot in the cart as my lame excuse. I did every thing except prostrate myself at her feet.

I was stumbling over my words continuing to try and apologize. I continued because the “fuck you” look was the only response she was giving. So awkward when you continue to talk and get nothing back.

The understanding thing here would have been for her to tell me it was no big deal and we could both just move on down the road. However, I don’t think that this lady was in the forgiving mood. She looked from me down to my kids and then seemed to pass her silent judgment that said “Well, I see where you kids get their behavior.” This is where I started getting a little pissed.

I mean, I probably had no right to be pissed as I pretty much rearranged her spine, but come on, it was an accident. It’s not like I get my kicks by going around with a shopping carts ramming old hippies and their wheat grass teas. How would I know that hippies like to shop between 9am and 10am on the third Mondays of every month?

During my stare down from Angry Judging Lady, I continued to apologize. This went on for a good 4 minutes without a word. All I wanted to do was slink away. I wanted to go back to my slimy hole with my slimy kids, never to bother you again Ma’am.

I still just can’t say though that it was my fault entirely. Try something for me. Go out to a farm and start a stampede. Then lay down in front of them. What do you think is going to happen? Ok, don’t really do that because then you will sue me for inciting stupidity, assuming you live through the stampede. But you get my point.

This lady just stopped in the middle of the walkway. It was as if the choice to go straight for the milk or stop and browse the book aisle was just too much for her. So she stopped to consult the gods, maybe throw the bones and get a reading. And as I result, I ran her down like a botched mob hit.

Eventually, I just bowed my head and took my two heathens down towards the junk food aisle because obviously as a father of such rough necks I would never feed them good vegetables. I also felt I had to get out of there before her personal injury lawyer showed up.

5/1/08

Drafting

Just a word of warning: This is an entry about the NFL draft. You might want to move on.

Ok, let’s get right to it.

Both of my brothers in law are from Chicago, which means they are huge Bears fans. I am from Texas, which makes me a Cowboys fan so naturally I hate them. I don’t hate them for our teams competing against each other, but I hate them because the Chicago Bears can’t get their shit together. I’m going to help them out and in doing so help out all Bears fans so you guys will shut the hell up.

I will try to make this as clear possible so that Bears fans will understand this:

Draft a quarterback for the love of almighty god.

Seriously, how fucking difficult is it? It’s your turn to pick. You bring up a card. On that card is the name of a quarterback, any quarterback. At this point, it doesn’t matter. You give the card to the person calling out the names—he’s the dude by the microphone. He reads the card and there you go, you have a quarterback.

How hard is that?? I ask you, seriously, explain this to me. HOW HARD IS IT FOR CHICAGO TO PICK A FUCKING QUARTERBACK!

It’s not rocket science for Christ’s sake! It doesn’t even require a lot of thought. You have a top 20 pick. Go down to Barnes and Nobles and get a football magazine. In that magazine it will tell you who the top 5 quarterbacks are. Pick which ever one is still left when it’s your turn.

I know that it may seem like I am passionate about this and that would be a correct assumption, I am. I am because every fucking year I hear the same god damn thing from Uncle Bricksalesman and Uncle Hippie. “Naw man, Rex Grossman is going to come on this year. Just give him some time. You know since he was hurt this is really his rookie year.”

I hear that until about game number 6. At which point they both lament on how terrible Rex Grossman is.

I’m tired of it. I can’t take it anymore. I’m done.

And don’t give me that bullshit about Grossman taking you to the Super Bowl. You got their IN SPITE of Grossman. And guess what happened? Crap city, that’s what happened. It was your first Super Bowl in 20 years and you had Grossman at the helm. What did you think was going to happen? The highlight of your game was a kickoff return. That’s not good when you rely solely on a fast dude returning kicks.

So seriously, Chicago, draft a fucking quarterback already! Don’t do it in the 5th round or the 6th round, do it right the fuck away. Why does this escape you guys so much? I don’t get it.

Just look at the obvious. Grossman looks like my daughter when she takes a crap. He flops around a lot and then drops the ball.

Look, I know that Cowboys fans can be a bunch of pricks that expects its team to go to the Super Bowl every year. You’re god damn right we do and maybe if you guys started taking that approach, you might get a serviceable QB. Staubach, White, Aikman and Romo. There you go, 4 QBs. You had McMann. Time to let go guys, time to let go.

Grossman sucks. Accept it. He is not the future. Draft a QB.

But what do you do at this year’s draft. You get some defense, throw a safety in there and yes, another running back. And what the hell, you also draft a wide receiver. How in gods name are you going to get the ball to him? This ain’t touch football boys, you gotta have a QB that doesn’t also play center when he doesn’t want to run anymore.

I can hear my brothers in law now: “The Bears had a great draft. We filled a lot of holes.”

Shut up you two. No, you didn’t have a great draft. You got a bunch of players that are going to flounder because the man controlling the ball is better at tickling taints than he is at passing.

“But what about the long ball? He can throw the long ball.”

Sure, he can throw the long ball on occasion. But if you give me a pair of Underoos I bet I could fit my fat ass in them. It’s not pretty, but I can do it. So do you get what I’m saying now?

Bite the bullet, trade every pick you got next years for the first draft pick. Then don’t get fancy. Go down to the local Starbucks and ask any male there who is the best QB in this year’s draft. Better yet, just pick that guy to do your draft. Then you guys go home and have a beer and watch Dancing with the Stars.

Hopefully McMann will be on there and you can relive your glory days.