I've got a new post on the Daddyshome blog. Rather than write two for one day, why don't you just head over there so that I can go grocery shopping and mow the yard.


The Friday Five

5 Things that Bubba Hoss has walked into this week because he never, ever pays attention to where he is going. He gets distracted by bright lights and lint.

5. A pole. A pole that was in the middle of the sidewalk. A pole that was in the middle of the sidewalk and has always been there. He ran right into it, fell down and looked shocked that someone would dare put a poll where he was walking. This time he was distracted by the sound of a train somewhere in the distance.

4. A grocery cart being pushed by an elderly lady. Walked right into the thing. Turned around at the last moment and smashed his face right into it. Fell down and kind of just sat there for a moment. The sweet old lady felt so bad and began to apologize. For a moment I thought that she was going to give us some butterscotch candy. Bubba Hoss was distracted by a balloon in the shape of a lobster.

3. The kitchen counter. He didn't so much as walk into this as he ran into it, full on. He ended up whacking his head on the counter. To the untrained eye, you would think he did this on purpose as he appeared to be looking right at it. But to the qualified parent of destructive children, I know better. He was actually focused on Little Hoss who was across the room. He was running at her to tackle her. He corked himself pretty good too, thought for a moment he actually might have knocked himself out.

2. The monkey enclosure at the zoo. You would think all of his attention would have been on the lemur monkeys behind the glass. They are cool and they throw poop, everything that you would need to keep the attention of a two year old boy. But apparently the sight of his sister pushing the stroller was way more interested. Smacked the back of his head like a melon. I need to get him checked for a concussion.

1. Platform nine and three quarters. A muggle had to find it sooner or later.


Swim Lesson Dreams

It’s not tough to spot Little Hoss in a crowd, especially a crowd of children. Maybe it’s because she is a bit taller than most her age. Or maybe it’s because she exudes a certain aura of fucking awesome. But more likely it’s because she is being raised by a SAHD who himself oozes fucking awesome. If I could translate that into oozing hair on my head, I would be in the movies. Or a freak show.

Over there, see that crowd of kids? The one on the steps of the pool. Obviously it’s swim lessons as you can tell by the superhot swim teacher. She said hi to me. I think she’s in love with me but I told her that it’s only the myth of Hossman that she is in love with, not the man. Then I ride away on my warhorse Unicorn down the rainbow bridge to meet many other hot lifeguards. Swim lessons are extremely boring for parents so it helps if you can make little narratives in your head. Yesterday the superhot lifeguard told me that her uncle was a horrible man that makes her sleep in a closet under the stairs and what she wanted more than anything else was a middle aged fat guy to come rescue her. Before I could though, swim lessons ended and we had to go home.

Anyway, take a look at the crowd of kids. As you can see, they are working on the backstroke. Why they are trying to teach this to 4 year olds is beyond me but as long as they are in the water and I have my fantasies, I don’t ask too many questions, I have an evil uncle to deal with. They are working on the actual arm movements right now and making very little progress, but it’s a good show.

Anyone that has taken swim lessons knows that to begin the backstroke, you must first extend your thumb on each hand and then place it in the water behind your head to begin your stroke. For kids that can barely put their faces in the water, I find that this may be a little to advanced, but I do appreciate the effort and can do attitude of the hot lifeguards.

Let’s see how the kids are doing. We have the blond kid that is flapping like a bird, but not in the water because it also appears that she is afraid of the water. She is being helped by the kid that is running around her whacking his hands on the side of her legs while he is screaming at the top of his lungs “Quack!”. Not quite the backstroke but there is potential there.

Next to them is the kid that has just put his thumbs in his ears. But at least the thumbs are extended. The lifeguard has actually herded one of the kids and has them on their back and I guess he is doing something of a stroke, although it looks more like the busted artery in the brain kind of stroke rather than an actual backstroke. Get that kid 50CCs of bacon, stat!

