Man Weekend 2012

Every year when we walk into Wal-mart for our Man Weekend pictures, I'll admit, I'm a tad bit embarrassed. The first year wasn't that bad. We had just the dirty 'stach going, no real special costumes. We just looked like a bunch of copy repair guys going to work, perhaps getting some toner.

The next year was a bit worse. The gay biker theme worked well but I wasn't prepared for all the staring. That year, some people actually quickly walked away from us rather than talk to us. Members of our group always like to try and talk to some random people while we are there. Most times its funny. That year I was prepared to be hit with a purse.

The Amish year was a totally different experience. Apparently we pulled it off so well that people looked at their feet when we were around and then quickly turned as soon as we passed. We actually got asked what the deal was with barn raising.

And last year was embarrassing but it was because most people seemed to think we were some pedophiles.

This year however, may have taken the cake in all levels. The embarrassment factor was high, very high. Higher than the year that I wore a pair of nut-hugging cutoffs. 10 of us walking in, looking like we did, then doing our walk around Wal-mart buying eggs, beer and toilet paper.

But something was different this year. People were not running away from us, people were running towards us. WTF? This isn't normal. However, it appears that the good people of Granbury, Tx just can't get enough of their Elvis.

As soon as we got out of the cars, all 10 of us dressed in our best white jump suits (most of us anyway), we were besieged with picture requests. Cars stopped in the aisles, cameras ready, screaming for Elvis. If this is what a bunch of fake fat Elvis get I can't imagine what it was like for the King.

We couldn't go 10 feet without taking a picture. Families, kids, grownups: all wanted a picture with the Wal-mart Elvis. As we took our walk of shame in the store, it didn't let up. As we took our pictures, people lined up just right outside to see our hi-jinks.

At our post picture lunch, the waitresses globbed over us. Other patrons constantly came over telling us about how much they love Elvis. Honestly, after 2 hour so this, we basically just wanted to eat and go back to the lake house to drink. But we were Elvis, and Elvis signs the autographs for the people.

I will admit, this might have been our best year ever for Man Weekend. Out outfits were pretty great. A hodgepodge of Elvis related themes. Although let's be honest of what we had. We had 7 white jumpsuit Elvis, 1 terminator Elvis who was going for jailhouse rock Elvis, one Elvis 3.0 japanimation, and one creepy 1970's music director, the outfit just didn't come together.

I imagine that sooner or later, we will end up on The People Of Walmart.

Enjoy Man Weekend 2012. Next year, oh next year, we have something special lined up.


I Love You

I find myself a bit exasperated at the moment. I don't want to be and I feel a bit guilty about it. I normally don't carry around much guilt because in general, I'm an awesome guy. People love me. And so do dogs. Dogs love


me very much. I have no idea why other than they take one look or smell and see that I am a brethren that gets in the dirt with them. This is a nice way to stay that most times I probably stink from cleaning up dog shit. Maybe this is why they love me so


much. I know my wife loves me because I clean up the house a lot. Usually when she gets home, dinner is on a table, the kitchen is clean, the living room is clean and the kids are still alive. Nothing is a bigger


turn on for Hossmom than a freshly cleaned house that she didn't have to do anything with. Our next child will probably be called Windex. So we have established that I am a lovable


guy and this here is the rub. It seems that whenever I am trying to do something that requires my full attention or multitasking, my children feel that


this is the perfect time to come screaming to me and ask for a hug or to tell me that they love me. They make it sound dire. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! they scream. I quickly scan for intruders or zombies because this is the tone of voice


that they use. When I don't see the undead, I ask them what is wrong. This is when they reply "I love you." Now this sounds great, doesn't it? Their need to tell me that they love me so very much is so urgent that they must risk scalding me while I'm cooking dinner just so they can tell me that


and give me a hug. But the problem becomes when I am actually involved with something, like cooking dinner, that requires all of my hands and attention. I get fancy sometimes but even mac and cheese requires


my attention. Boiling water around children is usually something that you want to


stay on top of. And when a child comes running into give a hug, how can you deny them or even get upset? This isn't the type of atmosphere that I want to ruin. I want to encourage this. However


, I just wish that it would be at more opportune times, like when we are sitting down and I'm not wielding a knife at high speeds. It's more than just when I'm cooking dinner. Say I'm on the phone with our wonderful Internet provider. Now in order not to be transferred to the 10th circle of hell, they are the gatekeepers, I must listen intently and respond with almost Germenesque enthusiasm. "Are you having


problems with your interwebs sir?" "Sir Yes Sir!" I scream. Failing to do so will get me kicked off of my interweb and yet still owing a monthly payment. So I have to be on my toes. It is even more difficult when I'm


talking to Hossmom after she gets home. I like spending time


with my wife. I like hearing


about her day. She in turn likes to hear about the demons that I slayed over the phone by talking to our interweb provider.


