Caption Contest

I'm sick, yet again. I always get sick. Hossmom never does. While she was out at Oscar parties I was laying in a pile of my own disgusting. I always seem to catch whatever weird microbe that the kids bring home. But the urine smell that is just radiating from the house just isn't me. We are also potty training Bubba Hoss and have been doing so for a good week. I am proud to say that I think he finally gets it. So between the dogs, me and my son I would really stay away from my house this week. Seriously, don't even drive by. The fumes will knock you unconscious and there is a possibility that you will become sterile.

So instead of writing today we are going to have a caption contest. Get your funny on people, it's time to entertain yourselves while I recover from this A-bomb of crap. And yes, this is the equivelent to me just turning on cartoons for the kids so that they will leave me alone.

Alright, here we go. Beat this caption:

"The toy aisle is the best place to pick up chicks." There, that should set the bar pretty low. Good luck!


Right In The Junk

Hossmom asked me the other day if I really get hit in the balls as much as I say in my writing. This shocked me of course as she is the perpetrator at least 33% of the time. Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss get me 66% of the time. And the last 1% is due to my own stupidity, like when you sit down to fast and you aren't adjusted right and smash. There's not a guy out there that hasn't done that one before.

She seemed to be implying that I'm using said junk crushing as a cheap joke and that perhaps I am exaggerating. It also seemed to me that she was also telling me that it was time to let the joke go.

But let me assure everyone that getting hit in the coin purse is not a joking matter. I am happy that people read my little site when there is so much more porn around on the internet. And I am happy that some think that I can tell a good story from time to time. However, when I put in statements like "I got hit in the balls" it's not to elicit a laugh. It's not a humorous statement. It's to illustrate a point. The point, of course, is that I got hit in the balls.

Hossmom feels that there is no way that a person can get hit in the crotch that much. She maintains that she doesn't get hit in the crotch that much.

I would not disagree with her on some points of that argument. She does not get hit, kicked or kneed in the groin because universal karma does not allow it. There is nothing there. There is no karmic gravitational field drawing objects or body parts violently toward that sacred guy region. Therefore, she does not have the same experience that I have.

Every guy knows, and every father knows more, that the sack region draws punches and thrown objects better than a blackhole draws light. It just happens. There is no scientific reason for this. It is one of the mysteries of the universe. Why did the dinosaurs die out? What makes up a soul? Why do father's get hit in the groin so much? Why do wives not get this?

Go ahead, type in "groin hit" into Google. See how many video's come up. And how many of those video's are of women? I would bet none. It will all be guys doing what guys do. They may be throwing the football around or showing their child how to play baseball. They may be walking down the street minding their own business when out of no where a random frisbie thrown in England transverses the great ocean, catches a train in New York, rents a car in Indiana, pays a toll on the freeway, gets some ice cream and hits some random schmuck in the junk waiting at the bus stop with his daughter.

Every father knows this to be true. Little kids don't get that this area is a major father hurt zone. How can they? As father's we have to appear invincible, tough as nails and able to take any pain. We must do this because when they get their first stitches or their first broken arm, that they can look at dad and draw inspiration. I'm as tough as dad and I'll be ok. It's what we pass down to them. And perhaps we do this by taking repeated injury to the coconuts.

Hossmom still doesn't believe me.

Last night we were in bed sleeping. We woke up at midnight and talked for just a bit. The nice barely awake kind of talking. It was cold and we were snuggled up. I gave her a big body hug to let her know that she was safe and secure, hoping that this would help her get back to sleep. Her back was to me.

She chose that moment to curl up, bringing her knees up and trailing her little feet behind. The back of that same foot trailed up my leg and the back of the heel, the hard bony part, smacked me right in the junk.


I screamed and doubled over. Snuggle time was over. She caught me full on while I was almost asleep. They were just hanging there, safe and happy. Then she crushed them like a shoeless wine maker. Whamo. I thought I heard them scream.

"Sorry" she said in a muffled voice. I of course couldn't respond at all as I was gasping for air and praying to every god in the known universe to strike me dead to take away the pain.

Death, taxes and the groin gravitational pull. These are the three constants in life. None are funny when they happen to you.


Hoss Weekend 2011

It's always difficult to write about Hoss Weekend. Do I tell you about the fat man in the Oompa Loompa suit? Perhaps. Do I go into detail of how we came up with this year's theme: Pencil Thin Mustache? I could. Do I describe the absolute horror of flying in the middle seat of the plane I was on for 3 hours while smelling of beer and sweat? No, because I do not want to get sued by the poor woman who surely in still in convulsions from sitting next to me.

