5 Things That I could be Doing Right Now If I wasn't so Lazy.
5. Getting 300 balloons, tying them to a lawn chair and going for a ride. Just me, a case of beer and a BB gun. How deliciously white trash. I would grow a mullet while I was up there and go to Nascar events.
4. Asking someone besides my wife if they thought #5 was funny. Apparently that one just wasn't working for her and she is just shaking her head and has decided to stop paying attention to me and go back to watching Project Runway. Why am I even in the same room as this show? Why do I know Malvin Vien lost and is going home? Crap, I need to get out of here, it's sapping my funny.
3. Getting myself more brownies. They are right up there on the counter, mocking me. They are calling to me but I just can't find the motivation to make the effort. Maybe I can get Little Hoss to start throwing them at my face until one finds it's way into my piehole.
2. I would need some milk to.
1. Coming up with a better topic for a blog than what I got rolling tonight. Possibly something about poo because poo is always funny. Maybe talking poo, or would that be to weird. Probably but I still like it.
8/27/09
8/24/09
Or Best Offer
For Sale: One creepy white polar bear animatronic child's toy, complete with amazing demonic action!
Is your child not getting the stimulation that they need? Do you find that their defense against Satan's hoards needs improvement? If so, this slightly used hell spawn is for you. Crafted by the finest sweat shops in China, this 100% polyester educational marvel sports real moving parts and 360 degree head-spinning mayhem. The stuffing comes to us straight from the 9Th circle of hell to give this demonic minion authentic evil right inside! Powered by the despair of a thousand damned souls, this artifact will positively never fail to cause havoc wherever it roams.
This toy is guaranteed to start moving slowly and creepily very late at night. It's internal evil o meter (patent pending) detects when your child is almost asleep and automatically goes into terrify mode, all on it's own! It will crawl under the child's bed and begin speaking in Sanskrit--a dead language! Should your child be more resilient than normal, the demons inside the toy will take full possession of other toys around the room and perform the Nutcracker on the ceiling almost positively guaranteeing night terrors for years to come.
Those screams your hearing in the middle of the night? Not to worry, that's just your child fighting the undead hoard summoned by Beelzebub and his minions.
This is a one of a kind item and a true find. No care required and virgin sacrifices have been preordered for your convenience. It's that extra special care to give you and your child the most terrifying and psyche scaring experience possible. Your child will have nightmares from this thing well into his 30's! What a great deal!
Demon bear makes the perfect gift for any child in your life. Does your niece sleep with the lights off, showing up your own child? Put her in her place and see how she likes it when pea soup is vomited on her while suggestions are made about her mother. That should keep that light on for years and years to come. Is your nephew nothing but a little bastard? Revenge is oh so sweet when it's done with that little extra bit of evil.
Guaranteed to start moving when no one is around. Guaranteed to speak with a robust broken speaker voice when least appropriate. Guaranteed to open that vortex into hell right in your own playroom!!
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here? Not when you have the ultra-fantastic creepy white
animatronic polar bear toy with authentic demonic possession!
What would a steal like this cost? $199? $299? No! This is the best part! Just come pick this creepy damned thing up from my house and it's yours! For the cost of gas to and from your own house, you can be the proud owner of a piece of the underworld. How can you say no to a deal like this?!
Holy water and catholic priest sold separately.
Is your child not getting the stimulation that they need? Do you find that their defense against Satan's hoards needs improvement? If so, this slightly used hell spawn is for you. Crafted by the finest sweat shops in China, this 100% polyester educational marvel sports real moving parts and 360 degree head-spinning mayhem. The stuffing comes to us straight from the 9Th circle of hell to give this demonic minion authentic evil right inside! Powered by the despair of a thousand damned souls, this artifact will positively never fail to cause havoc wherever it roams.
This toy is guaranteed to start moving slowly and creepily very late at night. It's internal evil o meter (patent pending) detects when your child is almost asleep and automatically goes into terrify mode, all on it's own! It will crawl under the child's bed and begin speaking in Sanskrit--a dead language! Should your child be more resilient than normal, the demons inside the toy will take full possession of other toys around the room and perform the Nutcracker on the ceiling almost positively guaranteeing night terrors for years to come.
Those screams your hearing in the middle of the night? Not to worry, that's just your child fighting the undead hoard summoned by Beelzebub and his minions.
This is a one of a kind item and a true find. No care required and virgin sacrifices have been preordered for your convenience. It's that extra special care to give you and your child the most terrifying and psyche scaring experience possible. Your child will have nightmares from this thing well into his 30's! What a great deal!
Demon bear makes the perfect gift for any child in your life. Does your niece sleep with the lights off, showing up your own child? Put her in her place and see how she likes it when pea soup is vomited on her while suggestions are made about her mother. That should keep that light on for years and years to come. Is your nephew nothing but a little bastard? Revenge is oh so sweet when it's done with that little extra bit of evil.
Guaranteed to start moving when no one is around. Guaranteed to speak with a robust broken speaker voice when least appropriate. Guaranteed to open that vortex into hell right in your own playroom!!
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here? Not when you have the ultra-fantastic creepy white
animatronic polar bear toy with authentic demonic possession!
What would a steal like this cost? $199? $299? No! This is the best part! Just come pick this creepy damned thing up from my house and it's yours! For the cost of gas to and from your own house, you can be the proud owner of a piece of the underworld. How can you say no to a deal like this?!
Holy water and catholic priest sold separately.
8/23/09
The Man Code
I am troubled. Very troubled.
I keep up on what's hip and cool by watching the top 20 countdown on TV. It's my gauge for how the youth are doing these days, specifically our young men. And I have noticed a trend, a trend that has got me concerned. I am concerned for the young men of this country. I am concerned that none of them, not one of them, know how to be a man. It seems that young men today, according to the top 20, believe that they have feelings and are emotionally deep. This just isn't right. Who's teaching these guys how to be men?
Don't think the irony of me writing this post has alluded me. I'm fully aware that I spend my days changing diapers and going to tea parties. My question for you though is that if I have to write this blog, what the hell is wrong with you? At what point did manhood get lost for our next generation that a guy who plays a load of peek a boo has to comment on it? In fact, you should be ashamed, down right ashamed of yourself.
Look, there is a certain way that men are supposed to act. There are certain things that men are supposed to know and I just don't think this generation is getting it. So what am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands and let them go the way of the cream puff. Well let me tell you something--I don't think Commie Bob is sitting on his hands doing nothing. No, he's teaching his men how to be men and so must we. One day you guys are going to be out of college or out on your own and you are going to blow the biggest deal of your life because you don't know what the crap you are doing. Then you are going to get punched in the face and you are going to deserve it. Hell, it might even be me doing the punching.
It doesn't matter what race you are, you sexual orientation, religious affiliation or if you like purple V-neck sweaters. There's stuff you need to know.
Never touch another man's golf bag without permission. This is akin to cupping his coin purse while he's looking the other way. Don't do this, it's sacrilegious. If you want to touch his golf bag, ask politely. But you say "I play golf to, it should be ok." Let me put it this way--I'm married and have two kids, so it's safe to say I've had sex. You want me coming over to your house and saying hi to your wife? That's the swinger life style and a whole other blog. So leave the golf bags alone.
You don't have feelings. You are not deep. If someone asks you how you feel you should respond by saying "I feel hungry, tired, horny." One of those three. You do not feel forlorned. You do not feel abandoned. I'm not saying that guys don't feel this way. I'm saying that we don't talk about it. We keep it locked in nice and tight until we die. This is why men die before women do and I'm telling you that's the trade that we made. We all got together while you were feeling forlorned and said Hey, let's not talk about our feelings. Sure, we may die earlier but that's ok. It will get us out of a lot of long conversations. It's majority rules and you lost your vote while you were finding yourself.
If you are in Mexico and a man with a car battery comes up to you and asks you to touch it with a buddy, dammit man strap one on and grab the positive end of that stick while he turns up the juice.
You don't yearn. You never yearn. But if you find yourself yearning it better be for chili cheese dog with extra cheese. And it should be dipped in even more cheese. Not that good cheese from Whole Foods but that cheese that comes from the ballpark that you're pretty sure rats bathed in. And if all possible it should be fried as well. I hear that they can do that. That's what you yearn for.
If someone mentions John Wayne in a conversation and you don't know who that is, I'm going to punch you.
If someone mentions Red Dawn in a conversation and you don't know what that is, I'm going to punch you.
You are not lactose intolerant. Milk gives you gas.
The only men who are allowed to wear fedoras are Tom Landry and your grandfather because those are real men and knew the code.
Never cry in public. If you have to cry, we all do of course, then go to the nearest Monster Truck Rally and ball your eyes out because at least then no one will be able to hear you over the redneck yelling. You think people actually like to go to those things? Hell no! It's really just a bunch of guys crying in public. You can get away with crying in public if your team won the championship, but that's about it.
If you are talking about feelings with another guy, he better be a friend of 20 years or just saved your life while you were storming the beaches. Charlie is just looking for you and your gooey center so don't make it easy for him.
Clint Eastwood never made a bad movie. Ever. Even the musical genius of "Paint Your Wagon" explored the rugged awesomeness of his baritone voice.
They are called super Nachos and they are your friend.