And then there is the kid that, instead of extending her thumbs, has made the rock and roll sign of the devil and has both hands above her head. The arms are pumping and her head is swinging wildly. She is only missing an 80’s hair-band light show and some thigh high boots.

Now, of all these kids described, which one is my precious Little Hoss. Which one is being raised by her father as her primary caregiver?

If you said the rocker, then yes, you are correct. Your prize for being so astute is to join me in our next lifeguard fantasy. This is going to be a good one because the hot lifeguard has a hot lifeguard friend that just showed up. It looks like there is trouble in the homeland and what they need is a minivan to help rescue the villagers.

Little Hoss does not seem to be undaunted that she is not actually doing the backstroke right. She is continuing to do the rock out maneuver that I taught her at the age of 2. I’m hoping she goes pro one day. On the pool loudspeaker is the BeeGee’s classic, Staying Alive. Not the best song to rock out to but not a bad one either.

At the end of swim lessons all the kids get to stand on top of the wall next to the pool. This is the big finale of swim lessons and a sign to me that I have to come back from LaLa land of swimsuit ass. The lifeguards gather around the kids and sing a monkey song that ends with each kid jumping into the lifeguards arms. They do splashy splashy for a while and then deposit the kid on the steps. Class is over, please pack up your towels and dreams and head on home.

The bird girl is still flapping her arms and is smacking the kid next to her. Her thumbs are extended at this point though. We call that progress. At the end of the first chorus of the song bird girl holds out her arms and refuses to jump anywhere. The superhottie grabs her and bird girls feet barely skim the top of the water.

Again the monkey song is sung and the kid with his thumbs in his ear is singing right along. He has removed them from his ears and now is putting them up his nose right at the big end of the song. He does a little jump to the lifeguard and makes it safelty, thumbs and all, to the side.

Little Hoss continues to rock out during her portion of the song but the head banging has stopped. You are probably thinking that this is a good thing, that maybe she is starting to understand what they are doing. You would be mistaken. She stopped shaking her head so hard so that she can aim.

The song ends and the lifeguard extends her hands to catch Little Hoss.

Little Hoss jumps the opposite way.

I do love that my little girl has no fear, something that I lightly attribute to my parenting style of “Adventure!” but more than likely, it’s just who she is. She doesn’t want to be caught, she doesn’t want to be helped. She was freedom, as all rocker chicks do. So instead of jumping into the lifeguards arms she jumps away from them, goes under for a minute and then pops back up dog paddeling.

As a SAHD we spend a lot of time at the pool in the summer. We missed only one day in the first 3 weeks of July. As a result, Little Hoss is a pretty decent swimmer for her age and she shows it by swimming to the side of the pool by herself. That’s my little girl, oozing awesome.

I go get Little Hoss and she gives me a wet hug. The teacher tells me how good Little Hoss is doing in her lessons but I only hear “look at my boobs”. Christ she is hot.

We gather Bubba Hoss from his game of “throw rocks in the other end of the pool” and head for home. As we chant “The Roof, The Roof, The Roof is on fire” we pass by the lifeguard. “Good News” she says. “Tomorrow is Thong Thursday!”

I’ll be there.



"Daddy, I want to dance."

"Honey, we can dance if we want to."

"But Daddy, my friends won't dance with me."

"We can leave your friends behind. Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well, they're no friends of mine."

"Where can we go Daddy?"

"We can go where we want to, a place they'll never find. And we can act like we're out of this world and leave the real one far behind."

"We can dance Daddy?"

"We can dance sweetpea! We can go where we want to, the night is young and so am I, sort of. And we can dress real neat from our hats to our feet and surprise them with a victory cry!"

"Daddy, you're silly!"

"Honey, we can act silly if we want to, if we don't nobody will."

"Really Daddy?"

"Yes honey! And you can act real rude and totally removed and I can act like an imbecile!"


"Yes honey?"

"You're weird."

"I know honey."


Rugby Man Weekend.

