The BlueHouse Texans

Meeting new people sucks. It’s always so weird. All the questions go through your head as you are trying to make that good first impression. Do they like me? Do I have something in my teeth? Are my pants unzipped? Are they swingers and if so would they want us to join? I don’t know how I would handle that question but it would probably go something like this:


Sorry, my wife and I have been watching that show Swingtown and naturally assume that all of our new neighbors are closet freaks waiting to bring us into there sensual lair.

It’s always so awkward making new friends so when we had the chance to go to the neighborhood pool party we thought that this might be a great chance to break the ice with a bunch of people we don’t know. We want to be good neighbors, honestly we do. But it’s weird when you are the new kid in the lunchroom.

I try to be very friendly when we do stuff like this. I make the jokes and see if I get an honest laugh or just one that covers up what they are really thinking such as “This guy is a douche, get me out of here.”

I choose not to wear a bathing suit to the pool party. No need freaking people out with the abundance of my back hair on the first date. That’s more of a third date kind of thing. By the way, I caught a gray hair on my back the other day. Again I ask God, what the fuck man? I’m already bald, do I really need this to.

Hossmom and I show up with the two kids in tow. Hossmom is pretty good at things like this. Not so much the meeting new people thing but obsessing until each member of her family looks groovy. My daughter was looking smashing in a dress and my son had his Hawaiian party shirt on, very cool. At the very least, the kids don’t look like street rats begging for spare bread.

Little Hoss has a hissy fit as soon as we get there as she wants to jump into the pool right away and is actively trying to shed her shirt. A vision of her being in highschool and doing this at some lake with boys around jumps into my head. If Jason Vorhees could just take care of the rest of them and leave my daughter alone, I’d appreciate it.

We get her changed into her swimming pool and we head to the little 2 foot area. I figure this is a good place to meet people with little kids like mine. Maybe my daughter will dunk some other 2 year old and there you go, instant conversation.

As it happens, she does. Bingo, I’m making friends.

The neighborhood looks to be a pretty tight group of people. Almost immediately I am labeled: The guy in the blue house that’s from Texas.

It freaks me out that people seem to know this as I haven’t really talked to anyone before. They all say that they saw our plates and that’s how they knew we were from Texas and not, as I believed at first, that Texans are just more imposing and awesome. That’s right Kansas, I said Texans are awesome.

We all make small talk and soon we are being introduced as the Bluehouse Texans. And it also seems that everyone we meet knows a lot about the history of our house. That it was foreclosed on, that the people before us got a divorce, things like that. It’s almost like they are holding back though.

“Oh, you bought the bluehouse?” they say as their eyes wander away.

First off, I’m not that boring that I can’t hold your attention. I’m funny guy, love me.

So since I know that I’m not boring, my mind comes up with another reason why we are getting this look. They obviously know something more about my house that they feel uncomfortable talking to me about. And somehow, even though I just moved here, I feel responsible for whatever secret this is.

It could be the whole Indian burial ground thing although that’s not very original, but still, a possibility. But as we have had no Carol Ann’s talking through the TV set I don’t think that’s it.

It couldn’t be a murder because someone would have told us that one. Like the same people who didn’t tell us that Fannie Mae doesn’t pay their closing costs. Sure.

My personal bet is a brothel used to operate out of here and it got busted and one of the ladies of the evening was Angelina Jolie. That one I like and I entertain myself in lulls of meeting people by wondering how much she would charge and how a guy like me could hook something like that up. I’m guessing a I need a million dollars and some abs. I’ll get right on both of those as I’m continue to not work for any money and don’t do crunches.

Finally the last couple we meet makes a slip of the tongue and I get the secret out.

“Ya know, they used to have that house painted the most awful brown. It was hideous.” She says.

“I’m sorry” I reply.

Again, I have no idea why I’m sorry about something like this that occurred before I moved in. It makes no logical sense that I would offer an apology but I did and I have no idea why I did this. Brown. Our house used to be brown. That’s it, that seems to be what no one wanted to tell me. I don’t really know why this is.

Maybe I’m just reading to much into this. Or maybe I’m not reading enough into this.

What if “brown” is code for “we’re swingers and would love to take the bluehouse Texans for a ride.”

Saddle up darling, this bronco bucks.