It dawns on me that there is perhaps nothing I can write about Hoss Weekend and the Pencil Thin Mustache that would do any of it justice. After all, are you really here to read about it or did you come to the blog once again this year to witness the pictures from Walmart? I'm betting on the pictures. Because once you see them I'm guessing that you can decide for yourself what our reception was as we walked through that store. How we haven't ended up on the "People of Walmart" site I have no idea. Especially since our first purchase was a plunger for the toilet that was broken within the first hour of our arrival.

11 guys. 1 plunger. Is anyone really surprised? Besides the poor woman behind us in the checkout line. She was apparently surprised enough to actually leave our line and go waaaay on the other side of the store like we had herpes. But in her defense, if I didn't know we were joking, herpes would have been a good assumption.

The Theme, as I have said, was the Pencil Thin Mustache. You can see the results below and how different guys interpreted it. Some went with the guido look, sporting a suit and plenty of chest hair. Others went for the computer nerd trolling-for-hotties-at-the-Nerd-Herd look. One also went for the creepy airline pilot for the Playboy Mansion, complete with awesome comb over. Me, I went for the 1970's porn producer. After my wife peed herself from seeing these pics she informed me that orange is not my color. Not my color at all.

Next year's theme is in our heads and there is some debate about it. But we've got some time to think about it. Until then, enjoy the eye candy you are about to see. And if you have children, I would not let them no where near these guys.

Please feel free to leave you own comments.

This is our "Blue Steel" sexy look. Feel free to throw you panties at us.

Here, we are "concerned." Apparently about the sex offender registration program.

And with all this sexy oozing from us. We also decided we needed one to send to Playgirl.

Guess what?! NAMBLA is coming to a town near you!!!

Please feel free to vomit. But if you do, just remember that you have to at least try to make it to the toilet first.

Thanks fellas to another great Man Weekend. See you next year!


DaddysHome Blog

I have a new post up at Daddyshome to tide you over for a while. I will be back on Monday with what I am hoping are some very awesome pics.


Hoss Weekend Comes

3 years ago, in the first Hoss Weekend, we gave you the 1980's copy repair man. Complete with the 1980's mustache. For some reason, I can't find the picture.

Then 2 years ago, in the second Hoss weekend, we grew the gnarley handlebar stache. According to the Walmart chick, I had the best stache and she loved the gay biker outfit. Pay special attention to the scarf and skull & bones purse I am sporting. Of course, in this picture you can't see the jorts that I am wearing. I was ready for a good time.

And then last year, in a show of all-out beard growing, we gave you the Amish.

I do believe that PapaScrum had the best beard. We grew them for 3 months to get the look just right. We traveled home looking like that. It turned out that I looked more like a wierd gay farmer than a the "flashy Amish" that I was looking for.

And now this weekend, Hoss Weekend comes again. My outfit is picked, my beard is grown, the reservations for pictures at Walmart are confirmed. I won't ruin it for you until we get the pictures done. But I'm guessing that this one will be the most awesome. No fake beards for the people with jobs either. I fly out Friday morning so don't expect a post. But I'll have one up at Daddyshome so that should tide you over until Monday when I share with you what we have decided to go with.

This year it's going to be dirty. Very, very dirty.


Giving Up

I am sitting on the couch. Well, I started off sitting. Now I have just given up and am laying down. There comes a time when every man has to surrender. This is my time and I know it. Besides, the couch looks so comfy. It's overstuffed maximum pleasure. That's what she said.

I've got my slippers on. I'm wearing sweat pants. I haven't showered, shaved and I have barely even moved. I did get up early this morning though and got the kids donuts though, which is the ultimate give up. Nope, not going to cook a nice breakfast this morning. I'm going to pump the kids full of bad stuff and let them run nuts. But I did at least I did get out of the house for 20 minutes. And I took the kids. I am still father of the year.

I stink. I can smell my own stink which is a sign that perhaps this is going to far. I smell like unions and playdoh. It may not look like it at the moment, but I promise you that I am a winner. This was a strategic give up, this was not a whim. This was planned. I said on Sunday, late morning, I was not going to move anymore. I was not going to clean the house. I was not going to fix anything. I was not going to shovel any snow. The kids? The kids can do what they want. Free ride from Dad today. And all this was planned.

Hossmom is leaving for a week starting tomorrow. She has a business trip. This is one of the advantages of a stay at home dad for a family. Hossmom can just go where she wants, where she is needed. I stay home with the kids and take care of everything at the fort. It works out well.

That's the theory but we all know that the reality with kids is always different.
Theory: "Aww, that's so cute, the kids are trying to talk on your Iphone."
Reality: "Shit, they just threw the Iphone down the stairs. But it could have been worse, they were aiming for your head."

So I have one week of 24 hours a day alone with the kids. I'm used to having a break at night, 30 minutes where Hossmom takes care of everything. That's gone this week. This week it's all me.

