The Fart Game

The kids are playing a new game, although they still have a special place in their heart for the game Punch Me In The Face. This new game is way more cerebral. It's called "Fart On Me."

First, you grab a stuffed toy, preferably something that has a butt on it. A snake stuffed toy can still play but it's not as good as say a very large stuffed bear. My son is using a Mickey Mouse toy while my daughter choose to go with the Minnie Mouse Princess. I'm guessing that these toys make them more mobile and it has been discovered that mobility is very crucial to this game.

Next, each contestant goes and hides. Eventually both contestants will figure out that everyone is hiding and no one is looking. Thus, each contestant will decide to stop hiding and go and look for the other player. What eventually happens is that they both come around the corner at the exact same time at full speed. A collision takes place which isn't as bad as it may sound because both players have their designated farting toy in front of them.

Each player screams and falls down. Now it's time to score.

Each player scrambles up on their feet as fast as they can. The plant to feet and then lunge at their opponent with the stuffed animal, butt first. Once the stuffed animal makes contact with their opponent, make a farting sound with your mouth, the juicier the better. The person that comes closest with the face wins the game.

Reset the match and play again. And again. And again. Play until your father can't take it anymore.

I'm guessing that they picked this game up in the public school system. Somehow that sounds right. Obviously school security isn't doing their job right.

Hossmom isn't home which probably explains pretty much why this is still continuing. She's been working a lot and going on trips. Dad thought this was funny at first but there comes a time when any game, no matter how awesome, gets old.

I call both of my minions to me. I have to be a Dad now, I have to do what Dad's are supposed to do. I use my Dad voice, the one that says I'm serious and that they need to listen.

I tell the kids to come Front and Center. They obey, heads low. I ask them to hand me their stuffed animals. They still aren't making eye contact with me. Perfect.

I grab the stuffed animals and turn them butt first. I jam them into both kids' faces at the same time and make the juiciest fart sound you ever heard. They try to run, but run to where? I had them backed up to a corner, there is no retreat possible. Don't mess with Dad, he has been playing the fart game since he was a boy!

They drop and try to crawl away but Dad is still nimble and remembers his fart training, the years of his youth spent around other boys that loved nothing more than to make fart noises on each other. My children didn't invent this game, they are just it's most recent players. By the time I got to college, I was unbeatable. The old man still has skills.

I drop the toys after they have been scored on countless times by my unending attack. I run away laughing while their little minds try to process what has happened. Eventually, when they are done laughing, they grab their toys and come after me. I'm as elusive as they are determined.

We do this for the next hour of our day.

But I force everyone to stop because it's time to get dinner ready and eat. Hossmom will be home around 9 tonight so we are eating solo. Which is good because we are having chili for dinner. It's time to take this bitch up a notch.

Alone

It's 12:03PM. It's dark in my bedroom. It's quiet except for the occasional fart let out by the dog which smells like a mixture of rotten eggs and mud. I'm wide awake and it's not because of the dogs dirty butthole. He licks his junk enough, you would think he would find a way to clean out the other end.

On my right is Little Hoss. Her face is crammed up and her lips are pursed like she is about to give someone a kiss. She looks very much like Hossmom when she does this. On occasion Little Hoss will moan and smack me in the face with an elbow. This too is very much like Hossmom. I have gotten bloody noses from both of them.

On the other side is Bubba Hoss. I don't need to look at him to know where he is at, I can feel him. He has no concept of personal space when it comes to bed. He likes to dig in like a tick right in your side so for most of the night I'm worried that I will smush him. I go about 250. He goes about 30 pounds. It's a losing situation for him but he doesn't care. All he wants to do is dig into dad's armpit and he's in sandman land heaven.

I can't sleep and yet I can't get up. I'm trying to force myself to sleep but it doesn't work. All that happens is that I can hear everything better than I did could before. I hear the dog pass gas, Little Hoss's elbow swooshing through the air and Bubba Hoss's contented breathing.