(Editors note: that may have been the dumbest closeing line I have ever written.)


All Geared UP and No One to Hit

For the record, this wasn't my fault. I just want to make that perfectly clear at the beginning of this. It wasn't me. You are not going to believe me when you read this. In fact, I doubt that most of my family doesn't believe me when I saw it wasn't me. But it wasn't.

I like to think that I'm a pretty normal dad. I adore my daughter and my son. I take them every where with me. I'm at the point where I feel very confident when I'm out and about with my two little minions doing my bidding. I do normal dad things most of the times. We go to the park, the zoo and Home Depot. I teach my daughter things like how to salute the flag (did that one today) and I teach my son to guard his crotch when Little Hoss is feeling "punchy". That's when we call the cat.

And of course, like most fathers, I rough house with them. There is some throwing, there may be some top rope action and now-a-days I'm doing the pull the shirt over the head Hockey fight technique. You have to teach them all kinds of ways. Next week is drunk boxing. I have no idea what drunk boxing is but I saw it being uploaded to Neo in the movie the Matrix and I have always wondered what kind of style that is. Do I puke first or hit on your woman first? We'll get there. I suppose that the only thing that makes me a little different is that I'm a stay at home dad. But other than that, I'm pretty normal.

With all that in mind I suppose that it is no wonder that we found ourselves in the emergency room with Little Hoss at about 9 pm last Saturday night. She was screaming her head off because she had gotten hurt.

It was her little arm. It's time's like these that you forget everything as a father and just look at your little girl and wonder how she could ever be so small. Sure, you brag to people about how she is in the 90th percintile in hieght, how she can tackle the dog now and put him in a headlock and how why just the other day she found Osama Bin Laden and made him write a full page apology.

But when she's hurt, she just looks so tiny, so fragile. In contrast, this is when the "DAD GENE " kicks in, at least for me, and you seem to gain a good 20 pounds of muscle. You are looking for the culprit who hurt your precious little girl and looking to whip a little ass to make her feel better. I have no idea why you feel this way, but you do.

The truly hard part though is that there is usually no one to punch when this happens. There is no one you can put in a figure four leg lock until they swear to Jesus himself that whatever they did, they will never do it again. I think that God must think that this is funny. Because what you end up doing is pacing a small emergency room and wondering why the god damn nurse is taking so god damn long to bring your little angel some god damn water.

You also end up wondering why the god damn nurse is also so god damn calm, can't she hear your little girl screaming? China can hear her screaming for pity's sake so I either have a deaf nurse or she can't keep from undressing me with her eyes everytime she comes in. I choose option B because that makes me look cool and hot and not overweight and balding. I like cool and hot better.

So you scoop up your little girl because she needs her dad right now and that's me, cool and hot dad with my little toddler screaming and holding her arm. You pace around the room with your little girl slobbering all over your shirt so much that now you are in a wet t-shirt contest. Again, no nurse.

But you don't care. I've done a lot of gross things for my kids, things that I will certaintly bring up one day when they want to date Chester the highschool drop out who "knows the band". At that moment, I will bring up the fact that I held my daughter while she puked down my back because she was scared and I didn't let go of her so how can she break my heart like this? I plan years in advance.

The nurse comes in and I'm a little disappointed that it's not a male nurse. I might be able to punch him a little bit but I can't a female, it's just not in me. I grew up in the south and if I did that I'm sure that my entire redneck family would show up and horsewhip me and I wouldn't complain because I would deserve it. But I am a little at the end of my own rope here. I also notice that the nurse's eyes seem to be staring at my wet shirt.

In my best "do this or get an asswhiping" voice, I suggest that my daughter needs some pain killers as soon as possible and we would really very much appreciate it if the doctor would stop checking his own prostate and perhaps get his medical ass over here. I swear, I was gentle. I look over at Hossmom and she gives me the nod of approval for the way I'm handeling things.

Here's a little secret for you others out there. My wife may no approve of violence of any kind, but there are a few times, such as this, where she would actually be ok with me popping someone. She would say she wouldn't be, but the nod says different. It's her little girl to and Hossmom is glad she can call upon the muscles when she really needs to. She'll never admit it, but I see it.