You hate going to the doctor. I don't even know why, but real men do. We have a very firm belief that whatever is wrong with us can be patched up with duct tape and WD-40. You should grumble every time you have to go and always blame the wife. She understands this and expects this. It's in the marriage contract. You promise to love and honor her and she promises to take the blame for your little bo-bo and making you go to the doctor. It's just the way things work.
You know everything about cars, even if you don't. Another stay at home dad was talking to me the other day about throwing a rod and something about a cylinder and how much it was going to cost him to fix it. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. He could have been explaining to me Shakespeare's lost play "Rods thou art Cylinders." But you know what I did, I nodded my head and agreed that he was getting hosed. I have no idea about cars, I can't even identify them on the freeway. My wife knows way more about cars than I do. But I fake it and so should you. And I sound fantastic when I do.
At some point in your life you have got to punch a wall. That's your release. That's how you get the bad mojo out. And it's cool to look at the hole you just put in the sheet rock. You know what, go punch a wall right now. Didn't that feel good? Sure it's a bad idea, but so was that bacon cheddar cheeseburger you had for lunch and wasn't that awesome? But before you do it, for god's sake find out where the stud is in the wall. Take the time to mark them all down in pencil so when you do go off the handle you can look cool doing it. If not, well, go tell you wife that you hurt your hand so she'll take you to a doctor.
Take a look to your right. See that guy? He's going to get thrown in jail one day because he did something stupid like not paying off tickets or stealing a golf cart and putting it in the lake. Why? Because guys do stupid things. It's part of our genetic makeup. What you need to realize is this: A good friend is a guy who will bail you out of jail. A great friend is the guy sitting next to you in cell saying "That was fucking awesome!" So which guy are you?
There, that should get today's young men on the right track. Being a man isn't easy. It's hard work. There's a whole behind the scenes thing going on and I'm sorry you weren't clued in. Somewhere down the line you should have figured this out but you didn't. If you ever find yourself in a situation and don't know what to do, do me a favor. Lift up your skirt and check underneath. See those two round things there? Those are your balls, you should probably use them.
I keep up on what's hip and cool by watching the top 20 countdown on TV. It's my gauge for how the youth are doing these days, specifically our young men. And I have noticed a trend, a trend that has got me concerned. I am concerned for the young men of this country. I am concerned that none of them, not one of them, know how to be a man. It seems that young men today, according to the top 20, believe that they have feelings and are emotionally deep. This just isn't right. Who's teaching these guys how to be men?
Don't think the irony of me writing this post has alluded me. I'm fully aware that I spend my days changing diapers and going to tea parties. My question for you though is that if I have to write this blog, what the hell is wrong with you? At what point did manhood get lost for our next generation that a guy who plays a load of peek a boo has to comment on it? In fact, you should be ashamed, down right ashamed of yourself.
Look, there is a certain way that men are supposed to act. There are certain things that men are supposed to know and I just don't think this generation is getting it. So what am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands and let them go the way of the cream puff. Well let me tell you something--I don't think Commie Bob is sitting on his hands doing nothing. No, he's teaching his men how to be men and so must we. One day you guys are going to be out of college or out on your own and you are going to blow the biggest deal of your life because you don't know what the crap you are doing. Then you are going to get punched in the face and you are going to deserve it. Hell, it might even be me doing the punching.
It doesn't matter what race you are, you sexual orientation, religious affiliation or if you like purple V-neck sweaters. There's stuff you need to know.
Never touch another man's golf bag without permission. This is akin to cupping his coin purse while he's looking the other way. Don't do this, it's sacrilegious. If you want to touch his golf bag, ask politely. But you say "I play golf to, it should be ok." Let me put it this way--I'm married and have two kids, so it's safe to say I've had sex. You want me coming over to your house and saying hi to your wife? That's the swinger life style and a whole other blog. So leave the golf bags alone.
You don't have feelings. You are not deep. If someone asks you how you feel you should respond by saying "I feel hungry, tired, horny." One of those three. You do not feel forlorned. You do not feel abandoned. I'm not saying that guys don't feel this way. I'm saying that we don't talk about it. We keep it locked in nice and tight until we die. This is why men die before women do and I'm telling you that's the trade that we made. We all got together while you were feeling forlorned and said Hey, let's not talk about our feelings. Sure, we may die earlier but that's ok. It will get us out of a lot of long conversations. It's majority rules and you lost your vote while you were finding yourself.
If you are in Mexico and a man with a car battery comes up to you and asks you to touch it with a buddy, dammit man strap one on and grab the positive end of that stick while he turns up the juice.
You don't yearn. You never yearn. But if you find yourself yearning it better be for chili cheese dog with extra cheese. And it should be dipped in even more cheese. Not that good cheese from Whole Foods but that cheese that comes from the ballpark that you're pretty sure rats bathed in. And if all possible it should be fried as well. I hear that they can do that. That's what you yearn for.
If someone mentions John Wayne in a conversation and you don't know who that is, I'm going to punch you.
If someone mentions Red Dawn in a conversation and you don't know what that is, I'm going to punch you.
You are not lactose intolerant. Milk gives you gas.
The only men who are allowed to wear fedoras are Tom Landry and your grandfather because those are real men and knew the code.
Never cry in public. If you have to cry, we all do of course, then go to the nearest Monster Truck Rally and ball your eyes out because at least then no one will be able to hear you over the redneck yelling. You think people actually like to go to those things? Hell no! It's really just a bunch of guys crying in public. You can get away with crying in public if your team won the championship, but that's about it.
If you are talking about feelings with another guy, he better be a friend of 20 years or just saved your life while you were storming the beaches. Charlie is just looking for you and your gooey center so don't make it easy for him.
Clint Eastwood never made a bad movie. Ever. Even the musical genius of "Paint Your Wagon" explored the rugged awesomeness of his baritone voice.
They are called super Nachos and they are your friend.
You hate going to the doctor. I don't even know why, but real men do. We have a very firm belief that whatever is wrong with us can be patched up with duct tape and WD-40. You should grumble every time you have to go and always blame the wife. She understands this and expects this. It's in the marriage contract. You promise to love and honor her and she promises to take the blame for your little bo-bo and making you go to the doctor. It's just the way things work.
You know everything about cars, even if you don't. Another stay at home dad was talking to me the other day about throwing a rod and something about a cylinder and how much it was going to cost him to fix it. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. He could have been explaining to me Shakespeare's lost play "Rods thou art Cylinders." But you know what I did, I nodded my head and agreed that he was getting hosed. I have no idea about cars, I can't even identify them on the freeway. My wife knows way more about cars than I do. But I fake it and so should you. And I sound fantastic when I do.
At some point in your life you have got to punch a wall. That's your release. That's how you get the bad mojo out. And it's cool to look at the hole you just put in the sheet rock. You know what, go punch a wall right now. Didn't that feel good? Sure it's a bad idea, but so was that bacon cheddar cheeseburger you had for lunch and wasn't that awesome? But before you do it, for god's sake find out where the stud is in the wall. Take the time to mark them all down in pencil so when you do go off the handle you can look cool doing it. If not, well, go tell you wife that you hurt your hand so she'll take you to a doctor.
Take a look to your right. See that guy? He's going to get thrown in jail one day because he did something stupid like not paying off tickets or stealing a golf cart and putting it in the lake. Why? Because guys do stupid things. It's part of our genetic makeup. What you need to realize is this: A good friend is a guy who will bail you out of jail. A great friend is the guy sitting next to you in cell saying "That was fucking awesome!" So which guy are you?
There, that should get today's young men on the right track. Being a man isn't easy. It's hard work. There's a whole behind the scenes thing going on and I'm sorry you weren't clued in. Somewhere down the line you should have figured this out but you didn't. If you ever find yourself in a situation and don't know what to do, do me a favor. Lift up your skirt and check underneath. See those two round things there? Those are your balls, you should probably use them.
8/20/09
The Friday Five
5 Greatest Things That I've Heard All Day
5. "You're all stay at home dads? That's so great!"
Yes, it is great. And you're hot. Just throwing that out there, seeing what happens. Gotta love the Mom Groupies.
4. "Kung-Poo!"
That's what my 2 year old son says when he starts jumping on the bed. He'll do this for 20 minutes at a stretch and one of the funniest things I have ever seen.
3. "Let's check out the combine."
That's right, a huge combine. It's those big tractor things that you see plowing corn. Except this one we got to climb in. My yard is not as big as this thing and yet I want one.
2. "Funnel Cakes Sold Here."
Thank you little baby Jesus.
1. "Bacon Doughnuts."
There has never, ever, in the history of the spoken language been a sweeter sentence than that.
5. "You're all stay at home dads? That's so great!"
Yes, it is great. And you're hot. Just throwing that out there, seeing what happens. Gotta love the Mom Groupies.
4. "Kung-Poo!"
That's what my 2 year old son says when he starts jumping on the bed. He'll do this for 20 minutes at a stretch and one of the funniest things I have ever seen.
3. "Let's check out the combine."
That's right, a huge combine. It's those big tractor things that you see plowing corn. Except this one we got to climb in. My yard is not as big as this thing and yet I want one.
2. "Funnel Cakes Sold Here."
Thank you little baby Jesus.
1. "Bacon Doughnuts."
There has never, ever, in the history of the spoken language been a sweeter sentence than that.