Hossmom is out of town. We are back to doing that again, a side effect of a high powered executive career and a stay at home dad. She has meetings with important people who are going to try and sale you important things. She'll be back in 3 days, 3 very long days. And for some reason, I can't sleep when she isn't in the house. I don't get it, not at all. It appears that the Hoss may be a bit needy.

This is supposed to be good times for us, the boss is gone. There are no fancy complicated dinners to make. I can shelve the Tomato/Basil/spinach stuffed chicken and instead serve peanut butter and jelly with a side of BBQ chips. I can stay up as late as I want without getting nagged about coming to bed. I can play video games and look up porn. This is supposed to be a freetime, the closest that I will get unencumbered alien destruction without a voice coming from upstairs saying "Turn that thing off and come to bed!"

But it never works out that way. I go to bed earlier when she's not here because I find that I am bored. There is no one to talk to about the events of the day, no one to share my victories with. It's a empty success when you teach your son to flex in the mirror but there is no one to show it to at the end of the day.

And I can't sleep, I can never sleep. When she's here I go to bed like a champ. It never takes me longer than 10 minutes to conk out when she's here. Now I sit in bed and listen to the kids breathing and the dog farting. The mind wanders when you are this alone and it's not a good thing.

Are the kids breathing too shallow? They must have lung cancer from watching to much Phineas and Ferb. Bubba Hoss hasn't kicked me in the spleen in a while, is he ok? Is he still breathing at all? I better poke him. I do and he wakes up. Oddly, the kids never get much sleep either when Hossmom is gone. I have no idea why.

This is where your mind goes when you are by yourself for long periods. You imagine the most horrible things and assume that they are true.

The dog lets go with another class 5 gas bomb. It's nothing but a silent whish of air. But it smells different, sweeter than the first 30 or so he has let go. Obviously he his feline lupus. This is going to be really hard to explain to the kids in the morning.

Redbook.

I'm back from my week long vacation from writing. It was a good week. In my head, I traveled to Vegas and threw down some money on the hard 8's and then smacked a waitress in the ass. In reality, I stayed home and basically played video games while telling the world around me that I was very busy doing very important parenting things. But I submit that destroying the locust horde coming out of the ground is very important to the future of humanity.

Some things happened while I was away that I wanted to put on here.

Earlier this year I and some other Stay At Home Dads gave an interview to Redbook magazine. This is not the first interview I have given but is probably the biggest outlet. I was pleased to do it and I was pleased that I got the first quote in the article. When my wife read my quote she looked at me and said "That really sounds like something you would say", thus giving my quote authenticity of a Hossman blog. Honestly, I was just talking to the reporter while hiding in the bathroom away from my kids. When I do give interviews, I do find that the only way to hear anyone is to pretend that I'm pooping so my kids don't constantly try and take the phone away and tell the caller about the wonders of Playdoh. It comes in many colors!

But out of the interviews that I have given, and the articles I have read on the stay at home dad life, this is one of the better ones. It's actually a positive story that doesn't paint us as lazy bums or assume that we are out of work because we have to be.

The article basically profiles several stay at home dad groups. I am a member of KCDADS. They give each group a nickname, such as the diplomats or the communicators. The Austin Dads are the Laid back Dudes. But I am most proud of the KCDADS name.

We are the Adventurers. That seems to fit. In the article it briefly mentions that we took the kids to psychiatric musuem and that it didn't so work out so well. Those who follow this blog probably remember reading about that and if not I will find it later and post it in the comments section. Another trip that didn't work out so well was when the minions and I basically desecrated a Mormon Holy place. When the Mormons ask you to leave then you know that you haven't been on your best behavior.

Anyway, the article is in this month's issue of Redbook which my wife says that I'll gladly sign. She seems to get a bigger kick out of this than I do. But if you don't want to blow 4 bucks to read more about Hossman then here is the link to the online article:

REDBOOK STAY AT HOME DADS

Now because you follow this blog I'm going to give you a quote that didn't make the magazine because after I said it, I asked that it not be used because it perhaps went to far.

Redbook fact checker: "Did you make the quote about the episotomy?"