The nurse agrees and saunters out of the room and I continue to hold my little girl who is still crying but not as much now. I start trying to make her laugh, which is the dad back up plan when a haymaker won't fix anything. I do jokes, funny voices, point out that there are two beds in the room and that indeed is crazy. It works to a point and she calms down enough to tell me that she hurts. The fact that she can verbilize this now I think is more heartbreaking than before and I would do anything if she would just feel better. I hurt my self all the time and I find it amazing that I actually still have all my fingers.

The doctor comes and asks what happened. The nurse, the doc and hell, even my own wife looks at me like they all know that I did it somehow. That maybe we were on the roof testing out new hangliders. But no sir, not this time, this time it's not dad.

One of the habits that my daughter has gotten into of late is throwing herself off things. She does this mainly because good old dad is always there to catch her and throw her into the air. We laugh and then go back deciding how we would bomb Russia. It's a fun game that my son is now starting to get into.

Unfortunatly, this time, I wasn't there. Hossmom was.

Dum, dum, dum, the plot takes a twist!

I also find that my wife looking at me like all the others somewhat weird. Sure honey, I'll take the rap for this one because I don't like you being hurt either. And I can tell by the mountains of tears that you have been crying that you are breaking inside just like me. Seriously, sometimes being dad sucks balls because you have to be strong when everyone else seems to be breaking down. Sometimes I want to too.

It turns out that my daughter launched herself out of a chair. Not feet first mind you, but sideways. This was intentional on her part, not bad footing. She was trying to fly like superman because usually I grab her before she hits the ground. Most times.

This time Hossmom was with her and Hossmom reached out and grabbed her arm. Hossmom was pulling up as Little Hoss was plumeting down and pop, her elbow got dislocated.

It's called nursemaids elbow and is apparently very common in very small kids. The ulna pops out of the joint and according to my daughter, hurts worse than a finger in the eye.

In slow motion replay, I have determined that team Hossmom/Little Hoss did not have enough communication doing this daring move. Perhaps some more practice time between partners would have helped. They should have started small, like launching off pillows and lincoln logs first. But my daughter is a dare devil and says damn the risks.

After the examination the doctor had to put her joint back together which apparently is done by grabbing her elbow and making her scream more. During this, I debate whether punching the doctor would do any good while he is making Little Hoss scream and cry worse than before. Before long he says he got it but I don't know if I trust him. I don't know really why but it's probably a lingering effect of him making Little Hoss scream. But I don't punch him. In fact, I don't punch anyone and we finally get out of there at midnight. Little Hoss is in a sling which she thinks is "crazy" as well. I agree. Hossmom looks almost pale and is tired. I get home and put everyone to bed, Dad did good.

She was in the sling over the weekend until we went to our doctor on Monday. She examines little Hoss and wants more x-rays, just incase to make sure nothing is broken. She asks me how this happens.

At that exact moment Little Hoss luanches herself off the examining table.

"Pretty much like that" I explain as I swoop and grab my daughter before she smacks the floor.

Not to brag, but I'm a pretty great dad sometimes.



We are finally jut about done with all the unpacking in our new house. By that I mean that I personally have decided that if there are any more fucking boxes they can stay packed, I'm not touching them. I have received some surprises of the crap that was packed. This is stuff that was actually paid for to move. It was lifted, cared for, stored and eventually brought back out. For your amusement:

  • A plastic box that I meant to throw away before it was packed because the cat kep ttaking a piss in it. It was in the garage. Yes, that's right, the box and the enclosed piss were packed. Both survived and arrived at our new house with no problems.

  • 5 VHS tapes from the early 80's. They weren't even good tapes.

  • The cat. Why did we bring evil with us?

  • A piece of wood from my old fence. What the fuck?

  • A trashcan with the garbage still in it after I was assured that when you pay people to pack for you that they wouldn't pack the garbage.

  • No less 5 used dip cans. Sounds gross, it was. The tops were still on them though.

  • One shoe. I have no idea where the other one is.

  • Dirty laundry. Ok, this is more my fault but we didn't unpack that box for 2 months. Good times. Nothing like bringing ebola with you.

  • The cat. Again I ask, why.

  • Several DVD cases with no DVD's in them.

  • A dildo. No, just kidding on that one. We threw that away before the movers came. However, not the small collection of porn that they packed. That they found. I don't want to know what the movers thought of me. "Tricked" is a great flick by the way.