But it's hard to get a good flow going with the constant interruption that you really can't say no to. It often happens that


when we are talking, the I love you or HUG will come and thus we cannot remember what we were talking about. I feel bad for saying this, but it's a dad bit frustrating to be loved so much


sometimes. For example, let's say I'm writing a nice little


story about something that happened in my day when all of a sudden


I am interrupted from my train of thought. It makes it very difficult to finish the


Fuck it.


Hoss Weekend

At the end of February every year, we have a nice little get together. Just a small one. Nothing really happens. Then we go home. Really not much. And we grow some facial hair. And take pictures. At Walmart. Then go to lunch.

Really, it's quite innocent.

There are a few rules to Hoss Weekend, but just a few. First off, no significant others. This is why we hold it at the end of February. It's after Valentines day, far off from any holidays. No birthdays, anniversaries or anything else that would prevent us from being manly men with manly facial hair. We even have our gay dude come but he has to leave his better half at home. This is a weekend without spouses, no exceptions.

Rule two is also simple, grow facial hair in this years theme. Should we take a look back at some of our past moments? I think so. We will also have to start with year 2 of Hoss weekend as I can't find a digital copy of our first year. Our first year of course was the basic mustache. Then we got creative.

This was actually year two of Hoss Weekend. The theme that year was Handlebars and this is what we came up with. I went with a nice handkerchief and man bag to complete my look. And of course I had on cut off jeans to complete the sexy look that I was going for. This year I think we actually scared some people.

Year three I thought we really pulled out all the stops and went full bore. The Amish look was difficult to pull off but I think that this picture truly captures all the awesome of it that year. I grew that beard for 3 months to be able to get the look I wanted. But let's be honest here, some guys went full on. One even bought Amish clothing from Amish people. You will also notice the fake beards in this photo. Sadly, some can't grow the extreme facial hair because they are boys.

Year 4 brought out some of our best with the Pencil Thin Mustache. I was going for a 1970's porn producer and I think it worked well with the massively orange shirt. This is our "Blue Steel" look. I thought the photographer was going to run out screaming after this one.

Now it is year 5, what is left to be done that hasn't be done before?

Well, that's the surprise, isn't it? But I will leave you with a little teaser. My outfit is ready to go. It is awesome. There is a good chance that we may be arrested or at least kicked out of the restaurant at our post portrait meal. But I think it will be awesome, maybe the most awesome we have ever done.


With Little Hoss

I'm sitting here at night, almost 10pm, with my daughter. She can't sleep because she says that she is scared. I want to call bullshit on this. I really do. I can't though, because she is my daughter and if I'm wrong then I will be a massive prick. Well, that and let's all just admit this simple truth, my daughter is something of a Daddy's girl that can easily make me do anything she wants It's true. I know it, you know it and she certainty knows it.

Type "Hi" Little Hoss.


She likes when all the letters are big like that and she can never just hit the button just once. She comes close to jamming the keys so hard that I'm pretty sure that the neighbors can hear us typing tonight. For a quick distraction, so I can finish this, I'm going to give her a butterfly knife and tell her to practice her ninja skills. She's a bit sleepy right now so the challenge should be substantial. Now seriously though, I'm not a bad parent. I'm not an idiot.

I tell her to make sure she is careful and doesn't stab her brother.

Now back to the scared thing. Is she really scared of the dark? I think she truly is but she is also devious, probably learned that from the monsters that she is sure are lurking in her closet or under her bed.

Most nights when this happens though, I am oddly ok with coming up to bed with her for a bit. It's usually a nice quiet time where we reflect on the days lessons, such as shooting zombies in the kneecaps doesn't kill them, but does slow them down.

