“You taught our Daughter to head butt?!” Hossmom says somewhat accusingly.
“Sure I did” I say “How great is that!”
“It’s not great.” She says
I think this is when she started to get a little mad.
“Why is it not great? Do you realize what this is? She is my Latimer now! We will root and chest bump! We will dog pile the stuffed animals when my teams when! We will shake and open juice in victory celebration and spray each other in the face with it! How is that not great!” I ask
“You are an idiot” She responds
“What? Look, no one else does this with me. This is great I tell you!” I say
“And how ‘great’ do you think it will be when we get a call from daycare saying that our daughter has head butted some poor kid? How great will it be then?” Hossmom says.
“…………..” I have no response
“How ‘great’ do you think it will be when she starts head butting the walls and putting holes in them” Hossmom continues.
“How ‘great’ do you think it will be when she starts head butting the dogs?”
“Well, they probably won’t mind” I say trying to find a way out of this hole.
“Right, sure.” Hossmom says. “I’m sure they won’t mind and I’m sure that the doctor won’t mind when we have to take our daughter to the ER for a concussion. I’m sure that they won’t mind it when I say my husband taught our daughter how to head butt.”
There is a possibility that I haven’t thought this one all the way through.
“But I thought you liked it when I teach her stuff. I mean because of me she can rock out in the car, she can say touchdown and offsides, she can give a highfive, she says Beep Beep and mush in the stroller.” This is my strategy at this point—point out all the good funny things that I have taught my daughter.
“None of those things involve bodily injury to our child or to other people” Hossmom says.
“Well, when she says Beep Beep we often run into people. That’s happened before.” That’s it Hossman, lets see if we can twist that logic.
“Then you shouldn’t be teaching her that either.” Hossmom says, cutting off my only avenue of argument.
“But she likes to head butt. In fact, she did it first.” This is all I got left, blame the kid. She will understand when she is older.
“And then you encouraged it. That’s not helping” she says.
Crap
“But it’s fun. It’s how we celebrate the mundane. How can a father’s love for his daughter be so wrong?” I say. I’ve got nothing left, I’m just grasping at straws here.
“I’m sure it’s fun when she gets a big gash in her head and some other poor kid is laid out on the sidewalk with his eyes rolled back.” She says.
“Well, how big is the kid. Is he like her age or is he more like 5 or 6 years old?” I say.
This time she doesn’t even bother to respond. She just gives me the look which means the argument is over and that I have lost.
“At least she won’t be punching anyone anymore.”
Seriously, I should have just shut up.
12/6/07
12/5/07
My Response to Your Complaint
Today someone complained that I had my feet on my desk. Yes, this occurred at work.
You know that I normally don’t write about work and several people at work may read this blog. But today I have decided that I don’t care about that. Today I care about that there is some whiney know it all there that is so offended that I keep my god damned feet on my desk.
This is just one of those things that really get you going. The fact that I put my feet on my desk has absolutely nothing to do with you. My job in all likelihood has nothing to do with you. In fact, it is more than likely that you are some depressed nutjob that has nothing better to do than to be offended at feet on desks. Most likely because you have very bad BO and no one can stand you.
But I understand, I really do. I mean if my life was so boring that my cat couldn’t even stand to be around me, I would want to create some drama to. I mean why not? I would imagine that there is only so much paint drying you can actually do while you are not doing your work and instead checking up on me and my feet on my desk. It’s down right understandable that you find this as offensive as your last date found you. So sure, let’s create some drama here and get really riled that my fucking feet are on my fucking desk in my fucking office.
I mean sure, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to come to my into my office other than my boss and fellow members of my unit as my job has nothing to do with anyone else’s job that works here. But that shouldn’t stop you, whoever you are, from making special trips to my office just to look at my offensive feet. Come on down and take a stroll, I’m sure your heart needs the work to break up that last cheese fry blockage that you may have there.
But listen, I’m sure that by now, as it is mid afternoon, your butt is nice and settled in your special order cow chair and you can’t be bothered to get out and actually come down here and take a gander at my feet on my desk. I got your back. What I’ll do, if you ever decide to make yourself known to me, is to take a picture right now of my offensive feet and then I’ll send you it in an email every ten minutes. Then you can huff and puff about how offended you are and thus get back to your Jerry Springer.
I know that a long time ago your stories let you down and that you no longer find them interesting. I know that Days of Our Lives and General Hospital just doesn’t tickle you in your special places anymore and that you have grown tired and weary without your drama. But maybe in the future you can instead go find your ex-husband and bug his newer and more beautiful wife that he replaced you with rather than making complaints about my feet being on my desk.