Hossman: "Yup, that was me. I know what they are and if you get a good doctor he might actually throw in a daddy stitch for you."

Redbook fact checker: "A daddy stitch?"

Hossman: "um, please forget I said that."

Coming up in the Hossman multi media tour will be a radio interview that I also gave a while back that is supposed to air in October. Finally, just throwing this out there, I was asked to do another TV show. It does not appear that this one will work out either as I have now decided that I am not "TV Pretty". I'll just stick to print media from now on.

Have a great week and more funny stories will be coming on Wednesday and Friday. Hopefully. If the kids break something which gives you pretty good odds. Just wait five minutes, it'll happen.

The Surcharge of Parenthood.

Parents are normal people that somehow made the decision to have children. None thought about it through then because if any of us really did then there is a good chance that there would be a lot less children in the world. Yes they are fun to be around sometimes and no one can quite kick you in the balls like the person that wears a size 3 shoe. It just seems to fit, just right, like it was made for it. Which is fitting since in all actuality that is their origin to begin with. However if anyone actually thought parenthood through or knew what was truly involved before becoming parents, then most would balk at the opportunity to create minions.

I kid of course, just a small joke. Of course parents aren't normal people because normal people wouldn't decide to add a surcharge on everything they do or own for the rest of their lives or at least until the kid turns 18, although even then I am still betting there is still continued warranty upgrades that we'll have to make. I have a feeling that I will have to continue throwing money to my children well into their 40s. Remind me to call my mom when I wake up tomorrow morning though. Nothing related to this post, honest.

I'm talking about the self imposed tax that comes with having children that each parent eagerly submits anytime they want something, want to do something, or even thinks about something. Right now my daughter got out of bed and grabbed my wallet. She took out my credit card and said something about a down payment for a cement mixer to be here in the morning. I'm not really sure but it doesn't matter because I didn't even stop her, I just want her to occupy herself long enough so I can write something funny.

Let's say that a parent wants to go out on Date Night. It's a very popular concept and is highly recommended by all the marriage counselors that do not have children. If they have children, they would never recommend this. Here is why. Dinner for a couple that are trying to live moderately, as we all try to do since most of our money goes to our children and for silly things like food, is probably about 50 bucks. You can go to outback and get yourself a nice steak and maybe a single beer for this amount. Next you will probably want to see a movie, something rated R because that way you can at least judge the assholes that bring a baby to Death Sexpit 5. It never fails that someone will do this and you can now say that you are a better parent than someone else because you left your children at home, or somewhere else that is not with you like an alley or the police station.

The movie is going to cost you another 20 bucks and that's without popcorn which is fine because that is why you went to dinner first. Hopefully, neither you and your wife will want popcorn because popcorn and steak really doesn't go together. Or does it, hmmmmm.

Anyway, already you are up to 70 bucks for a decently cheap and well budgeted date night. But here is the kicker.

Because you have children, add 30 bucks to that total, if you are lucky. Sometimes it's more.

Why 30 bucks? Because that is the price you pay just because you had children. That is the self imposed tax that you place on yourself to punish yourself for no longer living the carefree life that a disposable income brings. This is the way society works and there is even a person that takes that special tax. It's called a babysitter and it is required when you want to do something that doesn't involve children.

At least it's convenient though. They usually come straight to your house and watch your TV, eat your food, and drink your liqueur. Occasionally, they might invite alot more tax collectors over to further make fun of you. Sometimes they invite boyfriends over as well and they do things that you and your wife can't do anymore because you ate to big a dinner at Outback and your tummy is full.

This is the surcharge of being a parent and it's what you do in order to remind yourself that at one time you could just go see a movie and eat a reasonable dinner without paying anyone anything. And later, you could probably have some sex because there was no need to stuff your piehole on steak because you never get to eat steak anymore because someone always demands peanut butter and jelly or likes to give your steak to the dog when you are not looking.