We have moved into "Mom and Dad's" room, the forbidden bed of awesomeness. I again shouldn't let her do this. But Dad is way more comfortable in his king sized bed. Besides we all know what's going to happen when Dad comes up. Everyone wants to get into bed with dad because he is covered in fur. This fur provides an extra bit of comfort on a cold night. I used this line on the ladies in college. Sleep with me, I'm warm. It only worked once and the result is two kids. I just happened to find the right lady who gets very, very cold at night.

The dogs will follow me up, they follow me every where, probably they want to see my reactions when I find out they shit on the floor again. My son will come in, he made it in about 5 minutes ago, because if his sister gets snuggle time then so will he. He will be dead asleep and yet the minute I come upstairs, it's "Hi dad, I'm coming!"

Eventually Hossmom will find her way up as well. The bed will be nice and warm and with any luck both kids will actually be asleep. However, she has to fight through the dogs to find her spot in the bad.

And in the end, everyone will be laying on a part of me. You would think there would be parts of me that would not be laid on or covered. This is actually not true. Because if my daughter is scared then her Barbies must be scared to. Thus they must come into bed with us and lay on dad so that he can keep the monsters away. It's not so much just "Barbies" anymore. Through the birthdays, Christmas and random present days, they have pretty much turned into a clan that are constantly naked and often their heads pop off. So while I'm comforting my daughter, begging my dogs not to shit on the floor, telling my son that he can snuggle, and making room for Hossmom, I am also repairing decapitated Barbies.

This is what it's like now. My family and their assorted stuff. Hossmom has a book. Eventually she will use part of me to prop it up. My daughter and her Barbies (she's finally asleep), my son and his metal cars that love to poke me in the side, and my dogs and their massive gas bombs. They will all be asleep in about five minutes, smushed up against Dad and his fur.

I can barely move, which will be a problem if the monsters do come.

And yet, this is about the most perfect place in the world on any given night.



Once again, like a visit from your favorite Aunt Flo, my monthly post is up over at Daddyshome. Hossmom and I did our taxes tonight, and this is what popped into my head. You shouldn't ever really want to see what is in someone else's head. But maybe you are bored at work, maybe you've mined all the gold out of youtube, or maybe you just haven't hit your daily quota of misspelled words and bad grammar. If that's the case, then this post is for you. Click HERE.


Piles and Piles

Poop. That is now my life. Once upon a time, I dealt a lot in the area of poop. I was the poop master. I was skilled. Then the day came when everyone in the house was potty trained and I no longer had to handle the poop. The massive, massive amounts of poop. No more diapers, no more wiping, no more cleaning massive amounts of stains off our less- than-stain resistant carpet. It was a joyous day, a day that was declared a national holiday, all for me. You, Hossman, are no longer the king of poop. You are the king of underwear and all is good in your life.

It was a glorious poop-free summer. The toilet finally got the attention it deserved and was happy. I was happy.

Then it got cold and winter came. With the winter, came new poop.

Two dogs are responsible. Two spoiled damn dogs that are nothing but big wussies. No, they cannot go poop outside anymore, it would hurt their sensibilities. It's to cold to take a dump in the yard. They still have to go poop though, so why not just crap all over the house? It's warm in the toy room and that is where their little idiot brains tell them to poop. But soon, they discover that pooping is also fun in Little Hoss's room. And when the joy runs out of that pooping, why not poop right next to the fucking door? This is a poop that sends a message to me. It says "I could poop right outside that door. But I won't. Here, take my crap." Plop.

For the last week I have woken up to this every morning. Not just one little spot, but 3, 4, 5 piles of crap hidden around the house like some sort of poop scavenger hunt. All for me as no one in the house will touch it. Life is dirty folks, and sometimes you have to get dirty to deal with it. But Hossmom has to go to work and she can't be smelling like poop. Little Hoss has school and can't go to school smelling like poop. Bubba Hoss is in the phase of "let's throw everything" so I dare not even ask him to pitch in.

That's why every morning, around 7:30, you will find me on my hands and knees with a bottle of cleaner, some paper towels, and a very grumpy attitude. The dogs will be right next to me, wagging their tails and smiling, so help me god they are smiling.

While I'm doing this I will also field questions like "Are you making my lunch today? Where is my breakfast? Turn the TV on, cartoons!" I might snap. I'm just saying it might happen.