8/17/09
Apporpriate for Work Blog
Don't worry, I've got you covered today. Look at that, a fancy chart. A fancy chart to fool anyone who is walking by your desk at this moment to make them think that you are doing very important stuff. Even the title of the chart is "Very Important Business Chart" so they know that you are working and not dicking around reading blogs about children who eat peanut butter and rob banks. Although that's pretty cool. See, I got your back today. You have no idea how long it took me to make that fucking thing and import it into this blog. I'm like a caveman discovering fire for the first time. There's gonna be some accidents and chances are we are all leaving here without any hair.
Today I'm going to rant for you, for me and for everyone. I'm feeling very ranty and there is nothing better than a big "Fuck You" list. Although as I am supposed to be more universal and professional I shouldn't call it a fuck you list. How about a "Fuck You Shithead" list. There, that's more professional.
This list is for everyone who feels like they are getting dicked over in this economy. For anyone who has lost a job or gone through layoffs when the company you were with just swore by golly that this was the last time. For any of us that actually believed that the economy was getting better, let's just bail them out and let it trickle down. For anyone who finally says "Crapola, I'm getting screwed." This is our revenge. This is our payback. This is the moment that we tell them that we didn't land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us.
Because we are tired of getting short changed. We are tired of hearing one thing and then seeing another. We are tired of the spin, we are tired of the press releases, we are tired of the guys making millions while giving us the shaft without the common curtesy of a reach around. This is for all of us.
And by god, I implore you to go to the comment section and add your own. There is somone out there, somewhere that deserves a good "Fuck You Shithead" and this is your chance to add it. Individually we are small, together we are a fucking club coming down on the heads of all you shitheels.
But first, another graph to make everyone think you are working:
1. Fuck You Best Buy. You want to know why you are going in the crapper? Because you treat people like shit. You sell me a crapola camera that breaks then you won't take it back and insist that I go through the manufacturer which is such a complicated process that I need a physics degree just to make the phone call. Suck my massive balls. It's called customer service and when you sell the customer a piece of shit you should really replace it when it stops working after a month. I know what your store policy is: Screw over everyone just enough so that you can keep the money. Stand behind what you sell, buttholes. What would it cost you to replace this camera, 20 bucks? Hell, I just wanted a new camera that worked, I wasn't asking for my money back. Now what is going to happen? I'm never going to your store again. And I'm a gamer. That's right, I buy like a new game a month and have been doing it for 3 years. When there are literally 1000 places that I could get the same shit for the same price, don't you think you should treat us a little better?2. All the airlines, Fuck you. Because you are nothing but a big racket and we all know it. Where do you get off charging a guy double for a seat that went for cheaper just a month ago. Don't think we are fooled here, we know what is going on. You are screwing over the last minute traveler just because you can. We know it, you know it, everyone knows it. At least the tobacco executives eventually came clean and said ok, this causes cancer. Don' t you think you can at least do the same and be honest? Those guys were the worst liers in like 50 years and even they couldn't keep a straight face anymore. Just come out and say it "Look, we know that your brother just died and the funeral is tomorrow. But since you have got to be there, we are going to rape you on the price because we can. And by the way, how do you like our small little seats? That's just an extra screwing that we throw in free of charge." You could take customer service training from Best Buy.
3. Fuck you Movie Theaters. Cinimark, AMC, all you buttholes. 4 bucks for a watered down coke? Seriously? That's why I sneak all my shit in. I would rather that I spill my can of opened coke down my pants and make it look like I peed than to pay your ripoff of 4 bucks for a soda. It's price gouging. And your pop corn gives me the poops.
4. Car Companies, Fuck you. GM, Chrysler, you know who you are. You want to know why you were going out of business? Because your cars suck donkey balls, that's why. I mean, who are we kidding? My son just ate a box of crayons today and he's got more credibility than you do. You can't in one moment scream about the need for a free market and then piss and moan when that very same market decides you are nothing but spare fat and that your time has come. And get this, I'm a liberal and I still think you should have gone under. If you made a car with an alternator that wouldn't go shit out of luck EVERY SINGLE TIME then maybe you wouldn't need the bailout money. You see, this is how the free market works. You build something that I want. I buy it until I discover it's a piece of crap and find someone else who makes it better and cheaper. You either adapt or FOLD.
Is someone coming? Time for another graph.
5. Corporate America, Fuck You guys. There are so many companies that deserve this that I just can't name them all. You guys are the reason we are in this in the first place. You were busy screwing over everyone that you could to make a buck and now that this shit has gone sour, you lay people off that depend on those jobs for their families. Currently I would rather invest my money in a Nigerian Email Scam than with you guys. And you know what, chances are that I would get a better return from the deposed leader of Zimbabwe than with you douchebags. And here's a news flash--if you lose money you don't get a bonus. If you lay off 20% of your workforce, you don't get a bonus. How hard is it to understand that? Its like if I wreck my car into a bus full of nuns because I liked the sauce. I don't get a new car and a hooker named Jasmine who gives great handjobs. No, I go to hell. But first I go to prison and get taken from behind by a big dude named Clemons and he thinks I'm Oh so purdy.
6. Andrew J. Hall, Fuck You Shithead. Don't know who this is? Click Here. You dirty, dirty, dirty rat bastard. 100 million dollar bonus for a company that took 45 billion in bail outs? You know what, well done. It takes real commitment to reach a douchebag level that you are at. Oil executives are actually shocked at this. Saudi Princes are appalled at your money grubbing ways. Even Bill Gates that kind of cash is overkill. Dude, come on.
7. Red Light Cameras, Fuck You. Sure, I've heard the arguments that this keeps the city safer and it does. But you know what the catch is? That when people stop running these lights the city pulls them down because they aren't making any money off them anymore. So is it about public safety or making a buck?
Chart Me Baby, One More Time:
8. My Homeowners Assocaition, Fuck you. What the hell is wrong with you guys? Let me make this clear. You are not Genghis Khan. You are not Cesar. You are nothing but a bunch of old biddies and fuck ups who's only real power over your life is to decide which bagel to add to your every growing fat rolls. It's a homeowners association, there are no such things as "closed door meetings" when you are selling community owned property. Especially when said property is next to my house. You are not all powerful and your cookie socials suck. Oh, and PS--I allow my kids to pee in the pool.
Good lord it felt good getting all that out. Now I encourage you to do it. Jump on the comment section and give someone a big fuck you. You know they deserve it, I know they deserve it, the kid that eats paste knows that they deserve it. It feels oh so good, give it a shot.
(Dedicated to Amo)
Parental Short Comings
Here’s your first truth: no one has any idea how to parent and I’m no exception. Let’s be honest, I’m totally winging this shit. You know what I am? I am that used car salesman that is trying to convince you that this 1974 El Camino is the wave of the future and that having four wheels is SO 1973. Sure, you listen to me because I look good in a bow tie and talk a good game. But the truth is I have no more idea how to do this than I do on how to build a nuclear reactor from left over tinfoil, a pair of ladies undergarments and internet blue prints. Why the undergarments? I say why not.
But I can tell a good story and that’s the hook, isn’t it? I look like I got my shit together and I sound like I got my shit together so obviously I must have what it takes to be the super parent that I appear to be. I make ordinary things into epic like poems and because I do that we all tend to forget that my daughter has actually been going to sleep on the stairs for a good 5 months and I’m no closer to figuring out how to stop it than I was a little while ago.
You see me out and about and you say to yourself, that guy looks like a good dad because his kids aren’t ripping each other’s hair out. In fact, he’s a handsome bastard and I would probably sleep with if he wasn’t married. Even though you’re a guy, you would totally be all over this. What you don’t see though is what happens at home. I’m as frustrated as the next guy. I can laugh about it and that makes it easier to deal with but that doesn’t mean that I’m dealing with it well. 3 years of fatherhood and I still feel like a rookie and I’m still making the rookie mistakes.
You know what my big parent accomplishment is so far? That thus far my children have not robbed a bank and gone on the lamb. That’s it, that’s what I’m proud of. Don’t get me wrong, if they did rob a bank I’m sure that they would be very accomplished at it. Always use positive reinforcement, right? I would say things like “that was a nice job honey of slapping that teller around, that’ll make them listen” and “good job Bubba Hoss on knee capping that guy, now he’ll think twice!”
Here’s what actually happens though:
Little Hoss was playing at the playground with her friends a little while ago. She was having a great time. Such a great time that she decided than rather on taking a potty break she would instead pee in her pants. I didn’t find out for a good 20 minutes later which begs the question of where the hell was I that I didn’t notice that my daughter peed her pants. I was at the picnic tables ignoring the children, thank you very much.
I went to get her a change of clothes from the diaper bag and found out that I had neglected to pack a change of clothes. At least I think I didn’t pack them because I had actually forgotten the diaper bag itself. We were forced to borrow Papa Scrum’s kids spare set. And what did I do with the underwear and shorts she was wearing?
I hung them in a tree, about 6 feet up. In my mind I figured that the wind would dry them. It did by the way. You see, I have no idea what I am doing. Put me in a trailer park and I’m sure I would fit right in once I got used to the Mumu.
Wait, it gets better.
Wow Wow Wuzby is currently Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss’ favorite show and I don’t actually mind this. But what I like better than this is that I can turn it on in the morning and go play a video game for half and hour while they zone out. That’s right, I’m using TV to babysit the kids. I’m in the next room and they usually just hang back and enjoy their morning cartoons. Notice that I said “usually” there.
Because once you are confident that something works is when that shit breaks down on you and exposes you for the crap parent that you apparently are.