As a parent, you will try to get around this surcharge but it never works, not really. Say you choose a babysitter that is 25 years old. She is going to cost you at least 12 bucks an hour. A movie lasts 2 hours, get a dinner in for an hour and you are already above your 30 dollar limit. So you decide to go younger, perhaps a teenager. That's better but also perhaps a little less trustworthy. So now you are selling out your piece of mind just to be able to afford a piece of cake after your dinner. But it is cake and cake is worth a lot now a days.

You can go the preteen route and hope to the heavens that while they are not texting that they are watching your children but in actuality they are texting their drug dealers to come over quick as she's got a rave later that night. With this trade off comes quality drugs for your babysitter and constant guilt and fear for the parent.

Of course you could always leave them with your own parent but don't you see how this works? That means that your own parent is going to think you are a lousy parent and therefore give you less money for things like date night. Oh, they say they want to spend time with the grand kids but that's only because they want to sucker you into taking labor instead of cold hard cash, which they still owe you at the age of 36, which you will still owe your child at the age of 65. It's a ponzi scheme really and all gladly accept it as part of parenting.

And we won't even warn our own children of this because we are hoping that one day, far far down the line, we can all just afford to have a good steak and a night out from the nursing home.

Daddyshome

I've got a post up over at Daddyshome again that has been up for a couple of days. I like this one, I think it's funny. Therefore, most of you will probably hate it. Which is fine, leave comments detailing exactly what you hate about it, why it makes your innards squirm and conclude with what other topics I could write about that would make you more happy, like unicorns chasing rainbows or a how to manual on proper spelling and grammar.

But if you do happen to like it, then we are all good and we can all just hate me and not the stuff that I write. Let's face it, you could do better than me. Not the guy in the corner with the kid though, I'm the best you are going to get.

Happy reading and other new posts are due up on Wednesday and Friday of this week as we've had some adventures.

What now?

What now. I'm sitting here alone, in my underwear, looking at the wall. Nothing is being destroyed. There are no screams of pain or joy. There is no glory being earned, no victory that is saught. I think I may eat a can of potted meat.

I dropped Bubba Hoss off at preschool a little bit ago. He was ready to go, asked to go, didn't even look at me when I dropped him off. I had to remind him that perhaps Dad would appreciate a god damn hug. Perhaps a high five if it's isn't to much to ask.

Then I left and came home. Little Hoss got on the bus and here I am, staring at the wall wondering what the hell comes next now.

I havent' had 4 hours to myself in a very long time. There is always someone pushing or pulling me, trying to pants me in the grocery store isle or throwing wads of food at my head. I am used to running around looking for potential danger zones while jumping over the claymore mines that my kids have left for me. I battle constant demands for more juice while cursing my backpack that smells like poo.

But now, the house is quiet. No screams, no injuries, no adventures.

I should be happy, right? I should look at this as a major milestone in my stay at home dad life. I vowed to get the kids into school and I am halfway there. Bubba Hoss goes to preschool twice a week for 4 hours a day. And during that time I'm supposed to do something although at the moment I can't really figure out what it is, thus the underwear and the wall.

I could look at porn, always a popular past time for a man in a house alone. But oddly, I don't much feel like it. I thought about doing some yardwork but without someone trying to start the lawnmower when my hand is underneath it, it sort has lost it's fun. I thought that some household projects would be great but who would put the glitter on it? I suck at glitter. It's wierd, I hate glitter and now I find myself missing it. Maybe I'll find a backyard pool that is empty and cover it in glitter and call over Ke$ha.

But that's no good, I don't have enough glitter for everyone and then it would just be awakward. I played some video games for a while but it lost it's challenge with no one walking in front of the screen and screaming "Dad, shoot him in the face!" I tried to get the dogs to do it but all they wanted to do was sniff my crotch. I appreciate the effort boys but I'm just not into it today.

So what I'm left with is eating some potted meat in my underwear. Sounds pretty manly, something that I could only do if I was alone. If my children where here they would want to eat it all by themselves and I wouldn't get any. If Hossmom was here she would be making gagging sounds while trying to talk to the divorce lawyer.

By myself though, it's a perfect activity to pass the time while I try to motivate myself to actually do something productive.

Like go to the grocery store, I do need to do that. It will be easy, no one pulling crap down from the shelves or begging me for candy.