  • The diaper champ witht he diapers still in them. Again, this goes back tot he not packing garbage thing.

So now you know why I am finished unpacking. Especially the cat.


The Rule of My Kingdom

I am a strict father that lays down rules. My sight reaches out to all of my kingdom as I survey those subjects that are my responsibility. I will have order in my kingdom, order and obedience!

(Of course Little Hoss, you can keep petting the cat and then I will punish the cat for scratching you like she does every damn time but every time I keep letting you try instead of stopping you)

And there will be no over indulgence of the peoples that are under me. We will all do with what I decide we need and no more! No more I say! Do not question the great and powerful OZ!

(Sure Little Hoss, I will buy you that bubble bath in the shape of a princess because you won’t let go of it and I don’t want to cause a scene in the shampoo aisle because it’s a little to close to the condom racks and some reason people will think I’m looking at those instead of shampoo.)

We will live by the golden rule in my household kingdom and all will be grateful for my leadership. It’s about discipline and a strict understanding of my will!

(For the love of God will you stop running around and just put on your diaper! Daddy really doesn’t want to do this every time we have to change your diaper!)

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Turn the other cheek and you shall be rewarded by my greatness.

(Stop hitting your brother. Stop hitting your brother. Stop hitting your brother)

Violence will never exist in my kingdom.

(Stop putting your brother in a choke hold. Stop putting your brother in a choke hold.)

A weak mind will never prosper. A weak mind will wither away like the dreams of yesteryear. No, we shall not have weak minds in the Hossman household. We shall be brilliant, illuminating the darkness of ignorance with our insight and wisdom.

(Um, sweetheart, that diaper doesn’t go on your head.)

I shall educate you. You shall study the great philosophers, strive to understand the mysteries of the universe. You will question the accepted and revolutionize the status quo.

(Ok honey, this is called “From the Top Rope” and it’s way cool. Try not to hurt yourself and don’t tell Mommy).

My rule shall be defined by my charity. It shall be governed by my goodwill. My subjects will come to me for mercy and find solace in my words.

(You don’t need that toy, let’s put it back in the Goodwill box. Come on man, you have 3 more boxes on unopened toys, you don’t need that one. Fine, forget it then. Keep your stupid puzzle piece that doesn’t go to anything.)

And we shall worship the clean and the tidy for that brings us closer to greatness.

(For the love of Pete, get your hand out of your ass! We are at the library and people are starting to stare at you like you are some monkey child about to throw poop.)

We will honor those that have come before us as those that come after us will honor us. We shall honor thy mother and thy father, especially that last part for he is greatness and is a gift to all children.

(No Little Hoss, you can not jump on Dad’s lap again from the Top Rope, you are busting my crotch and I can’t take it anymore. Please don’t cry, c’mon now! Ok, one more time but then that’s it. UGHHH!)

Listen to me my little ones and your path shall be easy and fruitful.

(Don’t eat that! Don’t eat that! Don’t eat that! Crap! Ok, don’t tell your mom.)

And we will be healthy in my kingdom, healthy in body as we are in spirit for those that live under my rule must honor themselves as they honor me.

(I’ll give you more candy if you will just quit saying the word shit. I’m going to get into a lot of trouble for that so it would be best, really, if you just quit saying that. Here, have a snickers.)

Follow me my children and let us embark into the future that is ours.

(I will let you eat ice cream in your bed if you just take a nap. Hand on heart, I will let you eat ice cream in your bed.)


Go Potty for Crap's Sake!

"Daddy, Go Potty!" Little Hoss yells at me.

Listen kid, Dad is over here pottying his brains out and screaming at me ain't gonna help matters. It makes me clench up. And I have been here a good ten minutes trying to show you how to do this action so quit your yelling and get to pooping!

"Little Hoss, you go potty!" I reply. I am once again debating with a 2 year old. Jesus.

I am trying to teach Little Hoss to use the bathroom because dear god I just can't take the diapers anymore, I just can't. I have 2 kids crapping like birds who just raided a shipment of exlax. Seriously, this is like tring to teach a hippo to drive a cab and not overcharge the foreigners. But I just casn't take it anymore, I just can't. It's breaking me, dear god it is.