While I was busy dispensing internet justice to tweens (take that you hairless cockroach!) my kids decided that they were hungry.
As they are very industrious when they want something, they constructed some sort of ladder device to get to the top of the pantry. They used a stool and stacked it on the chair, opened the pantry and dug their little hands in. Honestly, I’m quite impressed, it was pretty awesome.
On the top shelf they found what they were looking for, peanut butter. Because if peanut butter is good on a sandwich then it must just be fucking awesome straight from the can eaten in huge handfuls.
30 minutes later I stroll in to get ready for the day. What I see made the soul shiver. Peanut butter up to the elbows. They really tore into it. It was smeared on their face, in their hair, on the carpet and even on the couch. There is only one person to get made at when something like this happens.
Wow Wow Wuzby, you douchebag.
How dare you run a crap show that my children tire of easily. I should sue you for the cleaning bill. And by cleaning bill I mean what my dogs charge to lick the sofa for an hour trying to get all the peanut butter out.
They were so psyched to be eating peanut butter in globs that they were actually laughing when I busted them on it. It’s like they figured screw it, it’s worth it to get into trouble just for this experience. And it’s hard for me to fault them for this. Maybe they did inherit my sense of humor. Maybe life isn’t so hard if you have a laugh or to when things get tough or insane.
Sure, we all screw the pooch but did you have a smile on your face when you were doing it? Surely that must count for something and maybe that’s what makes me a decent parent. That I can look at my own shortcomings and have a giggle knowing that I learned from my mistakes. In this case, I now know to bring the diaper bag and that I need to get a tamper proof safe to hide the peanut butter in.
Now give me those blueprints and foil, let’s give a shot at that nuclear reactor.
But I can tell a good story and that’s the hook, isn’t it? I look like I got my shit together and I sound like I got my shit together so obviously I must have what it takes to be the super parent that I appear to be. I make ordinary things into epic like poems and because I do that we all tend to forget that my daughter has actually been going to sleep on the stairs for a good 5 months and I’m no closer to figuring out how to stop it than I was a little while ago.
You see me out and about and you say to yourself, that guy looks like a good dad because his kids aren’t ripping each other’s hair out. In fact, he’s a handsome bastard and I would probably sleep with if he wasn’t married. Even though you’re a guy, you would totally be all over this. What you don’t see though is what happens at home. I’m as frustrated as the next guy. I can laugh about it and that makes it easier to deal with but that doesn’t mean that I’m dealing with it well. 3 years of fatherhood and I still feel like a rookie and I’m still making the rookie mistakes.
You know what my big parent accomplishment is so far? That thus far my children have not robbed a bank and gone on the lamb. That’s it, that’s what I’m proud of. Don’t get me wrong, if they did rob a bank I’m sure that they would be very accomplished at it. Always use positive reinforcement, right? I would say things like “that was a nice job honey of slapping that teller around, that’ll make them listen” and “good job Bubba Hoss on knee capping that guy, now he’ll think twice!”
Here’s what actually happens though:
Little Hoss was playing at the playground with her friends a little while ago. She was having a great time. Such a great time that she decided than rather on taking a potty break she would instead pee in her pants. I didn’t find out for a good 20 minutes later which begs the question of where the hell was I that I didn’t notice that my daughter peed her pants. I was at the picnic tables ignoring the children, thank you very much.
I went to get her a change of clothes from the diaper bag and found out that I had neglected to pack a change of clothes. At least I think I didn’t pack them because I had actually forgotten the diaper bag itself. We were forced to borrow Papa Scrum’s kids spare set. And what did I do with the underwear and shorts she was wearing?
I hung them in a tree, about 6 feet up. In my mind I figured that the wind would dry them. It did by the way. You see, I have no idea what I am doing. Put me in a trailer park and I’m sure I would fit right in once I got used to the Mumu.
Wait, it gets better.
Wow Wow Wuzby is currently Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss’ favorite show and I don’t actually mind this. But what I like better than this is that I can turn it on in the morning and go play a video game for half and hour while they zone out. That’s right, I’m using TV to babysit the kids. I’m in the next room and they usually just hang back and enjoy their morning cartoons. Notice that I said “usually” there.
Because once you are confident that something works is when that shit breaks down on you and exposes you for the crap parent that you apparently are.
While I was busy dispensing internet justice to tweens (take that you hairless cockroach!) my kids decided that they were hungry.
As they are very industrious when they want something, they constructed some sort of ladder device to get to the top of the pantry. They used a stool and stacked it on the chair, opened the pantry and dug their little hands in. Honestly, I’m quite impressed, it was pretty awesome.
On the top shelf they found what they were looking for, peanut butter. Because if peanut butter is good on a sandwich then it must just be fucking awesome straight from the can eaten in huge handfuls.
30 minutes later I stroll in to get ready for the day. What I see made the soul shiver. Peanut butter up to the elbows. They really tore into it. It was smeared on their face, in their hair, on the carpet and even on the couch. There is only one person to get made at when something like this happens.
Wow Wow Wuzby, you douchebag.
How dare you run a crap show that my children tire of easily. I should sue you for the cleaning bill. And by cleaning bill I mean what my dogs charge to lick the sofa for an hour trying to get all the peanut butter out.
They were so psyched to be eating peanut butter in globs that they were actually laughing when I busted them on it. It’s like they figured screw it, it’s worth it to get into trouble just for this experience. And it’s hard for me to fault them for this. Maybe they did inherit my sense of humor. Maybe life isn’t so hard if you have a laugh or to when things get tough or insane.
Sure, we all screw the pooch but did you have a smile on your face when you were doing it? Surely that must count for something and maybe that’s what makes me a decent parent. That I can look at my own shortcomings and have a giggle knowing that I learned from my mistakes. In this case, I now know to bring the diaper bag and that I need to get a tamper proof safe to hide the peanut butter in.
Now give me those blueprints and foil, let’s give a shot at that nuclear reactor.
8/16/09
Yup, you're in the Right place.
Things look a bit different, don't they? Well, let me just confirm to you that this The Hossman Family blog and I am your host, Hossman.
As you can see, things look a little different than you are used to. I changed the name to The Hossman Chronicles. Little Hoss told me to do it and I do everything that she tells me to do. Like currently I am blogging while singing songs about the greatness of Tinkerbell. It's quite a show I assure you.
Along with the name change comes an actual logo. The benefit of having a wife who specializes in internet advertising is that she knows people. Advertising is like the Mafia and I'm just one of those big hair wives that you see that swears that they had no idea what their spouse did. Often I walk into the hallway and see people kissing her ring and when I think I'm about to see something sinister the sliding doors shut by some guy wearing a pocket protector and a scowl.
I do have to give credit to my wife though, she truly does believe in me and thinks that the drivel that I write is actually pretty funny. As such, she is the driving force behind the blog and when I don't write much she is the first one to give me shit about it. She is also the one that has decided that I need a more professional look. As a result, I'm looking at a bunch of emails and making a lot of decisions that usually end with "whatever you say dear."
I've got a good week planned ahead with new blogs written every day but Thursday. God needs a day of rest and so do I. That's right, I compared myself to God and now I get the christian vote. It's all about politics. Well, that and I plan to do some swimming on Thursday while you are at work then take a nap. The Stay At Home Dad life is as awesome as you would think it to be. But the rest of the week I should be able to provide you with ample opportunity to screw off from work and be as unproductive as you should be.
There should be a lot more changes this week in the blogs look and I have no idea what we are going to settle on next. I voted for a stripper pole but once again I was denied. But what do I know, I'm just the talent not the marketing rep from big time Advertising agency.
Your job today is to tell one new person about the blog and then make a graph to so it looks like we are all working. Mine's going to be a pie chart!
Now if you'll excuse me I have to sing the third stanza to Tinkerbell: Peter Pan's unpaid hoochie.
As you can see, things look a little different than you are used to. I changed the name to The Hossman Chronicles. Little Hoss told me to do it and I do everything that she tells me to do. Like currently I am blogging while singing songs about the greatness of Tinkerbell. It's quite a show I assure you.
Along with the name change comes an actual logo. The benefit of having a wife who specializes in internet advertising is that she knows people. Advertising is like the Mafia and I'm just one of those big hair wives that you see that swears that they had no idea what their spouse did. Often I walk into the hallway and see people kissing her ring and when I think I'm about to see something sinister the sliding doors shut by some guy wearing a pocket protector and a scowl.
I do have to give credit to my wife though, she truly does believe in me and thinks that the drivel that I write is actually pretty funny. As such, she is the driving force behind the blog and when I don't write much she is the first one to give me shit about it. She is also the one that has decided that I need a more professional look. As a result, I'm looking at a bunch of emails and making a lot of decisions that usually end with "whatever you say dear."
I've got a good week planned ahead with new blogs written every day but Thursday. God needs a day of rest and so do I. That's right, I compared myself to God and now I get the christian vote. It's all about politics. Well, that and I plan to do some swimming on Thursday while you are at work then take a nap. The Stay At Home Dad life is as awesome as you would think it to be. But the rest of the week I should be able to provide you with ample opportunity to screw off from work and be as unproductive as you should be.
There should be a lot more changes this week in the blogs look and I have no idea what we are going to settle on next. I voted for a stripper pole but once again I was denied. But what do I know, I'm just the talent not the marketing rep from big time Advertising agency.