And I do need a lot more potted meat, winter is coming and it might be a long one.

Birthday Cards

The kids were taking there sweet time trying to pick out a birthday card for Hossmom. There were a thousand choices and when you can't read, you really only have pictures to go on. And when you don't listen to dad at all, you can pick from any section that you want to.

They demanded that they get a card for Hossmom under the "Sorry for your loss" section. While I appreciate their humor I prefer to not make Hossmom cry on her birthday even though it does have a nice picture of a dolphin on the front. We love dolphins.

Letting the kids pick out her present was pretty much the same way. I had to turn them down on the wart remover, the superbowl that never spills, and The Magic Mop. Although we we were near the "As seen on TV" section so at least that was something. Hossmom is a sucker for infomercials. If she was rich, she would just sit and home and order things from infomercials. I have no idea why. She'll try to justify it by saying it's practical because everyone needs a pair of pajama jeans. Our house would be filled with such little genius products such as the Glove Light and the Swing Gym. But act quick, supplies are running low.

Eventually I was able to convince the kids to get her a nail file set. Boring, practical and it comes in pink. This will appease my wife and my daughter. A perfect gift to give Hossmom from the children.

However, we were not having the same kind of luck with the cards. I was eventually able to convince the kids that mom wasn't getting married, not turning 50 and had not just graduated. We went with a nice pinata card that had a picture of a donkey on it. I count it as a victory because it was actually from the birthday section. I grabbed the card that I was going to get her and we went to check out.

I do not like chit chat in the grocery store. I don't want to talk to the cashier while she is ringing up my toilet paper. I feel like I have to explain things to her. Everybody poops and I'm no different.

I try to pick the most depressed person there, the one that hates their job. You can almost guarantee that there will be no chit chat and you might actually get a free apple is they don't feel like looking up the code for it. Today was different though because we were in a hurry so I picked the open lane run by a very bubbly teen. All smiles and optimism and I didn't have the heart to tell her that with today's job market, she'll be doing this same job when she graduates college. Although if I would have said that I could have gotten the depressed cashier that I'm looking for.

Our items come rolling through and the chit chat starts. She comments on how lovely my kids are and I think she is joking because they are currently tearing apart the candy isle at the register. Then they decided that it's time to pull off my pants. As I fend them off with my feet, I grab my wallet, the cashier comments on how well behaved they are as well. This person obviously blind, now I feel bad.

The cashier continues to chat away when she picks up the birthday cards. No big deal, let's just get this done. Then she makes the comment of how she likes to read the cards that people buy. This makes me perk up and stop trying to get my kids from pulling out all the plastic bags.

I do not want her to read the cards, this would be bad. The kids cards would be fine and the cashier does chuckle. Then she gets to my card.

At this point, I would like to point out that I am married and have had sex several times. It's allowed by law for me to have sex. In fact, at this point in my marriage, it's encouraged I have sex for my physical as well as my mental well being. Sex is a part of marriage, it's a good thing. Stop judging me.

The punch line of the card that I got Hossmom said "Do you want to be hammered or nailed?"

The cashier reads the card and doesn't laugh. She is also not making eye contact with me either. I'm not a big fan of awkward silences. I feel like I need to explain that there is a possibility of birthday sex and to a married man, that's a pretty big deal. It's the good stuff. When you have two kids and two dogs, the option of alone time doesn't come up very often and when it does you have to weigh it against the much needed sleep that you will miss because the kids will always, always want to get up at 6:30 on a Saturday. But birthday sex is awesome and I was just trying to make a little joke that would make her laugh, my wife not the underage teen.

I just stare at my feet. Little Hoss now wants the cashier to give her the card so she can give it to mommy. Now it's just more awkward.

I wish she would just move on. Luckily she does. She picks up the cucumber that I bought to add to our dinner salad tonight.