It doesn't matter if we take the dogs out right before bedtime. It doesn't matter if I take them out first thing in the morning. It doesn't matter if Jesus himself came down from on high and asked them to evacuate their stinky bowels in the backyard. They would still leave mountain-sized piles of shit. And now, I am once again the king of poop. I am back in that dark place, a place where no sunshine beams in from clean windows. A place where there is only darkness and lemon scented cleaner that cannot even attempt to mask the toxic stank of my dog's ass.

A place where I am down on the floor with tears in my eyes and a dog trying to lick my face while I clean up the demon spawn that it left around 4am in the morning.

A word of caution though. We once had a cat. We no longer have a cat. Please keep that in mind the next time you want to leave the trots all over my hardwood floors.



I want to make it clear at the start, I was not ignoring my wife. In fact, I was very much focused on her. I was paying attention, complete and utter attention. I was paying more attention than anyone has paid attention in the history of attention. That, my friends, is a lot of attention.

I just had no idea what she was saying.

It wasn't my fault though. I am a complete innocent here. I am a victim of my environment, a poor rube that apparently cannot fight off the basic instinct of men everywhere. If anything, it was entrapment and therefore the blame really lies with society, stupid society, that has conditioned me to be the way that I am. Shame on you, send me money and we'll call it even.

Dinner was going smooth and I like it when things go smooth. Tonight was an easy dinner night, Manwhiches. This is code for: I forgot to take out the chicken so you get crap dinner night. It was supposed to be a stuffed chicken breast with feta cheese and spinach resting in a basil/tomato sauce. Very good. However, it's hard to stuff a frozen chicken breast. Breast, breast, breast. See, I love it, which the post will shortly prove.

So it was a very nice dinner. Hossmom got home at the exact time that I was putting dinner on the table. The house was cleaned, the floors freshly vacuumed and everything had a hit of mint in the air from my cleaning. The kids were seated perfectly, not throwing anything at anyone. Not even the dogs were farting, growling, drooling or having any other fluid coming from their bodies that seem to leak disgusting at every moment possible. I was putting the rest of the warm food on the table and invited Hossmom to sit and enjoy her family. She takes off her top outer shirt to get more comfortable and sits down wearing a camisole (that's what she says she calls it.) She starts serving the kids their food as I sit down, with my lovely family.

Then I stop. I see them. I am looking at them. The sisters, the girls, column A and column B, leftie and right, Starsky and Hutch. Without Hossmom's top shirt on, there is a lot of cleavage at the table. The amount was, to say, abundant. And I found myself transported back to my teenage self. Boobs. Right there. Where? Over there, man! Be cool, be cool. Don't stare. You are staring.

I couldn't help it. I was hypnotized, mesmerized, locked in gaze at the most beautiful thing ever put on this world. And this thought popped in my head, the greatest thought ever had by man. I get to see boobs everyday. Everyday, at some point, I get to see boobs. Seriously, how awesome is that?It's guaranteed that at some time during the day, I get to look. I have had this thought many times in my married life but every time it's like a new revelation. And I keep coming back to it, like the holy grail of married life. Boobs.

I know I will probably take some flack here about objectifying women. Go ahead. I don't care, say whatever you want. Grill me, insult me. Call me an immature little man who doesn't appreciate what I have. And my response? Boobs. I get to see boobs everyday. And I do very much appreciate my wife and tonight, I am appreciating a very specific part of her.

After a few minutes Hossmom notices that I have not responded to any of her questions nor have I made a sound. It's probably a safe bet to say that I probably haven't moved at all either. She looks over at me and says "Hoss!" Well, she doesn't call me Hoss. She calls me by my name, at least I think she does. Honestly I'm not sure, I just know that she is trying to snap me out of my trance. She is going to have to try harder as the girls had my complete attention.

"Up here, honey!" she says and this does it. She asks me if I was even listening to her. I'm too old and too married to stutter about this anymore.

"Nope." I say.

"Really? You have no idea what I was talking about?"

It was about work, I'm pretty sure it was. Hossmom works in the digital advertising world and loves it. She loves to talk about it. She loves everything about it. And tonight, I can assume that she was talking about it.

"Um, where you talking about websites?" It's a good bet.

"Which one?"

"Um, don't know."

Hossmom is not dumb nor is she a young teenager. She knows a leering man when she sees one.
"Boobs.tits.com, right?" Hossmom says.

This is why I love my wife, she is way funnier than I am.