And even though the company is paying for Hossmom's trip to the beautiful city of San Francisco, the trip isn't free. Today, she is going to pay for it.

That's the trade off. She cooks dinner. She makes lunch. She cleans up. She interacts with the kids. Although Monster's Vs. Aliens is coming on today so I'll let them sit on my lap and we'll watch that. Maybe I can convince them to give up with me today too although it is doubtful as it does not involve a sledgehammer and grand destruction.

My plan today is to watch as much crap T.V. as possible and scratch my crotch on occasion. It's a good plan and one that I fine tuned in college.

This may seem a little unfair but I'm ok with unfair today. You see, while she is having fancy dinners with salads that don't contain a kid sneeze, we'll be rocking the Mac and Cheese. While she is sampling what the city has to offer, I will be sampling dog urine on carpet swatches. She'll go to bed in a place that does not offer kicks in the groin as a upgrade. She'll watch whatever TV that she wants while I fight for just 10 more minutes of Solid Gold.

And at the end of the day, while she is sleeping, both of us will reach over and feel the empty space that is usually filled by the joy of our life and we'll both be a little sad that it is gone.

However, her hand will grasp an unused pillow while in all probability mine will grab a soaking wet diaper or dog balls.



Folks, we have gotten out of control. We have gotten way past the point of trying to keep friends and families updated and involved in our lives. We have blown past the line that separates the interesting from the Dear God Please Shut up.

We all see it and we all do it. Every single one of us. Everyday we get on facebook, twitter or for those that can't work computers anymore--post it notes around the house trying to stay connected with the outside world. And what do we put up there? What do we feel is important for our "friends" to see?

Updates on how we got the mail today. Little sentences detailing the mundane. Exclamations declaring the ordinary. Proud accomplishments of how we went to McDonalds and ordered a diet coke.

It's enough. It's got to stop. We can't take this any further. Egypt is using social media to bring democracy. We use it to let the world know that our favorite pair of shoes just broke.

Let's all agree to some ground rules then:

1. Do not post little updates of where you are at. No one, and I mean no one, cares that you are at Walmart, the gas station, or if you just checked in at the grocery store. Even your mom thinks that you are a tool and has no interest in the fact that you are at the carwash. Knock it off. Even your high school stalker is finding it too easy and misses the chase.

2. No one cares how your mafia is doing. No once cares what your Bobble score it. If you are using this to show how busy you are, you are failing. Trust me, as a gamer myself, no one cares. The only thing it shows is that you are spending way too much time looking at a computer screen that doesn't at least contain porn. Just go to your Farmville, sell it to a corporate agricultural conglomerate and fire all the workers. Even your cows judge you.

3. If you are going to quote a movie, for the love of Pete do not fuck up the quote. Everyone loves movies and quotes. "Oh she may get wooly, women do get wooly, because of all the stress. It ain't "woolly" it's "weary" and it nobody's got stress, they're wearing a dress."

4. Is it so hard to tell a joke?

5. Everyone hates chain emails. Everyone hates chain status updates more.

6. Not everything needs a #.

7. Your horoscope. You know that's bunk, right? I know you believe in the Jamaican woman, hey, we all do. And we all paid her a lot of money. But we paid for a PRIVATE readings, not the generic one that you tell the world. Let me help you out and save you some time. Your Horoscope: You will have opportunity presented to you today to not post this horoscope.

8. Post it once, fine. Post it twice, ok. Post it three times or more and it does nothing but go into my garbage bin. It wasn't that awesome the first time you posted it.

9. Check with your spouse before you both post the same picture with the same caption. We are friends with you both. Don't force us to make the Sophie's Choice on who we have to comment on.

10: Speaking of pics, knock off the picture post of your car dashboard detailing how hot or cold it is outside. Guess what, we all have this thing called the Interweb. On it, we can get the weather any time we want it. Even where you live. Amazing, isn't it? Are you a 1940's comedian waiting for me to ask you how hot it is. Well... How Hot Is It?

11. The anonymous threat such as "I'm so mad I can't even talk about it." Good, then don't post it.

12. Please stop making art out of punctuation marks. Choose a different medium such as clay or recycled plastic bottles. This---- <3-----is stupid.

13. Profile pictures should be like driver's license photos. You get a new one every 4 years.

14. I won't say keep your "Twilight" posts brief. I know it's pointless. I know that 1/2 the population won't agree with me. So go ahead, pour your heart out about Team Jacob or Team Edward. I would be Team Bella if she showed some skin. But please knock off the movie poster posts, links, discussion groups, fan fiction, and "I just saw Robert at...!!" posts. It's overkill. We are just asking for some mercy here.