Today's Blog Brought To You By the Letter V

I am a 36 year old man and I have homework. Serious homework. Not some personal hobby thing that I am interested in, like building a bike that also doubles as a water craft. That would be cool and I would make a million dollars. With that million dollars I would pay off the teacher to do this homework for me. No, this homework is actually for a grade not soulless money that gives nothing back to the community. Except jobs. That's important. But this is more important because this may determine if my daughter goes to Harvard or not, in which case I will start working on that bike thing quickly as I will currently cannot afford Harvard.

I have to find a common household item that starts with the letter V.

The first person that throws out the term "vacuum cleaner" in the comments section, I'm going to punch you. I'm not kidding, right in the face. That was the first thing that I though to of too but it's not going to work.

My daughter has been assigned to be the letter expert in the letter V. I'm assuming because her name contains about 20 of them, the way I spell it. I also can't spell, as most of my readers will bear witness to in the grammar court of the internet. I just mispelled grammar. Spell check rocks and it's a pity I don't use it often to help me with my disability.

The rules of the homework are that she has to bring something to her kindergarten class that starts with the letter V that can fit in a ziplock bag. This bag will be stapled to the letter wall for all the kids, and eventually the parents, to judge her and me.

So go ahead, give it a shot. Give me some household items (that I would actually own) that start with the letter V that would fit in a sandwich bag and is appropriate for a 5 year old class.

I considered taking apart the vacuum cleaner and stuffing as much of it as I could into a bag but I don't think the kids would like it. However, I'm pretty sure my daughter would enjoy destroying something with me. It's our family past time.

I consulted the dictionary after thinking about this for about an hour. Not much luck there. I don't have any vagabonds, can't package velocity and victory is something you never package and giveaway. It's something you earn with blood and sweat and hours of internet searching for a household item that starts with the letter V.

I wish Sesame Street was here right now and if not them, perhaps the electric company and thier psychedelically ways. Maybe this is something I can only find if I'm high.

A verse is to cerebral for 5 year olds but I did consider cutting out a verse of Poe. It's creepy and educational but I'm sure the nightmarish horror of doing that might scar them forever. Not good. Vein, I have those although there may be a rule about blood and projects that I'm not aware of.

A vase would be perfect except does any body who reads this really think I own a miniature vase and that they would trust my daughter to get it to school without destroying it and her future? I could use a picture of my brother in law and entitle it "virgin" but that probably wouldn't work either, I think he may have had sex at one point. Vasectomy is out as well because in this house, we don't even speak of it although I may consider giving my left nut to find something suitable.

I thought of vitimins which may work but I think bringing pills to school may get my daughter into trouble and me under investigation, with starts with an I and ends in a long prison sentence.

I realize that I am thinking about this all wrong. I'm dad, let's play to my strengths. I considered grabbing my tools and ripping apart my radio for the volume button. But then I realized that I should go to my garage, my haven, the place I know best. I got stuff in there.

A voltage meter came to mind first. That's an A+ homework grade if I ever saw one. Unusual, sure. I have one which is better. But would the kids get it and could my daughter explain it, which is what she has to do. Then I found my vice grip pliers. Most people call them pliers but they are also known as vice grips. I could have given her my vice but it weighs about 20 pounds and I'm worried about what she would do with it when people owe her money. But the vice grips may be the answer here. I have 50 of those things, and some can fit in a baggie.

Feeling good about myself and expecting a congratulations letter from Harvard, I got my son dressed to go play in the yard. Vice grips would be fine and I would take an hour tonight to explain what they are to my daughter as she only knows them as "those pinchy things that daddy uses as a hammer on occasion". I put on his pants, he likes to go pantsless like his mom, and put his shoes on. He was fighting a little bit because he likes to do the Velcro straps himself. But I was trying to explain to him that I had to fix the Velcro because the Velcro had some stuff in it and there it wouldn't Velcro very well. I also told him during this lecture, as I am prone to do, that Velcro was invented by a guy on a hike. Velcro was patented in 1955 after a guy observed burrs on his dog after a day out. Velcro has since become a billion dollar industry and today holds kids shoes on everywhere. Yup, Velcro may be one of the most useful household items anywhere......................................

Bingo.

It is now time to start working on that bike.