A bunch of guys were sitting in a semi-circle. Well, they weren't sitting so much as they were float sitting. All were on inner-tubes float sitting in a flooded field that had served as our campground the day before. We were supposed to go tubing until Poseidon unleashed his fury and canceled the tubing trip. Unperturbed, we took the inner-tubes and floated in the quagmire that was our campground.

The water was shallow enough that our butts drug the ground, raking over the occasional ashes of last nights fire. Some of the guys gave up any pretense of floating and were just sitting in the somewhat acrid water like it was a giant bathtub. Give them a rubber ducky and a loufa and they were all set. Which is good because none of us had had a shower in some time. I felt as if the stink could actually be peeled right off me and my massive guns.

I was with Papa Scrum's rugby buddies on his man weekend. I never turn down the opportunity of a good man weekend like I never turn down the opportunity for a good cheese cake. I discovered on this trip that rugby guys tend not to care much about what people think of them. For "retired" rugby players, this goes double, which explains the semi-circle. It was a much better method of for observing the University of Iowa coeds that shared the campground with us. If we were all in a circle, then how could we watch the sexy sexy Olympics going on right in front of us. Who liked who, which college dude had struck out and which girl was most likely to vomit off of jello shots. It was like watching the nature channel during mating season of the gibbon monkey.

We weren't subtle about it but I don't think that this group of guys is subtle about anything that they do. The night before, during the massive monsoon, we retreated to a local bar in the town of Eldora Iowa, population corn. It was the kind of bar that kept every beer that they had in a large cooler. If anything was on tap, I didn't see it. Within an hour our own guy was behind the bar serving the drinks and the rugby songs were in full swing, complete with a 10 man harmonized chorus. Songs with lyrics that would shock Marylin Manson. When the lyric "pussy Parmesan" was yelled my mouth hung open as I prepared to get sucker punched by a local. Finally the bar owner barred us from drinking the very last Bud Light, we decided to leave. I don't know if this speaks to the rugby guys' ability to drink or the quality of the bar we were in. Somehow a golf club that was part of the bar's decor ended up in my possession, courtesy of a source who shall remain nameless. This appears to also be tradition of the rugby crowd. Should I ever invite them over for dinner I will not be using the fine silverware. Yup, these guys are about as subtle as a punch in the face.

So it should be no surprise that the semi-circle was formed. With names like Bird and Debow it was pretty much you get what you get and you should be thankful for the part that you got.

Looking at the IU student pre-fondle was like looking at our own past as I am sure that looking at us was a vision of their future. It was a mirror for both sides, a view into what was and what would be.

We saw them playing the splash me/splash me games that would eventually lead to some clumsy tent sex. The pompous stances where every hair was in place and every lean body showed just the right amount of skin. Their enthusiasm in this game was unmatched as each group floated to other different groups to see who was up for an offer of tent congress.

In us they saw what the end result of the game would be, if played long enough and well enough. Muscle shirts and mortgages, where a weekend like this takes a year to coordinate. Where childcare has to be found and significant others notified. And where you sat in a semi-circle, unashamed at your blatant people watching, like it was a drive in movie designed for our entertainment while we consumed crappy beer.

That was actually a rule of this man weekend. Everyone had to bring crappy beer. To this day, I still don't know what this means. It was explained that crappy beer meant "blue collar" beer such as Pabst and Miller High Life. And if it's in a toll boy, even better. But there were also literalists that translated this rule to actually mean truly crappy beer. One guy showed up with a beer called Mountain West and explained that he had to blow the dust off the cans when he bought it at the store. This should tell you the quality of the beer. Honestly, I have no idea what the crappy beer rule was or is.

Which could be dangerous because anyone in violation was immediately brought up on charges. Tthey actually had a court, complete with a tribunal. The punishment was most likely to be named the beer bitch, the lowest caste on the guy social ladder. I noticed that charges were most frequently called when someone was out of beer and couldn't seem to lift themselves from their tube or was currently peeing in said water. For me, I just tried to keep my mouth shut. It would be like being tried in China, where I didn't know the language and I'm pretty sure the outcome was already decided.

"I feel like I'm getting the clap just by looking at you!"