15. People who post scores of current sporting events. The rest of us have Tivo god dammit and you are so fucking up my game. Pack Wins, Pack Wins! Thanks motherfucker, I was at halftime. Some of us have kids and don't want to watch the game while getting kicked in the balls.

16. The Facebook post from the show that went off the air 4 years ago. Arrested Development was cool, I get that. But it's gone. Please move on.

17. Some of you are not funny. It's harsh, I know. But please stop trying. No one is getting the funny anecdote that you are trying to tell and it's becoming a little awkward to be your friend. You are Rick Moranis asking who brought the dog to the party.

18. The retweet of an obscure twitter handle name followed by bit.ly URL. No one knows what you are talking about. Please speak a language. Pick one, any one. There's so many in this rich world of ours.

19. Not everything is an event. There is no reason to invite me to share your morning muffin. This was cute the first time it happened. The billionth time you send it, it's just said. I'm not coming, quit asking me. I RSVP "NO."

20. Your blog. Just stop it. No one wants to read it. No one thinks it's funny. No one is going to "share" it with anyone. I know that you spend a lot of time late at night spilling out little golden nuggets of funny but..........................
Hold on. Ignore that last one. That last one is ok. Go ahead, post your blog. Blogging is cool and everyone wants to read it.

I know that this is not an all-encompassing list so feel free to add your own.

Special thanks to Hossmom tonight for talking my ear off about this today.


Rapunzel I, Rapunzel II, Rupple and Ballerina Ariel

I know that his looks absurd. It may not make any sense but let me explain myself. There is a reason that the children and I are feeding Rapunzel II. You'll look at me, then look at our dead fish Rapunzel II. You'll look at me again and think "Well, Hossman has finally cracked. The kids have finally broken his iron will and turned his brain into stale poptarts. He's feeding a dead fish."

Just don't say that out loud. Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss don't know that Rapunzel II is dead. Her official status is "sleeping". If you fuck that up, I'm going to bring a world of hurt down on you.

Yes, Rapunzel II is dead. She lasted less than 12 hours in our brand new little fish tank. This is not bad given our track record. As the name implies, there once was a Rapunzel I. She was a gift to my daughter on her birthday. We thought we would get her a fish to start teaching her responsibility. Part of her chores, now that she is 5, is to feed the dogs and her new fish.

Rapunzel I lasted about 5 hours. Then she went to "sleep" for a little bit until I could get my butt down to the store and buy another Beta fish that looked like Rapunzel I.

I know, it's the complete dad cliche. Dad racing to the pet store to get a replacement pet that looks exactly the same as the pet that just met his maker. As soon as we got Little Hoss Rapunzel I she fell in love with the little thing. And she was very careful, she didn't cause this. She would just sit and stare at Rapunzel I. She would talk to her. We put the small tank in her room, next to her bed, so that she and her new best friend could go to bed together.

In the morning I noticed that Rapunzel I didn't make it and there was no way that I was going to tell her that Rapunzel I croaked on her birthday. I'm a coward, I know it. Sure, I could have taken this opportunity to explain life and death to my daughter. She's 5 and probably wouldn't have gotten the concept. But she would have been sad and I couldn't have that on her birthday.

So frantically I searched though little fish in small plastic containers to find one that looked like Rapunzel I. Every time someone else tried to look next to me I slapped their hands and gave them a dirty look. I was on a mission.

I found Rapunzel II. I took her home and silently slipped her into the water tank. Rapunzel I went the way that so many fish before her have gone: in the toilet. Good buy Rapunzel I, god speed.

The Rapunzel II died. I found myself presented with another opportunity to explain life and death to my children. I didn't take it. Instead, we fed the dead fish. I'm a pussy.

I have now bought two new fish figuring let's up the odds here a little bit. I explained to Little Hoss that Rapunzel II was just for a little while and needed to be set free. I explained that she needed big water. Big water that can only be found at a water treatment station that she will be delivered to down the pipes of the toilet yet again. Little Hoss was sad for a minute and I didn't think she would buy the excuse.

But then she met her two new friends that we named Rupple and Ballerina Ariel, our two new goldfish. I didn't think Beta fish were working well for us. All was good. Everyone was happy. We read them bedtime stories. We played peekaboo. We gave them kisses goodnight.

As of this morning, Rupple has died. I am a fish serial killer now, there is no denying it. But Ballerina Ariel, well, she is right as rain. And as goldfish are 15 cents a pop, I think I can keep a steady string of victims coming until I'm ready to have my talk with Little Hoss. She may be 21 by then and I might have invested 30K in goldfish but it's worth it.

But Ballerina Ariel, she's a tough one. She made it through the night. We may rename her Ballerina Thor. Only the tough can be in this family, we have no other options. And Ballerina Thor doesn't make it? Well, I got a guy.