Your job today is to tell one new person about the blog and then make a graph to so it looks like we are all working. Mine's going to be a pie chart!
Now if you'll excuse me I have to sing the third stanza to Tinkerbell: Peter Pan's unpaid hoochie.
8/13/09
To Fly or Not To Fly
"You can't take her up in this wind man! It's insanity!" Papa Scrum shouted
"I can and I will" I answered, my voice eerily calm. The wind blew past what was left of my once magnificent hair, glazing my already perspiring forehead.
"Listen to him!" She wasn't built for this!" Larry Geographic added.
"I listen to nothing but my heart and my heart says that we must fly!"
"You know it's suicide. You know this to be true, don't you? She'll never get off the ground. That'll be on your conscious." Papa Scrum said, resigned to the fact that he couldn't change destiny or challenge my awesomeness.
"The children, Hossman. Remember the children." Geographic said.
"Aye, I will remember the children and that's why I must do this." I would not be dissuaded.
"This is MADNESS" Papa Scrum screamed.
(wait for it..........)
"THIS! IS! KANSAS!"
(and there are the goosebumps.)
We all stood fast, neither giving any ground. The wind picked up, howling it's challenge. A challenge that I could not ignore. Off I went, taking nothing with me but my determination and my 75 cent Walmart kite.
Behind me came 8 children because sometimes only a child can believe in a dream.
The wind screamed louder, protesting creation itself. It cursed, it heaved, it bellowed from it's very soul as we marched toward the field. Little woodland creatures flew by, caught by the mighty onslaught of nature, slamming them into some of the children--my personal guard, my minions.
We scratched and we crawled our way, protecting the 75 cent kite with every fiber of our being. It would fly, oh yes, it would fly. We had to believe that. We had to believe that even though it wasn't bigger than a piece of paper and no where near as sturdy, it would sore into the face of God himself. Yes, we believed. We believed in unicorns and leprechauns and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. And we believed that this kite would fly. We had to believe because sometimes there is nothing else.
By shear force of will we reached the middle of the field and I took out our kite. The minions gathered around, their steely gaze not betraying the fear that must be quaking their hearts at this very moment. Yes, it would most certainly fly.
It would fly because it is a Kite and in Kansas it can get very, very windy. And that's what kites do in wind, they soar like Mercury. Beautiful, majestic, godlike.
"It doesn't have the surface area to handle this wind!" I heard Papa Scrum shouts, just barely audible over the torrent of air rushing past my tanned and beautiful scalp.
"It's not rocket science!" I yelled back. It's a kite for Pete's sake. Seriously, a kite. What else is it going to do?
The minions and I ignored them, Papa Scrum and Geographic, as they watched on. Very well, let them be witness to greatness. Let them record what will power alone can do. Let them see us conquer Nature herself!
We began to unfurl the kite, the excitement was as thick as cream cheese on a day old bagel. Hands groped and pulled, unwinding the string that could be no stronger than dental floss. The string grew and so did our legend. One had the tail of the kite, another the kite itself, ready to unleash hell on my signal.
I looked at them. I looked at everyone of my minions and I swelled with pride. We so kick ass. We would do more than fly here today. We would become immortal.
"Now!" I screamed with fury and delight, almost crazed and manic in the moment.
Immediately the kite was thrown in the air and I pulled back on the string. I was almost lifted off my feet as the air caught the kite. The minions stepped back, not knowing what to expect.
Yes! Yes! The 75 cent kite that I bought at Walmart was starting to gain altitude! Yes!
But it was a difficult assent. 3 feet up and it started to go one way. I tried to correct it but then like a rabid bull it changed directions and went another way. But higher it went still. 4 feet. 5 feet. 6 feet!
Then it started to spin. It started to spin in a circle, faster and faster until I was sure it was going to open a dimension into Hades itself. I pulled the string harder, I stepped back, I started to run with it.
It spun one more time and then hit one of the minions in the head.
"Again! Again I say!" We threw it again.
This time it came crashing down and wrapped itself around the neck of a different minion.
We tried again and failed. We tried after that and failed. We tried even more and it failed even more.
Aye, kite flying is not rocket science. It appears to be more aerospace engineering.
"Why! What have I done to displease the gods?!" I cried. In my fury, in my shame, I had neglected to keep watch on the minions. Minions are fickle creatures, waiting for one moment of weakness to pounce.
They had gone ferrel.
Like a bunch of shrieking cats they jumped on me. They grabbed for me and the kite.
"You have to run with it, let me show you!"
"No! You have to throw it higher!"
"Out of the way, it's my turn!"
I had failed them and they knew it. And I knew that there would be no pity from them. They wanted the kite and my soul.
The fall is never pretty, it is never easy. Glorious heights that were once reached now grow further and further away as you plummet, as I plummeted that day. What I did next, I had no choice.
I abandoned them.
I threw the kite at them and ran, ran against the wind, against history, against my destiny.
I chanced a look over my shoulder as I reached the safety of Papa Scrum and Geographic. My face ashen with panic and self doubt. Tears that would have rolled down my face were blown aside before they even had a chance to form. It was done. I was done.
"Told ya. To windy to fly such a small kite."
"I can and I will" I answered, my voice eerily calm. The wind blew past what was left of my once magnificent hair, glazing my already perspiring forehead.
"Listen to him!" She wasn't built for this!" Larry Geographic added.
"I listen to nothing but my heart and my heart says that we must fly!"
"You know it's suicide. You know this to be true, don't you? She'll never get off the ground. That'll be on your conscious." Papa Scrum said, resigned to the fact that he couldn't change destiny or challenge my awesomeness.
"The children, Hossman. Remember the children." Geographic said.
"Aye, I will remember the children and that's why I must do this." I would not be dissuaded.
"This is MADNESS" Papa Scrum screamed.
(wait for it..........)
"THIS! IS! KANSAS!"
(and there are the goosebumps.)
We all stood fast, neither giving any ground. The wind picked up, howling it's challenge. A challenge that I could not ignore. Off I went, taking nothing with me but my determination and my 75 cent Walmart kite.
Behind me came 8 children because sometimes only a child can believe in a dream.
The wind screamed louder, protesting creation itself. It cursed, it heaved, it bellowed from it's very soul as we marched toward the field. Little woodland creatures flew by, caught by the mighty onslaught of nature, slamming them into some of the children--my personal guard, my minions.
We scratched and we crawled our way, protecting the 75 cent kite with every fiber of our being. It would fly, oh yes, it would fly. We had to believe that. We had to believe that even though it wasn't bigger than a piece of paper and no where near as sturdy, it would sore into the face of God himself. Yes, we believed. We believed in unicorns and leprechauns and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. And we believed that this kite would fly. We had to believe because sometimes there is nothing else.
By shear force of will we reached the middle of the field and I took out our kite. The minions gathered around, their steely gaze not betraying the fear that must be quaking their hearts at this very moment. Yes, it would most certainly fly.
It would fly because it is a Kite and in Kansas it can get very, very windy. And that's what kites do in wind, they soar like Mercury. Beautiful, majestic, godlike.
"It doesn't have the surface area to handle this wind!" I heard Papa Scrum shouts, just barely audible over the torrent of air rushing past my tanned and beautiful scalp.
"It's not rocket science!" I yelled back. It's a kite for Pete's sake. Seriously, a kite. What else is it going to do?
The minions and I ignored them, Papa Scrum and Geographic, as they watched on. Very well, let them be witness to greatness. Let them record what will power alone can do. Let them see us conquer Nature herself!
We began to unfurl the kite, the excitement was as thick as cream cheese on a day old bagel. Hands groped and pulled, unwinding the string that could be no stronger than dental floss. The string grew and so did our legend. One had the tail of the kite, another the kite itself, ready to unleash hell on my signal.
I looked at them. I looked at everyone of my minions and I swelled with pride. We so kick ass. We would do more than fly here today. We would become immortal.
"Now!" I screamed with fury and delight, almost crazed and manic in the moment.
Immediately the kite was thrown in the air and I pulled back on the string. I was almost lifted off my feet as the air caught the kite. The minions stepped back, not knowing what to expect.
Yes! Yes! The 75 cent kite that I bought at Walmart was starting to gain altitude! Yes!
But it was a difficult assent. 3 feet up and it started to go one way. I tried to correct it but then like a rabid bull it changed directions and went another way. But higher it went still. 4 feet. 5 feet. 6 feet!
Then it started to spin. It started to spin in a circle, faster and faster until I was sure it was going to open a dimension into Hades itself. I pulled the string harder, I stepped back, I started to run with it.
It spun one more time and then hit one of the minions in the head.
"Again! Again I say!" We threw it again.
This time it came crashing down and wrapped itself around the neck of a different minion.
We tried again and failed. We tried after that and failed. We tried even more and it failed even more.
Aye, kite flying is not rocket science. It appears to be more aerospace engineering.
"Why! What have I done to displease the gods?!" I cried. In my fury, in my shame, I had neglected to keep watch on the minions. Minions are fickle creatures, waiting for one moment of weakness to pounce.
They had gone ferrel.
Like a bunch of shrieking cats they jumped on me. They grabbed for me and the kite.
"You have to run with it, let me show you!"
"No! You have to throw it higher!"
"Out of the way, it's my turn!"
I had failed them and they knew it. And I knew that there would be no pity from them. They wanted the kite and my soul.