The entertainment just went up a notch. This must be the climax.

It appears that one of the sexy sexy games had taken an interesting turn. We immediately perked up. And to give credit, that was a pretty original put down, defiantly high marks from the German judge.

"You have an Icky Dick!" the girl screamed back. Man, I love me some white trash floating smack talk. However, I do have to give low scores for the comeback. My 4 year old says icky, surely she could up the game a little bit with something a little better. But she didn't. The boy and the girl continued with their original insults and I began blaming poor writing on behalf of the studio execs.

We sat back with our crappy beer and enjoyed the show. We laughed, a few shed tears, someone was named the beer bitch, and then we all gave a rousing chorus of applause at the end as we screamed for an encore.

Eventually the girl would come to us and violently argue her case against the clap boy. I suppose that she saw us as her elders and thus our wisdom should be sought. We were just hoping that her top would pop off.

This would continue for most of the day. Eventually we would leave the semen and beer filled field and head back to camp. Later that night we would enjoy a band at the campground that played it's fair share of Stevie Ray and Leonard while our own requests for Convoy got ignored. It must be a union thing. We would drink to much and we would eat meat. And at the end we would all, college kids and rugby players, head back to the real world.

There is something to envy in both groups. The college kids still had their freedom and little responsibility. The could just take off one weekend without any though whatsoever. They had the ignorance of youth combined with it's possibilities

We had confidence, the kind that is derived from maturity and shared experiences of the exact kind that the college kids were trying to create. The kind that allows you to sit in a semi-circle and unabashedly people watch, not caring if anyone knows or not.

In the end we all left with something different. We had sore backs and old war stories shared. The college got new stories and I'm pretty sure herpes. Seriously, that water was filthy. And I'm pretty sure that I'm the only one that left with a golf club from a podunk bar in Eldora Iowa.


The Cat Is Gone

It wasn't a scream that I heard, that wouldn't really describe it. It was more of a yell intermingled with words that prompted my daughter to remind me that we don't say shit or damn. But it wasn't me, I was in the clear on this one.

I heard Hossmom stomp downstairs a few minutes later. Normally when I hear this stomping I begin blockading myself with children figuring that she will most likely calm down, as Kia Lan says, once she see's the purity and beauty of her children. Whatever wrath that I am about to defend myself against will hopefully be deflected. After all, we can't yell in front of the children. And it just so happens that the children remember that I buy them ice cream and take them to the swimming pool. I have bought their loyalty, I feel no remorse.

As I cower behind my human shields Hossmom comes down stairs. Quickly I go through my mental checklist of things that I might have done and arrange possible defenses.

Have I broken something? Possible but something that I can easily pass off to Little Hoss. She'll take the heat for me on this one but it will cost me a double scoop of ice cream. It's worth it.

Did I steal Hossmom's tweezers? This is an ongoing battle with us. For some reason she doesn't like me to use her tweezers. She claims that I misplace them. But nose hair doesn't pluck itself and her tweezer's are always handy. My plan on this one is to claim they are right where they are supposed to be and then go upstairs to find where they really are. Secretly I will place them back in the appropriate drawer for her to find. Crisis averted, I'm still the most awesome husband in the world.

Did I stay out all night playing poker and stumble home drunk at 6:00am? I don't think I did and If I did, then I may not need as much sleep as I thought. It's currently 9:30 and I distinctly remember Little Hoss kicking me in the balls at 7:30 so that I could come down and make breakfast. We always let Hossmom sleep in on the weekends and I don't mind getting up. But If I was up all night playing poker, wouldn't I have some money to show for it and possibly be more tired than I am?

Whatever the reason, I am ready as Hossmom reaches the last stair.

I don't say anything. It's best to just wait a moment. Never miss an opportunity to shut your piehole. So I wait.

Hossmom looks at me.

Hossmom looks at the children.

She is pissed. Really pissed.

"The cat" she says.

I am about to protest that I didn't do anything to the cat, that the cat is fine and well dwelling in her closet of evil upstairs. How dare she think I did something to the cat.