I know that I have been hard on you today, Mr. Or Mrs. Complainer. But seriously, I gotta know, is this really fucking for real? I mean seriously, who complains to somebody’s boss about his type of shit? I really don’t get it, I swear to god I just don’t. Please Oh Please explain it to me. I really want to know what’s going on in your fucked up head. Honestly, I won’t be all that mad. I would be more intrigued, like you are an alien that needs to be studied so we can understand how to really communicate with you. Of course, my message at that time may be “Get the fuck out of my office” but still, at least we would be on talking terms.
I know that this is a pipe dream because you obviously didn’t have the courage to come to me directly to complain about my feet. Because no one does this because no one is really at all fucking concerned about it, except you of course. But you may want to know a reason why I do this. Sure, I’ll give you an explanation. Because each and every day I go through thousands of applications for people who want jobs. Basically I read all the freaking day. It is more comfortable for me to put my feet up when I do this. And yes, normally I close my door because of dipshits like you but somehow you have found a way around this and still made the complaint. It would appear that you are trying awfully fucking hard to see my feet on my desk.
I know that you are to embarrassed to come to me in person. You know that if you did come to me the first thing I would do is to complain about your single buck tooth and hillbilly mullet because those are the only type of people that really give two shits about this. So it’s really out of your own sense of self worth that you haven’t gone to me in person and instead followed the chain of command.
For that, I salute you. There is nothing quite like bringing down someone else to make you feel better about yourself. Congratulations, I mean it. If I knew who you were, I would gladly give you a trophy for cocksucker of the year. But don’t show up in person, that really wouldn’t be your style.
Lick. My. Balls.
You know that I normally don’t write about work and several people at work may read this blog. But today I have decided that I don’t care about that. Today I care about that there is some whiney know it all there that is so offended that I keep my god damned feet on my desk.
This is just one of those things that really get you going. The fact that I put my feet on my desk has absolutely nothing to do with you. My job in all likelihood has nothing to do with you. In fact, it is more than likely that you are some depressed nutjob that has nothing better to do than to be offended at feet on desks. Most likely because you have very bad BO and no one can stand you.
But I understand, I really do. I mean if my life was so boring that my cat couldn’t even stand to be around me, I would want to create some drama to. I mean why not? I would imagine that there is only so much paint drying you can actually do while you are not doing your work and instead checking up on me and my feet on my desk. It’s down right understandable that you find this as offensive as your last date found you. So sure, let’s create some drama here and get really riled that my fucking feet are on my fucking desk in my fucking office.
I mean sure, there is absolutely no reason for anyone to come to my into my office other than my boss and fellow members of my unit as my job has nothing to do with anyone else’s job that works here. But that shouldn’t stop you, whoever you are, from making special trips to my office just to look at my offensive feet. Come on down and take a stroll, I’m sure your heart needs the work to break up that last cheese fry blockage that you may have there.
But listen, I’m sure that by now, as it is mid afternoon, your butt is nice and settled in your special order cow chair and you can’t be bothered to get out and actually come down here and take a gander at my feet on my desk. I got your back. What I’ll do, if you ever decide to make yourself known to me, is to take a picture right now of my offensive feet and then I’ll send you it in an email every ten minutes. Then you can huff and puff about how offended you are and thus get back to your Jerry Springer.
I know that a long time ago your stories let you down and that you no longer find them interesting. I know that Days of Our Lives and General Hospital just doesn’t tickle you in your special places anymore and that you have grown tired and weary without your drama. But maybe in the future you can instead go find your ex-husband and bug his newer and more beautiful wife that he replaced you with rather than making complaints about my feet being on my desk.
I know that I have been hard on you today, Mr. Or Mrs. Complainer. But seriously, I gotta know, is this really fucking for real? I mean seriously, who complains to somebody’s boss about his type of shit? I really don’t get it, I swear to god I just don’t. Please Oh Please explain it to me. I really want to know what’s going on in your fucked up head. Honestly, I won’t be all that mad. I would be more intrigued, like you are an alien that needs to be studied so we can understand how to really communicate with you. Of course, my message at that time may be “Get the fuck out of my office” but still, at least we would be on talking terms.
I know that this is a pipe dream because you obviously didn’t have the courage to come to me directly to complain about my feet. Because no one does this because no one is really at all fucking concerned about it, except you of course. But you may want to know a reason why I do this. Sure, I’ll give you an explanation. Because each and every day I go through thousands of applications for people who want jobs. Basically I read all the freaking day. It is more comfortable for me to put my feet up when I do this. And yes, normally I close my door because of dipshits like you but somehow you have found a way around this and still made the complaint. It would appear that you are trying awfully fucking hard to see my feet on my desk.