The fall is never pretty, it is never easy. Glorious heights that were once reached now grow further and further away as you plummet, as I plummeted that day. What I did next, I had no choice.
I abandoned them.
I threw the kite at them and ran, ran against the wind, against history, against my destiny.
I chanced a look over my shoulder as I reached the safety of Papa Scrum and Geographic. My face ashen with panic and self doubt. Tears that would have rolled down my face were blown aside before they even had a chance to form. It was done. I was done.
"Told ya. To windy to fly such a small kite."
8/9/09
Where Should A Little Girl Sleep
Where, oh where, should a little girl sleep?
What kind of place should the sandman creep?
It should be somewhere safe and somewhere secure.
Some place that offers a special kind of allure.
She starts by asking what would a normal child do?
A normal child aged one, perhaps even two
They probably would want a nice big bed
Like the queen size one where she currently rests her head
But wait, when has she been normal at all?!
When has she conformed, ignored the wild-things call
No, no, no a bed certainly won’t do
Especially for a child older than two
She needs some place majestic and grand
Some place she can call Little Hoss Land
Some place high, where she can say her prayers
Some place exactly like... the top of the stairs!
Where she can overlook everything going on
Where she can manipulate each and every little pawn
Where she can scream and yell and call down the thunder
And fire the cannons mateys, where’s me plunder!
But just at the top of the stairs is not very nice
It needs a certain princess quality, her only true vice
With the proper accompaniment of her grand royal court
And a little red ball, for throwing and sport
It hits her head, this idea that she thought
The perfect accessory, nothing borrowed or bought
Into her room she runs, she shouts with glee
And then she remembered, she really has to pee
Out she comes towing her little brown box
The perfect place to sleep, she’s sly as a fox
At the top of the stairs is where it must go
And in it she climbs; every finger, every toe
She nestles in pulling her little blanket tight
She grabs her “everybody” and it feels just right
She’s got Austin from TV and her little pink shoes
And it just wouldn't be perfect without a Barbie or two
Now this is just fine and just her style
Perhaps she’ll try to stay awake, for just a little while
But try as she might, her eyes begin to shut
All the scenes are done, the director has yelled 'cut!'
Off she goes to dream what little girls dream
About ponies and candy and making little brothers scream
About Melman and toys and Daddy’s homemade kite
About the perfect place for a little girl to go night, night.
What kind of place should the sandman creep?
It should be somewhere safe and somewhere secure.
Some place that offers a special kind of allure.
She starts by asking what would a normal child do?
A normal child aged one, perhaps even two
They probably would want a nice big bed
Like the queen size one where she currently rests her head
But wait, when has she been normal at all?!
When has she conformed, ignored the wild-things call
No, no, no a bed certainly won’t do
Especially for a child older than two
She needs some place majestic and grand
Some place she can call Little Hoss Land
Some place high, where she can say her prayers
Some place exactly like... the top of the stairs!
Where she can overlook everything going on
Where she can manipulate each and every little pawn
Where she can scream and yell and call down the thunder
And fire the cannons mateys, where’s me plunder!
But just at the top of the stairs is not very nice
It needs a certain princess quality, her only true vice
With the proper accompaniment of her grand royal court
And a little red ball, for throwing and sport
It hits her head, this idea that she thought
The perfect accessory, nothing borrowed or bought
Into her room she runs, she shouts with glee
And then she remembered, she really has to pee
Out she comes towing her little brown box
The perfect place to sleep, she’s sly as a fox
At the top of the stairs is where it must go
And in it she climbs; every finger, every toe
She nestles in pulling her little blanket tight
She grabs her “everybody” and it feels just right
She’s got Austin from TV and her little pink shoes
And it just wouldn't be perfect without a Barbie or two
Now this is just fine and just her style
Perhaps she’ll try to stay awake, for just a little while
But try as she might, her eyes begin to shut
All the scenes are done, the director has yelled 'cut!'
Off she goes to dream what little girls dream
About ponies and candy and making little brothers scream
About Melman and toys and Daddy’s homemade kite
About the perfect place for a little girl to go night, night.
8/6/09
The Friday Five
5 Reasons Why You Should Stop What You Are Doing and Follow This Blog.
5. "I'm not internationally known but I'm known to rock the microphone." See, I just quoted some very early rap. I'm old school, biatch.
4. My mom started reading this blog. You see all the cussing and bad grammar I got in this thing? That's right, I'm the bad boy you've always wanted.
3. My fragile ego needs constant reassurance that I don't suck and that I do matter to the world. It's all on your shoulders now, good luck with that.
2. Little Hoss made a shank out of her toothbrush and has promised to cut me like a vato if I don't get my shit together. She's serious man, you don't see the look in her eyes, she's serious man.
1. If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you? Of course you would because deep down we are all lemmings and want to follow anybody to anywhere. So why not follow me? I promise we'll make stops at strip clubs and laundry centers.
5. "I'm not internationally known but I'm known to rock the microphone." See, I just quoted some very early rap. I'm old school, biatch.
4. My mom started reading this blog. You see all the cussing and bad grammar I got in this thing? That's right, I'm the bad boy you've always wanted.
3. My fragile ego needs constant reassurance that I don't suck and that I do matter to the world. It's all on your shoulders now, good luck with that.
2. Little Hoss made a shank out of her toothbrush and has promised to cut me like a vato if I don't get my shit together. She's serious man, you don't see the look in her eyes, she's serious man.
1. If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you? Of course you would because deep down we are all lemmings and want to follow anybody to anywhere. So why not follow me? I promise we'll make stops at strip clubs and laundry centers.
8/5/09
Parent Like Hossman
There are a ton of parental advice columns out there. Blogs, magazines, TV shows, even the bum downtown wants to give you advice on how to be a parent. But there's a problem with that advice--it's intangible.
Look at it next time someone gives you parental advice. They say things like "You got to get out more often, get the kids active." or "Get a routine." It's good advice but in the end, it doesn't really deal with the day to day type things that parents have to do. Fine, I'll get a routine. But what does the routine entail? I'll get out, where should I go? What should we do?
One of the best pieces of parental advice that I got was that WD-40 gets crayon marks off the wall. WD-40, how awesome is that stuff? Good for lug nuts, good for child care. Surely the guy that invented that won some sort of Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. If not, I hereby award you Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. No speeches though, this is my soap box.
With that in mind, I'm going to offer some parental advice that you can actually use. Today. Tomorrow. Next year when you're in tears you will remember this advice from a stay at home dad who once himself won the Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. This is practical advice, advice to get you through the day. How do you parent like a Hoss? This is how:
Keep a wet/dry vac in between your dinning room and living room. Have you ever seen a 2 year old eat Cheerios? That shit gets everywhere. And then it combines with the milk, because lord knows that they got to have milk like a big boy, and it never stays in the bowl. Or on the table. Or even in the dining room. Without a doubt that ends up everywhere. And that's where the wet/dry vac comes into play. I leave mine plugged in all the time. I only take it out to the garage when company is coming over and my wife makes me. It will pick up anything. Little Hoss picked up the cat once with it once. Because I taught her how to use it. If she is going to chunk her peanut butter and jelly sand which then she can damn well go vacuum it up. 12.5 HP of Hoss parental awesomeness.
I also keep a beach towel safely tucked away under the kitchen sink. You never know when you are going to need a really big towel for a really big mess. One such as when your son takes the top of his juice cup off and throws it on your feet. Because that's funny to a 2 year old. It's fucking hilarious. I think a timeout is hilarious.
An air compressor, secretly stashed away in an upstairs closet, does wonders with dusting.
Kids getting to loud, maybe whining to much? Turn your music louder. Talk over Metallica? I think not.
A tool belt equipped with Windex, 409, a roll of paper towels and a couple of cans of WD-40 (of course) lets you clean the entire house without stopping. Just reach into the belt and grab the bleach. It's next to the screwdriver.
Maybe your kids have a little to much energy, driving you nuts? Toddler Mosh Pit.
Kids won't eat something? Put it on a stick. Meat on a stick. Who doesn't love meat on a stick? Meat on a stick with Ranch Dressing. Works every time.
Contrary to popular opinion, common sense and the users manual--a 3 year old can in fact use and operate a nail gun quite well. That's just general knowledge, something that you should probably know. I'm not saying I've done it. I'm just saying that I've seen it done while I was in the room and someone said "give it a try."
Never, ever ever hide your porn along side your kids favorite DVD's. You only make this mistake once. It will save you a conversation that I like to call "Transvestite Midget Tossing 4? Really Hossman?"
He who screams loudest wins. Always.
If enough cookies are on the line, a 3 year old and a 2 year old can find a way to work together to learn to fold a sheet properly. And put it away.
It is never a good idea to let your 3 year old drive the car when the cops are watching and the chief of police lives in your neighborhood.
Having trouble reaching that dish on the very top shelf? Your reach will be greatly increased if you put a 3 year old on your shoulders, tell her to stand, and without a doubt remind her that this is one of those things that she is not to tell mom about. It's a high wire act of cool.
Pouring some Pine-sol down the drain gives your house that freshly cleaned smell and will momentarily fool your wife when she gets home thus buying you precious minutes to enter your escape hatch and bug out before she discovers the dog vomit on the carpet that you didn't feel like cleaning up.
There you go, practical real world advice to get the job done. And remember, when life gives you lemons make lemonade and then add half of jug of vodka to it. That will get you through the day.