"The cat" she starts again.

"The cat shit on me."

I start laughing. I can't help it. Probably not the best move but seriously, c'mon, it sounds like the opening line to a bad joke. I stop abruptly as I can tell that she doesn't think this is funny.

"Please continue" I say, my voice full of concern.

"The cat shit on me while I was sleeping. I woke up and found the cat shitting on me. THE CAT SHIT ON ME!"

I start laughing again. I can't help it. I've got a vision in my head of what Hossmom must have seen when she woke up.

What's freaky though is that I predicted this. I actually wrote about our evil cat a couple of days ago. I wrote that I feared any retribution that would come should we piss off our cat anymore. I believe the terms I used was "my fear of waking up and seeing a little kitty butthole perched above my forehead." Son of bitch, it happened. The cat actually did it. At the time it was a joke. Now I think I may have a gift. I could be God or at least a prophet.

Apparently though the cat had the good graces to not actually shit on my wife's head. Instead, she shit on my wife's legs while she was sleeping. The resulting heat from the Cleveland steamer is what woke my wife up.

"Get the cat carrier" she says.

I know better than to hesitate. And in my defense, I don't like the cat. She has ruined my basement, my basement stairs, my favorite chair and for the last week she has crapped on three separate comforters. Perhaps if she wasn't so evil I would have defended her more. However, I know an opportunity when I see it and to be honest, I'm very tired of cleaning cat shit up all day everyday. Yesterday morning she puked on my blogging notebook. When I cleaned it off I saw the words "Fuck U" scratched in the cover. The cat had this coming.

I get the cat carrier and chase down the cat. I get scratched but at this point it's either a scratch or my wife's anger. I choose the scratch and would be very ok if it got infected. I would still come out ahead. My wife grabs the cat carrier and heads to the door.

"Where you going with Whorelly" Little Hoss asks.

This is the part that I'm not so thrilled about and why I have never done anything about it myself. The kids don't love the cat, mind you. In fact, they pretty much hate the cat as well as it scratches them and craps on their stuffed animals from time to time. For example, if I tell my daughter to feed the cat, she will. However the cat does not seem pleased with how my daughter scoops out the food and gets upset. Within 24 hours Mr. Huggy Bear will have a huge steam pile right on it's chest. I end up cutting out alot of his fur so now he looks like he has the mange.

But the cat has been part of this family for 10 years. I would say she was well behaved for the first year, maybe two. But then she got mad, right around the time I got her fixed. But through it all, we have put up with it. She pissed on a friend one night. She jumped on his lap and I warned him that the cat wasn't nice. He said she was fine and he pet her. Then she pissed right in his lap.

She scratches our other cat should he ever try to actually eat in front of her. She called in a bomb threat so that she could make a connecting flight. The point is, she's had this coming for awhile and I think we have lasted longer than most owners would. But what to tell Little Hoss?

"The cat is sick, honey" Hossmom tells our daughter. Hossmom is thinking on her feet and doing a good job. Either that or she has been dreaming of this day for the last 3 years. "We have to take her to the doctor."

Little Hoss says Ok and runs back to her morning cartoons. I give Hossmom a hug. She shrugs me off. I have never made Hossmom this mad before and I don't envy the cat at all. I actually pity it. Then it pukes one last time out of it's cat carrier. Touche. Your last parting shot, well done.

An hour later Hossmom comes back. Alone.

I know that there is an animal shelter here. I know that they try to adopt most animals but aren't always successful. But I also know that it's best not to ask questions sometimes. If I do, Hossmom may take me to the "doctor".


The Friday Five

5 People that I need to thank but I never got the chance to.

5. Coach Dick, my 8th grade science teacher. Thank you for exploding that pickle by using electrical current. That was by far the coolest thing that I had ever seen. I'm sure you've been fired by now for stunts like that but man was that freaking cool. It's not often that a former student comes back and tells you what an impression you made on them. Well, you did and I thank you for it. Now let's take it up a notch and hook a watermelon up to that bad boy.