Both of my kids have gotten into the habit of taking massive dumps at the exact same time, usually in some very crowded and inappropriate place, like lap time at the library. Good times, man, good times. Yes, jerkweed, that was my kid that just ripped a massive fart during "The Duck Makes Friends" story hour. You can't stop looking back here and wrinkling your nose, we all know it stinks, bad.

After the last Vienna Boys Pooping Choir performance of the "Great Abominable Shit" followed by, of course, "Grover Takes a Dump on Dad's Lap" I decided that it's time for more than two people in this house to learn to use the toilet. So here we are, sitting on the crapper daring each other to go potty. I triple dog dare you to take a dump in the potty, Little Hoss. That's right, a triple dog dare!

I'm currently trying to teach her that a good morning glory is about spending some relaxing time away from the hustle and bustle. That the solitary that sometimes you can only find in the bathroom, is priceless. But she isn't getting this. Probably because she never lets me go to the bathroom alone and always insists on a hug in mid grunt. Do you love your kids enough to give a hug during the glottal stop? I judge you.

I even went to the store and bought a very nice potty chair which has thus been named the Jr. Throne. It plays music when she finally decides to let some poop or pee into the realm of the unknown. Dear god, I crave the music so very, very much. Please sing me to sleep creepy high pitched computer voice. Sing to me the joys "Let's go potty" and "You did it! You did it!" I'm desperate, please let me here your Hal like voice.

So far, it's a no go. The only thing that she has picked up is that when you go potty you are supposed to read a book and occasionally grunt. Nothing makes you prouder than when your little girl puts down her copy of "Is Your Mamma a Llamma" to grunt "I LOVE YOU DADDY!"

Not to be harsh, but your Daddy would love you much more if you took a dump in the potty.


Man Down!

What I learned on Father’s day was that the things that you teach your children will, invariably, come back to haunt you. Most likely in a public place with lots and lots of people.

For Father’s day this year we decided to take Little Hoss (2 1/2 ) and Bubba Hoss (9 months) to see Kung Fu Panda. Yes, we are those people that you hate that bring an infant to a movie. Go ahead and judge, I am impervious to your criticism even though I have given this same bitch myself numerous times.

But in my defense, this was a kids movie so you should expect some kids screaming.

I chose this time to take my daughter to her first movie because over the last several weeks we have been doing “Cartoon Night” at the Hossman household. We gather the kids up on Sat. night, pop in a cartoon movie or something that is on TV and let the kids stay up late while we have a great time. Hossmom prepares some special movie time desert and Little Hoss gets to stay up an extra 2 hours past bedtime. She freaking loves it and I pat myself on the back for being a great dad.

She does great in this environment and usually watches close to the whole movie before she falls asleep or goes apeshit. So we decided that for Father’s day we would take her to Kung Fu Panda. She has seen the preview and for the last week thinks that everything with fur on it is a Panda, including me. I am Daddy Panda.

We pack up and head off to the 11:30 showing. A friend advised us to “shovel” food at Little Hoss during the movie so she would stay seated. In hindsight, this did not mean give her everything at once.

As a family we get popcorn, a couple of Sprits, Skittles and Little Hoss boosts a bag of Reeces Pieces because she is a little thief as well.

We head to our seats and hunker down, hoping perhaps that we can make it through 90 minutes of cartoon greatness.

Little Hoss sat on my lap so I could keep an eye on her, atleast that was what was in my mind. I’m sure that what was in hers was that I would be a good placemat and cup holder.

I swear to you, I have never seen a kid begin to gorge themselves so quickly. Little Hoss doesn’t get a lot of sugar and candy but once she had a taste of the sweet dragon, she couldn’t get off.

We weren’t even through the previews when the Reeces, Skittles and popcorn are all on her lap. She’s got the Sprite in her little monkey kunfu grip and is chugging like she is at a college keeger. She’s only had soda a couple of times in her life and this is a rare treat and she resists any attempts to let go.

In between gulps of soda she is putting handfuls of candy in her mouth. Reeces are mixed with Skittles, popcorn is flying past her head to the rows besides us, complete and total carnage. You would have thought that we never feed her.

And she would get pissed if good old Dad tried to get a little for himself. She would actually scream “No! Mine!” and pull away. Finally we were able to pull most of it away except the Reeces Pieces. My kid would never share with ET, fuck him. But we got it all away and then the fun really started.