I know that you are to embarrassed to come to me in person. You know that if you did come to me the first thing I would do is to complain about your single buck tooth and hillbilly mullet because those are the only type of people that really give two shits about this. So it’s really out of your own sense of self worth that you haven’t gone to me in person and instead followed the chain of command.
For that, I salute you. There is nothing quite like bringing down someone else to make you feel better about yourself. Congratulations, I mean it. If I knew who you were, I would gladly give you a trophy for cocksucker of the year. But don’t show up in person, that really wouldn’t be your style.
Lick. My. Balls.
12/4/07
I Give Up
Ok, seriously, stop hitting me in the nuts.
I don’t know what I have done to offend the world. Whatever it is I offer this very sincere and meaningful apology so that you can stop hitting me in the nuts.
I have taken great strides my entire life to protect that region of Hossness. I wear boxer shorts, I wore cups and I flinch at even the slightest provocation that my jumbles will be hit. But I can see that the world has found a way past my defenses and I am begging everyone to make this stop. Look, I lose. Ok, I get it. You win. Please stop hitting the boys.
A couple of days ago my daughter was playing in front of me. I wasn’t thinking anything about it, she does this all the time. And then, unprovoked I might add, she turned around and using her little carnie hand she smacked me right in the balls. You wouldn’t think that a 21 month old could cause such damage. But that’s the thing about those boys, even the slightest graze can send you into a tailspin of lower stomach pain. In Little Hoss’s case she proved that her aim was true and practically palmed the right one.
I went down immediately begging for mercy from my little girl. Why? Why? And Why again I ask you! Why must Daddy’s balls be a form of enjoyment for the entire family? Why must I be rolling around on the ground like a wounded deer (reference there for my redneck hunting fans) as she circles me looking for the last killer blow? Why must God find it funny to put this most sensitive area in a most unprotected spot? And why, god why, does my daughter think it’s funny when she does this?
Which has led me to my next parenting conclusion: I will never buy still toed boots for my daughter. Ever. You can guess why. I should write a book called What not to buy for your Daughter if you are a Dad. The top two things would be steel toed boots and a piercing of any shape or form, any where on her body. Yes, I don’t care if I have tattoos. I’m a parent now, I’m allowed to be a hypocrite, screw off.
And to my dogs. Seriously, if one of you fat dumb son of bitches decides that you want to chase the fat dumb son of a bitch cat and you think that my crotch region is the best route, I am going to kick you. Fine, send Peta my way, I’ll kick them too. Because there isn’t a man on the planet that would not understand it. I know that normally I’m a laid back guy and that we wrestle a lot but you don’t see me grabbing your stones and giving them a twist, do you?
I have not nurtured my dog out of a show of respect for his family jewels. That respect is quickly dwindling and I swear to all that is holy that if you plant your big paw on my balls again, I’m going straight to the vet and telling him to just use the old rubber band trick (another reference for my red neck readers).
But don’t think the cats are getting off easy hear. Because if they decide that they want to skidadle away using my junk as starter’s blocks I swear to God I’m going to throw them in a sack and then into the river it goes. I’m not all that far from the Rio Grande, it’s about a days trip from where I live. And yes, I would make that trip just to pitch the sack in, me and my aching balls.
Bubba Hoss, you should just know better. Really man, you are my son and you should just really know better. But I’ll take a little of the blame here but over all, son, you should know better. I was in the bathroom when you decided to have a melt down. Your scream was louder than normal so I thought maybe something had happened while you were sleeping in your swing chair. I have no idea what, maybe alien abduction, I suppose it’s possible.
But because of this scream I tried to hurry up and ended up catching myself in my zipper. Do you have any idea how freaking bad that hurts??? And crawling on all fours to get to your rescue and it turns out that the Backyardigans show had stopped and we all know how much you love the Backyardigans. That’s why your scream was so loud, your show was over. Seriously man, you should know better.
Do you have any idea what this feels like? Well, one day you will. And inside Daddy is going to say “Hurts, don’t it”. Then I’m going to turn on the Backyardigans and watch it by myself.
Finally, Hossmom, you have actually been doing pretty well and have not let your flailing at night hit me in the balls in several months. Hey, I appreciate that, I really do. In fact, I’m going to take you out to a movie because I appreciate that so much. I’ll arrange for a sitter and we’ll just lock the animals outside for a couple of hours, no problems. That’s what I really like in a wife, not hitting my balls more than 4 or 5 times a year.