4. To my 60 year old line mate when I worked at Furr's caferteria. Sure, you were 60 and missing your front teeth and I was 18 and had hair. But that didn't stop you from spending one glorious summer grabbing my ass every single freaking time that I walked by you. Before that I had no idea what the term sexual harrasment meant. And because of that creepiness factor, I have always treated women with the utmost respect. I will never get the vision of your swinging saggy boobs swaying to and fro as I tried to dodge those little grabby fingers of yours. For that, my nightmares thank you as well.

3. To makers of the movie Predator, in all it's forms. One of the first lines I used on my wife was: Hey, you want to back with me and watch Predator. That was over 15 years ago and I consider it one of my most smooth moments, which should terrify everyone. She said yes and I have no idea why. But I credit that movie with my marriage and my children. Face it, Predator brings people together. I would learn later that my wife hates everything Sci-fi but that she loves me very much. A new Predator movie is coming out. I'm taking my wife to it as our little inside joke. With any luck, we might be having kid number 3.

2. To Ms. B, my old college professor who taught me the love of rhythmic gymnastics. You didn't let the fact that I was a 250 pound ex-football player stop you from ordering me to do a rhythmic gymnastics routine in order to graduate from college. You know that my opinion of doing that routine was not very high. You knew that I thought it was about the gayest thing I could ever do. And yet, you pushed and forced the issue. You have no idea how much mileage I have gotten from that story. And with a swish and a twirl, I lay my ribbon at your feet in gratitude.

1. To Jimmy's mom. I'm sorry ma'am, I don't actually know your last name and I doubt that you remember me. But when I was about 10 years old I knew your son. We all used to play wiffle ball in your backyard. Do you remember? It would be when you were sunbathing. You did that little thing where you untied the back of your top so you wouldn't get those pesky tan lines. Well, all of us (except Jimmy) thought it was a great idea. You couldn't be more than 26 at the time but you were about the coolest stepmom we could have hoped for. And when the sprinklers mysteriously got turned on and you jumped up, well, you changed me that day. You started a lifelong fascination that ushered me into a new era of my life. I do believe that was the day I got my first pubic hair. Oh, and thank you for making us celery snacks when you let us watch the uncut version of Fast Times At Ridgemont High.


Free To A Bad Home: 1 Cat.

A chisel, a bottle of bleech, my shop vac and some plastic sheeting.

It's time to clean some cat poo.

The cat's litter box is on the landing of the basement stairs. It doesn't really matter where it really is at because she doesn't care. Evil things usually don't. Here's a joke for you. Knock knock. Who's there. Cat shit. Cat shit who? Cat shit all over my basement stairs because she hates all that is good.

She does this because she wants to drive me insane. She intentionally refuses to use her litter box because her precious little feelings get hurt because I bought the cheap cat food. I figured why not, she is just puking it up in the middle of the hallway anyway. Why buy the good stuff?

She does this because it is much eaiser to sit right next to the cat box and take a crap than take that extra step to actually go inside the cat box. She's evil and lazy, a perfect storm of vindictiveness.

She does this because she is a performance artist. This particular piece is called "I shit all over your shit."

She does this because she is a cat and therefore is much more refined than the dogs that have to go outside. God forbid she actually ever go outside, she might actually get her fragile little feetie wet.

Stupid cat.

She does this because she likes to see what happens when I haven't gone down in the basement for a week and now all the poop is hard and stuck to the floor. I'll tell you what happens. I have to grab a chisel to pry it loose. I'm getting good at it though. Now I duck tape the chisel to the end of my shop vac so as I pry I can suck it back up. Even degrading jobs can be fun! I love you Mary Poppins. I would get a spoonful of sugar as well but the cat probably shit in that too.

She does this because this is by far the worst job I have ever had to do as a stay at home dad and she enjoys seeing me humiliated. But at least the minions helped. Little Hoss heard me say a few very choice words and ran over. She said "Oh no dad, Whorelly pooped again."