One of the last previews was for a football movie. Now she has watched a lot of football with good old dad. So what does she yell when she sees sports on a gigantic TV? “Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!” I have never seen a kid go from normal to sugar rush in less than five minutes but good Christ. And yes, it was a full theater.

She throws her hands in the air and continues to yell “Touchdown!” I’m trying to restrain her but she just has to throw those little monkey arms in the air like Touchdown Jesus and yell.

Now the movie starts and this is where everything that I have taught her comes to bite me in the ass.

The movie has numerous animals in it, which seems appropriate since it is about a Panda who learns Kung fu. You may already know this as you have probably seen the previews but my daughter does not think so. She now explodes into identifying every single animal that appears on the screen. One part of me is extremely proud that our many trips to the zoo have paid off. The other part was horrified when she yelled “Daddy, Tiger! Daddy, Snake! Daddy, Goose! Honk Honk!” By the way, all birds she sees right now are geese that go Honk Honk!

And she doesn’t stop until you acknowledge that yes honey, daddy sees the tiger. I quickly clamp my hand over her mouth but this makes no difference what so ever which makes me extremely pissed at the movies where that works. I mean, my kid wasn’t even phased that I was clamping down. She kept on screaming “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!”

Finally we got her to calm down. I think that the worst is over but I am wrong. You see, I have taught my daughter one other thing that I thought was funny and more useful than yelling Touchdown, although I do love that.

You see, Bubba Hoss can sit up on his own right now but on occasion he does fall down. When he does, I taught my daughter to yell “Medic! Medic! Man Down!” Then we throw our hands into the air and run around before picking up my son. It’s very funny and when I’m not in the room it’s like an early warning system when my son goes crashing.

Again, not a good thing in a moive where the lead character is a clumsy Panda. Within 10 minutes of the movie actually starting, the Panda falls down. Immediately, Little Hoss jumps out of my lap, the hands go in the air, and she screams “Medic, Man Down!” at the top of her lungs while running up and down the aisle.

We made it a good 30 minutes into the movie before we decided that the people around us had had enough. At 2 ½ it doesn’t look like she is ready to see a movie in a theater and we will stick to the Sat. night movie bonanza at the Hossman household.

But come on, “Medic, Man Down!” That’s funny.


That Hurts

I have been violated and I don't mean in the good way that they show in movies that typically involve a 20 year old surgically enhanced vixen that loves to be real friendly with Pizza delievery boys.

For the record, I was a pizza delivery boy when I was 17 and that shit never happens. I always hoped it would. The closet that I ever came was when I got accosted by a goat and she just wanted the pizza more than she wanted me.

I woke up yesterday morning to find that my car had been broken into. Although there wasn't much skill required because I left my car door unlocked. I know, I know, I'm the dumbass but I'm not going to blame myself for a jackass fucking with my car.

When I first looked in my car I saw that my glove compartment was open and all the shit was dumped on the floor. At first I just thought that Hossmom was looking for something before she went to work but the more I looked around my car the more I had my doubts.

The radio was still there which you wouldn't think it would be. Then I looked at my satelite radio and then I knew something was amis. I had my satalite radio installed in my car, it's basically bolted to the dash and it would take some serious work to undo it. To thier credit, they gave it a pretty good shot.

They tried to pull out the wires for the radio but couldn't get them. The result being that they basically just fucked up my radio. I started looking around to see what else was missing and wondering what else I might have left in my car. My cell phone was still in the door which I thought was surprising, you would think that a thief would take that without a second thought. Luckily, my wallet wasn't in the car but I do leave it in there sometimes.

There was only one thing missing, my GPS system. Son of a bitch. That thing is like 350 bucks and my kids and I use it all the damn time getting around our new town.

I was seriously pissed.

I called my wife and told her. She told me that her glove compartment was open too this morning and thought the same thing I did, that I had been looking for something. Lucky for us, nothing of importance was in there.

Her first response: Don't touch anything! They probably left fingerprints! Call the police!

Maybe I'm just jaded or maybe I've just been burned because I've had to deal with this a couple times in the past. Back when I was a caseworker my car had gotten broken into twice. The places that I had to go and investigate were not the um, best or drug/crime free, so you had to be careful. Each time I called the cops and each time it took them over an hour to get there. At that point, they took a statement, a description and a copy of the report so that I could file insurance.