To the rest of the world, I give up. Whatever it is that you want from me, you have it. I’m done, I’m broken. You have taken my spirit and snapped it, I hope that you are proud of yourself.
To anyone that is thinking about having a vasectomy once they have kids and a couple of dogs, I say wait a little while. Nature has a way of taking care of this for you.
I don’t know what I have done to offend the world. Whatever it is I offer this very sincere and meaningful apology so that you can stop hitting me in the nuts.
I have taken great strides my entire life to protect that region of Hossness. I wear boxer shorts, I wore cups and I flinch at even the slightest provocation that my jumbles will be hit. But I can see that the world has found a way past my defenses and I am begging everyone to make this stop. Look, I lose. Ok, I get it. You win. Please stop hitting the boys.
A couple of days ago my daughter was playing in front of me. I wasn’t thinking anything about it, she does this all the time. And then, unprovoked I might add, she turned around and using her little carnie hand she smacked me right in the balls. You wouldn’t think that a 21 month old could cause such damage. But that’s the thing about those boys, even the slightest graze can send you into a tailspin of lower stomach pain. In Little Hoss’s case she proved that her aim was true and practically palmed the right one.
I went down immediately begging for mercy from my little girl. Why? Why? And Why again I ask you! Why must Daddy’s balls be a form of enjoyment for the entire family? Why must I be rolling around on the ground like a wounded deer (reference there for my redneck hunting fans) as she circles me looking for the last killer blow? Why must God find it funny to put this most sensitive area in a most unprotected spot? And why, god why, does my daughter think it’s funny when she does this?
Which has led me to my next parenting conclusion: I will never buy still toed boots for my daughter. Ever. You can guess why. I should write a book called What not to buy for your Daughter if you are a Dad. The top two things would be steel toed boots and a piercing of any shape or form, any where on her body. Yes, I don’t care if I have tattoos. I’m a parent now, I’m allowed to be a hypocrite, screw off.
And to my dogs. Seriously, if one of you fat dumb son of bitches decides that you want to chase the fat dumb son of a bitch cat and you think that my crotch region is the best route, I am going to kick you. Fine, send Peta my way, I’ll kick them too. Because there isn’t a man on the planet that would not understand it. I know that normally I’m a laid back guy and that we wrestle a lot but you don’t see me grabbing your stones and giving them a twist, do you?
I have not nurtured my dog out of a show of respect for his family jewels. That respect is quickly dwindling and I swear to all that is holy that if you plant your big paw on my balls again, I’m going straight to the vet and telling him to just use the old rubber band trick (another reference for my red neck readers).
But don’t think the cats are getting off easy hear. Because if they decide that they want to skidadle away using my junk as starter’s blocks I swear to God I’m going to throw them in a sack and then into the river it goes. I’m not all that far from the Rio Grande, it’s about a days trip from where I live. And yes, I would make that trip just to pitch the sack in, me and my aching balls.
Bubba Hoss, you should just know better. Really man, you are my son and you should just really know better. But I’ll take a little of the blame here but over all, son, you should know better. I was in the bathroom when you decided to have a melt down. Your scream was louder than normal so I thought maybe something had happened while you were sleeping in your swing chair. I have no idea what, maybe alien abduction, I suppose it’s possible.
But because of this scream I tried to hurry up and ended up catching myself in my zipper. Do you have any idea how freaking bad that hurts??? And crawling on all fours to get to your rescue and it turns out that the Backyardigans show had stopped and we all know how much you love the Backyardigans. That’s why your scream was so loud, your show was over. Seriously man, you should know better.
Do you have any idea what this feels like? Well, one day you will. And inside Daddy is going to say “Hurts, don’t it”. Then I’m going to turn on the Backyardigans and watch it by myself.
Finally, Hossmom, you have actually been doing pretty well and have not let your flailing at night hit me in the balls in several months. Hey, I appreciate that, I really do. In fact, I’m going to take you out to a movie because I appreciate that so much. I’ll arrange for a sitter and we’ll just lock the animals outside for a couple of hours, no problems. That’s what I really like in a wife, not hitting my balls more than 4 or 5 times a year.
To the rest of the world, I give up. Whatever it is that you want from me, you have it. I’m done, I’m broken. You have taken my spirit and snapped it, I hope that you are proud of yourself.
To anyone that is thinking about having a vasectomy once they have kids and a couple of dogs, I say wait a little while. Nature has a way of taking care of this for you.