Look at it next time someone gives you parental advice. They say things like "You got to get out more often, get the kids active." or "Get a routine." It's good advice but in the end, it doesn't really deal with the day to day type things that parents have to do. Fine, I'll get a routine. But what does the routine entail? I'll get out, where should I go? What should we do?
One of the best pieces of parental advice that I got was that WD-40 gets crayon marks off the wall. WD-40, how awesome is that stuff? Good for lug nuts, good for child care. Surely the guy that invented that won some sort of Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. If not, I hereby award you Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. No speeches though, this is my soap box.
With that in mind, I'm going to offer some parental advice that you can actually use. Today. Tomorrow. Next year when you're in tears you will remember this advice from a stay at home dad who once himself won the Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. This is practical advice, advice to get you through the day. How do you parent like a Hoss? This is how:
Keep a wet/dry vac in between your dinning room and living room. Have you ever seen a 2 year old eat Cheerios? That shit gets everywhere. And then it combines with the milk, because lord knows that they got to have milk like a big boy, and it never stays in the bowl. Or on the table. Or even in the dining room. Without a doubt that ends up everywhere. And that's where the wet/dry vac comes into play. I leave mine plugged in all the time. I only take it out to the garage when company is coming over and my wife makes me. It will pick up anything. Little Hoss picked up the cat once with it once. Because I taught her how to use it. If she is going to chunk her peanut butter and jelly sand which then she can damn well go vacuum it up. 12.5 HP of Hoss parental awesomeness.
I also keep a beach towel safely tucked away under the kitchen sink. You never know when you are going to need a really big towel for a really big mess. One such as when your son takes the top of his juice cup off and throws it on your feet. Because that's funny to a 2 year old. It's fucking hilarious. I think a timeout is hilarious.
An air compressor, secretly stashed away in an upstairs closet, does wonders with dusting.
Kids getting to loud, maybe whining to much? Turn your music louder. Talk over Metallica? I think not.
A tool belt equipped with Windex, 409, a roll of paper towels and a couple of cans of WD-40 (of course) lets you clean the entire house without stopping. Just reach into the belt and grab the bleach. It's next to the screwdriver.
Maybe your kids have a little to much energy, driving you nuts? Toddler Mosh Pit.
Kids won't eat something? Put it on a stick. Meat on a stick. Who doesn't love meat on a stick? Meat on a stick with Ranch Dressing. Works every time.
Contrary to popular opinion, common sense and the users manual--a 3 year old can in fact use and operate a nail gun quite well. That's just general knowledge, something that you should probably know. I'm not saying I've done it. I'm just saying that I've seen it done while I was in the room and someone said "give it a try."
Never, ever ever hide your porn along side your kids favorite DVD's. You only make this mistake once. It will save you a conversation that I like to call "Transvestite Midget Tossing 4? Really Hossman?"
He who screams loudest wins. Always.
If enough cookies are on the line, a 3 year old and a 2 year old can find a way to work together to learn to fold a sheet properly. And put it away.
It is never a good idea to let your 3 year old drive the car when the cops are watching and the chief of police lives in your neighborhood.
Having trouble reaching that dish on the very top shelf? Your reach will be greatly increased if you put a 3 year old on your shoulders, tell her to stand, and without a doubt remind her that this is one of those things that she is not to tell mom about. It's a high wire act of cool.
Pouring some Pine-sol down the drain gives your house that freshly cleaned smell and will momentarily fool your wife when she gets home thus buying you precious minutes to enter your escape hatch and bug out before she discovers the dog vomit on the carpet that you didn't feel like cleaning up.
There you go, practical real world advice to get the job done. And remember, when life gives you lemons make lemonade and then add half of jug of vodka to it. That will get you through the day.
8/3/09
The Cute Little Girl, the Cute Little Boy, and the Resonably Handsome Man
This is a story about a cute little girl and a cute little boy in the backseat of a car. In the front seat of the car is a reasonably handsome middle aged man. He's not "oh god there's Brad Pitt" handsome but if you were desperate, you might throw your panties at him if he were on a stage.
They are traveling down a road. The windows are open because the cute little girl likes the wind when it blows in her face. She is giggling and then she is throwing gold fish at the reasonably handsome man driving the car. This makes her giggle just a little bit more. He's saying something but she is choosing to ignore him. She punches her little brother, this makes her giggle, too.
The reasonably handsome man in the front seat is starting to say some more things. Something about behaving, acting right,not throwing things and what she thinks is "Dear God in heaven, so help me....." but she can't make out the rest because everyone seems to be distracted by the pretty red and blue lights flashing behind them.
She's had a very exciting day and it looks like it just got better. The reasonably handsome man is slowing down the car and pulling over to the side. She thinks to herself to ask Momma what "shit" and "fuck" mean.
They stop on the side of the road, the reasonably handsome man, the cute little girl, and the cute little boy. Her window is still down. And then they sit there. They don't do nothing. They don't open the doors, they don't unbuckle the seatbelts, they are just sitting there. The reasonably handsome man has stopped talking but he seems to be trying to strangle the steering wheel. He's so silly.
She turns around and sees the thing with the red and blue lights come up behind them. It looks like it's a tricycle but it is missing it's training wheels. She wants one immediately and asks the reasonably handsome man if the one behind them is "mine". He says no. Oh well, maybe the man walking up to the car will share his.
He's a man in blue and he has a helmet on, the kind of helmet that the reasonably handsome man makes her wear when they go sledding down the stairs. He seems nice enough. "Maybe if I'm nice to he'll let me have his bike." she thinks to herself.
Her window is down so she waits for the man in blue to walk up to the reasonably handsome man, still sitting in the front of the car, still gripping the steering wheel.
"Hi!" She says.
"Hi" the cute little boy says to. He doesn't want to be left out, he wants the bike too.
"Me Little Hoss Daughter." she says introducing herself like the reasonably handsome man has taught her to do.
The man in blue says hi back to her and then continues talking to the reasonably handsome man.
She does not like to be ignored.
"I go play with Emily. Then, then, then, we go swimming and then, then, then, we play at plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyygrouuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnd." She says, putting emphasis on the last word. That should get his attention.
The man in blue is not looking at her. The reasonably handsome man is getting something from his butt. It's his wallet. She's not allowed to touch that anymore because this one time, when she was young, she threw it in the toilet.
"I want peanut butter jelly." She says.
"Me, too" says the cute little boy.
Nothing, the man in blue is still ignoring her. The reasonably handsome man is making a lot of hand gestures and may be crying, it's hard to see.
"I pooted! 'Cuse me!" And she giggles some more. Momma says she always has to say excuse me when she poots.
"Look, I have my blankie," she continues, hoping that her soft little blankie will distract the man in blue and he will talk to her now so that she can share his bike.
Nothing.
"Is it my turn?" she asks as the man in blue starts walking away from the car. Maybe it's not her turn. Momma says that everyone has to share, doesn't the man in blue know that?
She looks at the reasonably handsome man again. He's not doing anything now but he's definitely crying.
The man in blue comes back to the car and looks at her.
"Hi sweetie" he says.
"Hi. I'm 3."
"Yes, you are."
"Who's that next to you?" the man in blue asks.
"That's Bubba Hoss boy. He Little Hoss Daughter brother." she says. This is going quite well.
"No poop, just pee!" the cute little boy adds.
The man in blue starts talking to the reasonably handsome man again. It doesn't look like he is going to share.
"Sir," the man in blue says. "I tell you what. This is the last ticket in my book. And your kids are about as cute as I've seen and have been talking to me since I came up. So what I'm going to do is not give you the speeding ticket. I'm going to give you a seat belt fine because it's only 10 bucks and doesn't go on your record. I know you are wearing your seat belt, but this is easier. That ok with you?" he asks.
The reasonably handsome man shakes his head yes.
"Ok then. You have a nice day sir." the man in blue says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little girl says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little boy says.
The reasonably handsome man gets back on the road and the wind is in her hair again. The reasonaably handsome man reaches back and gives her another bag of goldfish crackers and tells her to throw all she wants. She giggles.
He then asks her if she knows what a pony is and would she like one.
*Author's note: completely 100% true. She actually got me out of a speeding ticket.
They are traveling down a road. The windows are open because the cute little girl likes the wind when it blows in her face. She is giggling and then she is throwing gold fish at the reasonably handsome man driving the car. This makes her giggle just a little bit more. He's saying something but she is choosing to ignore him. She punches her little brother, this makes her giggle, too.
The reasonably handsome man in the front seat is starting to say some more things. Something about behaving, acting right,not throwing things and what she thinks is "Dear God in heaven, so help me....." but she can't make out the rest because everyone seems to be distracted by the pretty red and blue lights flashing behind them.
She's had a very exciting day and it looks like it just got better. The reasonably handsome man is slowing down the car and pulling over to the side. She thinks to herself to ask Momma what "shit" and "fuck" mean.
They stop on the side of the road, the reasonably handsome man, the cute little girl, and the cute little boy. Her window is still down. And then they sit there. They don't do nothing. They don't open the doors, they don't unbuckle the seatbelts, they are just sitting there. The reasonably handsome man has stopped talking but he seems to be trying to strangle the steering wheel. He's so silly.
She turns around and sees the thing with the red and blue lights come up behind them. It looks like it's a tricycle but it is missing it's training wheels. She wants one immediately and asks the reasonably handsome man if the one behind them is "mine". He says no. Oh well, maybe the man walking up to the car will share his.