That was about it. The second time I actually saw the guys doing it, yelled at them and got a license plate number. I told the cop about that feeling like I would actually get some justice. Anyone care to take a guess what happened. Absolutely nothing. The truth is that it's just not taken to seriously as far as any real investigation goes and who can blame them. There's got to be thousands of these.

So when my wife told me to preserve the crime scene so that CSI could do their magic, I started laughing and then explained the real world to her. Again, maybe I'm just jaded because of my last experiences.

Looking at the whole experience I have my own views. First off, there was some stuff left that I think professional thieves would have taken. The cell phone was left which is odd as any real thief knows that's a good thing to steal and easy to unload. Second, a car radio is almost a given. If not the satalite radio then at least my car radio.

This leaves me to believe that I got hit by some unexperienced teenagers. I think that they wanted something that they could use themselves and didn't have the experience or no how to do a good job, lazy bastards. Atleast let me get robbed by professionals for christsakes! This is not Hossman's elementary school for thiefs, I'm a master's program. Yeah, that's whey I left my car door open.

For some reason, I feel dirty. I feel that my whole house is dirty and I'm not really sure why. It's probably because someone was rifling thorugh my shit and it wasn't a mistress.

It's not like we live in a bad neighborhood, we actually live in a very nice neihborhood in the sticks of Missouri. There are cows practically across the street! We moved from Dallas because partly we wanted to get away from the random crime but I suppose you can't.

Hossmom and I took a walk tonight and I think I found another clue. I am Dick Tracy, I should start a sluething club and take on jilted hot lovers. That would be cool.

We took a path in the woods, the first time we did this, and found some grafitti. It was the typical skateboarding stuff: "Skate or Die". Glad to see that never goes out of style. But there was one that stood out. Whoever wrote it mispelled the word whore. They left out the H. That's my thief, that's my dumbass.

Maybe I should plan a stakeout, see who shows up and then dispense a little justice. I'm thinking a trap like Arnold set in the movie Preditor. Sharpen some sticks, cover myself in some mud, start a big bon fire and then send the little Mexican chick to wait for the chopper.

In the meantime, does anyone have a free GPS system for me?


3.5 seconds

My wife just put some porn on the TV because apparently I am ignoring her and she wanted to notice how long it took me to notice.

I am the fucking Corevette of porn-noticing on TV. I win.

I've got Nothing

Ok, I'll admit it. I got nothing. I'm sitting here trying to write something funny and witty and I got a big old bag of crap. It's just not coming. Little Hoss and I went to the zoo last week and saw two camels getting it on. They had more creativity going on that I can muster and I have no idea why.

Is it wrong to let your two year old watch two camels doing what animals do? I had no idea at the time so I just told her the camels were being silly but the kangeroos were just around the corner. That's how dad handles the big issues in this house, deflect deflect deflect and then let Hossmom answer them later. I plan to handle it the same way when I'm asked where babies come from and if dogs go to heaven.

But maybe I should stick with the old dad stock lines and lie my ass off. Babies come from storks and dogs get to Heaven before everyone else. But not cats, they are the devils minions and they torment me by pissing once again on my fucking big chair. I swear to god I'm going to throw my cat in the camel pen next time we go to the zoo and let the camels get silly with her. At which point, she'll just puke in the middle of my floor so I'll slip and slide in it like a 6 year old fat kid going last down the slip and slide. And yes, that is a visual from my past. I had to go last because they said that I would make a little ditch in the slip and slide and they would have to smooth it out. They were in cohoots with my cat.


A Short Break

Just wanted to let everyone now that I am taking this week off. Alot is going on so I'm going to take care of "family business" this week. Mainly, I joined a Dad's group and am making repairs on the house. As a forclosed house, there are a lot of repairs that are needed.

You know that scene in True Lies where Tom Arnold says "What kind of sick bitch takes the ice cube trays."

That's basically what I'm talking about.

And finally, my mother in law had a small case of brain surgery this week. No worries, they corrected the problem and she still thinks that I am a dirty slob who doesn't keep a good house. Life is normal.

I'll be back on Monday with all new posts and naked pictures.