"Yup" I said

"I know! I'll help!"


Maybe she really will help. Hold the bleach or something. At the very least she could go find a hammer and take the cat outside. I think it's about time I showed her the movie Old Yeller. However, Little Hoss' idea of helping was going to get her magic wand out of her toy box. It's got a star on top. While I'm scrapping away cat shit like it's barnacles on a boat, she is saying "Abracadabra" and then making swishing sounds with her mouth. Halfway through she thinks that she has "magicked" away half the cat crap.

"Am I doing a good job daddy?"

"The best honey."

At least she is here. The cat is probably upstairs taking dump on the comforter for the 3rd time this week because she can't take a dump on the stairs right now. Seriously, I hate her.

"Daddy I pooped!" Bubba Hoss says at the top of the stairs.

"I know honey, the cat pooped. We've been over that already." I'm getting frustrated.

"No daddy! IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII pooped!" he says. When he thinks I'm being stupid he elongates his words and yells them at me. So now I'm cleaning cat crap and being disrespected by my son while my little girl continues to say Abracadabra but now she is hitting me on the head with the wand. It is making me work faster though.

I change Bubba Hoss because I already had my gloves on. I briefly consider taking the diaper to the cat and smearing all over her and asking her how she likes it. However, I am terrified of the retribution that would come my way because of this action. I fear that one night I would wake up and my eyes would open to a little kittie butthole perfectly poised over my forehead. I wouldn't put it past her.

The crap is finally cleaned up. Now I am actually laying down plastic sheeting on the landing of the stairs. I will not do this again. The plan is to cover the entire area with taped down plastic to at least assist in the cleanup. I could also use it to hide her body in later when I finally get over my guilt and get rid of her. It takes an additional 30 minutes to put the plastic down and tape up the corners. I have gone to extremes to control this with my cat. I actually built a screen door at the bottom of the basement stairs to keep her out of there. A month ago I had to use a powerwasher to clean the basement from the damage she did there. The cat box was clean, the unfinished basement was a cesspool. My stairs now look like I've been cleaning asbestos or I'm keeping ET down there.

"All done daddy?" Little Hoss says.


"Abracadabra" she says for the millionth time.

"How are you at making things disappear?"


The Friday 5

Just 5 Things. No particular theme, just some observations.

1. I wish that the people of Walmart would understand just one thing. It is not ok to stop for a fucking family reunion in the middle of the bread aisle. Or the breakfast aisle. Or by the God Damn milk. Walmart is not the place to catch up, so stop it. Do not park your cart across the whole aisle while you and no teeth Jim decide who should get the kid tonight and talk about Grandma's goiter. I don't even know what that is but I know she's got it because I spent a good 10 minutes listening to the conversation while I was trying to break their Israeli blockade. Listen guys, there are people behind you. You've seen them. We are the guys giving you the dirty looks that say "For Fucks Sake! All I want is some jelly could you please move your camo wearing ass so I can get it!" I don't know why the aisle blockers flock to Walmart like hillbilly's descend upon moonshine, but they do. So please, fucking move.

2 I wish that someone would help that pug face girl that reports the news. I usually am not into looks and what not, because I'm way more highbrow than that. I drink wine and eat cheese. Ok, no I don't but I know people who do. But every time that girl comes on the TV I want to throw a dog biscuit at it. I know, it's horrible and I feel bad about it But I can't help it. Seriously man, she looks like a pug.

3. I wish someone, somewhere, could actually predict the weather. Let's be honest man, we're just guessing at the point.

4. I wish that Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. And on this farm he had my cat. E-I-E-I-O And on this farm with this cat, Old McDonald would feed it to his chickens because she's evil and won't stop shitting everywhere in the house every time her precious little feelings get hurt. Seriously, I hate you cat. Go away.

5. I wish that when my daughter is older she won't hate me or think me uncool because I have put up on wall, as decoration, a grave rubbing of Jessie James. I know, not very little girlie. But we had fun. Once she gets into pink and makeup, I'm screwed.