He's a man in blue and he has a helmet on, the kind of helmet that the reasonably handsome man makes her wear when they go sledding down the stairs. He seems nice enough. "Maybe if I'm nice to he'll let me have his bike." she thinks to herself.
Her window is down so she waits for the man in blue to walk up to the reasonably handsome man, still sitting in the front of the car, still gripping the steering wheel.
"Hi!" She says.
"Hi" the cute little boy says to. He doesn't want to be left out, he wants the bike too.
"Me Little Hoss Daughter." she says introducing herself like the reasonably handsome man has taught her to do.
The man in blue says hi back to her and then continues talking to the reasonably handsome man.
She does not like to be ignored.
"I go play with Emily. Then, then, then, we go swimming and then, then, then, we play at plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyygrouuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnd." She says, putting emphasis on the last word. That should get his attention.
The man in blue is not looking at her. The reasonably handsome man is getting something from his butt. It's his wallet. She's not allowed to touch that anymore because this one time, when she was young, she threw it in the toilet.
"I want peanut butter jelly." She says.
"Me, too" says the cute little boy.
Nothing, the man in blue is still ignoring her. The reasonably handsome man is making a lot of hand gestures and may be crying, it's hard to see.
"I pooted! 'Cuse me!" And she giggles some more. Momma says she always has to say excuse me when she poots.
"Look, I have my blankie," she continues, hoping that her soft little blankie will distract the man in blue and he will talk to her now so that she can share his bike.
Nothing.
"Is it my turn?" she asks as the man in blue starts walking away from the car. Maybe it's not her turn. Momma says that everyone has to share, doesn't the man in blue know that?
She looks at the reasonably handsome man again. He's not doing anything now but he's definitely crying.
The man in blue comes back to the car and looks at her.
"Hi sweetie" he says.
"Hi. I'm 3."
"Yes, you are."
"Who's that next to you?" the man in blue asks.
"That's Bubba Hoss boy. He Little Hoss Daughter brother." she says. This is going quite well.
"No poop, just pee!" the cute little boy adds.
The man in blue starts talking to the reasonably handsome man again. It doesn't look like he is going to share.
"Sir," the man in blue says. "I tell you what. This is the last ticket in my book. And your kids are about as cute as I've seen and have been talking to me since I came up. So what I'm going to do is not give you the speeding ticket. I'm going to give you a seat belt fine because it's only 10 bucks and doesn't go on your record. I know you are wearing your seat belt, but this is easier. That ok with you?" he asks.
The reasonably handsome man shakes his head yes.
"Ok then. You have a nice day sir." the man in blue says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little girl says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little boy says.
The reasonably handsome man gets back on the road and the wind is in her hair again. The reasonaably handsome man reaches back and gives her another bag of goldfish crackers and tells her to throw all she wants. She giggles.
He then asks her if she knows what a pony is and would she like one.
*Author's note: completely 100% true. She actually got me out of a speeding ticket.
8/2/09
Playgroup Conversations
As a stay at home dad I often get asked, especially by wives, what the hell do you guys talk about. I get it all the time. My sister, my wife, just about every mother I know asks that question. It seems that many can't imagine what 15 guys talk about when we get together when we are surrounded by future presidents and award winning cancer curing scientists. Well, they aren't that yet but we all have high expectations. My kid in particular. I've her slotted for Ruler Over All. I am hoping that she will let me live in a sweet villa beside the ocean. And I get free steak. That would be awesome.
Do you guys talk about breast feeding? About potty training? About snot and poop? It's like they have a hard time imagining that a bunch of guys, as manly as we are, talk about these things. And I can't blame them. Their experience with men has routinely been guys trying to get into their pants. Including their experiences with us. Except we succeeded. Go us. And now we are stay at home dads with the children to prove our smoothness.
But c'mon, we aren't always ruled by whats south of the border. We have bigger interests than just that. So let me put it all to rest, let's answer that question once and for all. What do we talk about at an all male playgroup when it's just us and the kids?
That chick at the grocery store.
That chick at the gas station.
That chick at the mailbox.
That chick that had to be at least 21.
That chick with that thing at that place.
Potty training.
That chick at Blockbuster getting that romantic comedy.
That chick that looked at me all sexy like when I pulled up to her at the stoplight.
That chick who I bet is wearing a thong.
That chick who found my kid lost at the grocery store.
That chick who was in the swing waiting for her boyfriend.
Finding the right preschool.
That chick at the gym.
That chick that looked like she went to the gym.
That chick in that commercial.
That chick on that TV show.
That chick who was in the commercial and the TV show.
Diaper rash.
That chick who was walking her dog as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was crossing the street as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing yard work as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing jumping jacks by her car as we came to playgroup.
That chick with the jogging stroller that we passed as we came to playgroup.
The difficulties of breast feeding.
That chick that was all greasy underneath the hood of her car in the short cutoffs.
Those chicks that were in a full out pillow fight at the slumber party.
That chick that was eating that Popsicle.
That chick in the nurses outfit.
The fact that none of those things were scene but it would have been cool if they were.
How to make a quilt for ever lasting memories.
Princes Leah.
Princes Leah and her hair buns.
Princes Leah and her gold bikini.
Princes Leah and her hair buns and her gold bikini and how she seems to like fat guys.
Princes Leah and fat guys and what might be her home phone number.
Recipes for losing weight or becoming an interstellar smuggler.
That chick who reads this blog.
That chick who will no longer talk to us.
That chick who thinks we are a bunch of disgusting jagoffs but yet bad boy sexy.
That chick who thinks that she can fix us.
That chick who wishes we drove a motorcycle with a carseat on the back because that would be cool.
Aprons.
That chick at the zoo.
That chick at Shatto Milk Company.
That chick at the civil war battlefield.
That chick at the Library.
That chick on the hiking trail.
The best way to put in a carseat.
There you go. That's just about all that we talk about. I hope that I have shown our wives that yes, we can be a little neanderthal at times, but underneath all of that is a caring husband who has a nurturing side. Someone that doesn't just think unpure thoughts all day like it is rumored that men do. Someone that can cook you a kick ass dinner and make sure that the kids aren't jumping off the roof.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go sleep on the couch for a couple of days until that chick at the flower shop hooks me up and gets me those roses.
Do you guys talk about breast feeding? About potty training? About snot and poop? It's like they have a hard time imagining that a bunch of guys, as manly as we are, talk about these things. And I can't blame them. Their experience with men has routinely been guys trying to get into their pants. Including their experiences with us. Except we succeeded. Go us. And now we are stay at home dads with the children to prove our smoothness.
But c'mon, we aren't always ruled by whats south of the border. We have bigger interests than just that. So let me put it all to rest, let's answer that question once and for all. What do we talk about at an all male playgroup when it's just us and the kids?
That chick at the grocery store.
That chick at the gas station.
That chick at the mailbox.
That chick that had to be at least 21.
That chick with that thing at that place.
Potty training.
That chick at Blockbuster getting that romantic comedy.
That chick that looked at me all sexy like when I pulled up to her at the stoplight.
That chick who I bet is wearing a thong.
That chick who found my kid lost at the grocery store.
That chick who was in the swing waiting for her boyfriend.
Finding the right preschool.
That chick at the gym.
That chick that looked like she went to the gym.
That chick in that commercial.
That chick on that TV show.
That chick who was in the commercial and the TV show.
Diaper rash.
That chick who was walking her dog as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was crossing the street as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing yard work as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing jumping jacks by her car as we came to playgroup.
That chick with the jogging stroller that we passed as we came to playgroup.
The difficulties of breast feeding.
That chick that was all greasy underneath the hood of her car in the short cutoffs.
Those chicks that were in a full out pillow fight at the slumber party.
That chick that was eating that Popsicle.
That chick in the nurses outfit.
The fact that none of those things were scene but it would have been cool if they were.
How to make a quilt for ever lasting memories.
Princes Leah.
Princes Leah and her hair buns.
Princes Leah and her gold bikini.
Princes Leah and her hair buns and her gold bikini and how she seems to like fat guys.
Princes Leah and fat guys and what might be her home phone number.
Recipes for losing weight or becoming an interstellar smuggler.
That chick who reads this blog.
That chick who will no longer talk to us.
That chick who thinks we are a bunch of disgusting jagoffs but yet bad boy sexy.
That chick who thinks that she can fix us.
That chick who wishes we drove a motorcycle with a carseat on the back because that would be cool.
Aprons.
That chick at the zoo.
That chick at Shatto Milk Company.
That chick at the civil war battlefield.
That chick at the Library.
That chick on the hiking trail.
The best way to put in a carseat.
There you go. That's just about all that we talk about. I hope that I have shown our wives that yes, we can be a little neanderthal at times, but underneath all of that is a caring husband who has a nurturing side. Someone that doesn't just think unpure thoughts all day like it is rumored that men do. Someone that can cook you a kick ass dinner and make sure that the kids aren't jumping off the roof.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go sleep on the couch for a couple of days until that chick at the flower shop hooks me up and gets me those roses.
8/1/09
Wow
Where did I put the kids clothes. I just had them? Seriously, where did they go?
There they are, draped over the empty bottle of wine that Hossmom and I polished off last night.
You stay classy San Diego.
There they are, draped over the empty bottle of wine that Hossmom and I polished off last night.
You stay classy San Diego.
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