11/30/07
Black Friday
Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. The biggest shopping day of the year. There is no politeness. There is no niceties. It is a brutal, up at 3 am, slug the soccer mom by 5, give me the tickle me Elmo god damit kind of day.
“No! Don’t go!” you scream. “Think of your children! For the love of god man, think of your children!”
I’m not listening.
“They’re monsters!” you further utter. “They’ll make you apply for the department store credit card for 10% savings!”
You are a coward, I scoff at you.
“At least leave you two children with Hossmom!” This is your last piece of advice. “They’ll never retain their sanity!”
I can’t leave them with Hossmom. Because today they are my army. What you may see as insanity driven bargain shoppers, the kind that get up at 4 am on Saturdays for garage sales so they can buy other peoples junk, I see as glory waiting to be claimed. And I ride with Little Hoss.
We do not go unprepared to Old Navy. Our double stroller, henceforth known as the Vehicle of Ankle Death, is not an ordinary stroller. It’s not ordinary because I have drawn flames on my lime green Vehicle of Ankle Death. I used Hossmom’s nail polish, blood red to match the carnage that we are about to waste. If I could have chromed it out I would have. I go to my workshop and attempt to fashion a cow catcher but Hossmom stops me. You know the kind, the kind on all the old trains that would slaughter any wandering cow. In my case, I was going to use it for psychotic middle aged women. They should all thank Hossmom.
We are off to get a pair of gloves and a hat for Little Hoss. It’s gotten cold and she needs it and she will not be denied. I load up Little Hoss’s wingman, Bubba Hoss, and we set sail for Old Navy. The earth groans at our departure.
We arrive and it is crowded. It is carnage. It is victory waiting to be snatched by those with the guts to do so. We load up in the Vehicle of Ankle Death.
We do not come unprepared. Remember this.
“Mush!” my daughter says because that is what I have taught her to say this morning. We are in sync, we are of one mind.
“Mush!” I reply, proud of Little Hoss’s desire for destruction and submission.
We don’t even bother opening the doors with our hands and we use the Vehicle of Ankle Death as a battering ram as we storm the store. The doors fling open. Somewhere I hear a young Swedish chick gasp. We have arrived.
We stop at the beginning of the aisle. We see our goal at the end. The aisle is the 9th circle of hell, full of those that have betrayed the worst. They have betrayed sleep and common sense. They have betrayed courtesy and manners. They have betrayed themselves. But we will remind them.
The aisle is almost unnegotiatable. Thousands stand in the way. They are looking at racks but failing to make any room for anyone that wishes to pass. For some reason, people on this day lose all sense of decency, I have no idea why. But at least they are shopping which is more than I can say for the couple that has decided to argue in the middle of the aisle. You would think they would have some tact and at least take this to the side, but they don’t because they are madness, madness in this world and on this day.
Again, we are prepared.
“Now” I tell Little Hoss in my calm and commanding voice.
Immediately she unleashes her fury.
“Beep Beep!” she yells. This is the second special words that I have taught her this morning. “Beep Beep! Beep Beep! Beep Beep!”
I have given the people a chance at redemption. It is of no concern of mine if they choose to ignore it. The Vehicle of Ankle Death does not slow down, it’s flames burning on the side from the speed of our movements. We split the couple who are startled at Little Hoss’s warnings. We catch his shin but do not bother to look back. I smelled blood from his brand new leg wound. Others should take heed.
We hack down grandmothers, we scare old guys with bad hearts, soccer moms dive into the nearest sales rack to escape our wrath. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. A few running kids collide with the side of the Vehicle of Ankle Death. I help them up because I am not heartless. Then Bubba Hoss pukes on them because he believes that all should feel our justice, there will be no exceptions.
We reach the gloves and hats. We try them on. Little Hoss is still yelling Beep Beep and I am still proud. To the check out stand we go, Little Hoss and the Vehicle clearing the way. The check out girl charges me 8 bucks as I hear her heart flutter in her chest. A dad out alone on Black Friday with his 2 kids under the age of 2 makes any woman melt. I wink and she sucks in the air like she is trying to fill her soul with my presence. Here baby, take my card, I write a blog.
We again use the Vehicle as a battering ram as we leave the store. I glance back and see that in our wake the carnage still continues although with a few less unfortunate souls. We are back in the house within 45 minutes of leaving.
Hossmom is impressed and shocked. She likes the hat and she likes the gloves but truly they are of no concern to Little Hoss, Bubba Hoss and I. We have our victory and it smells of fleece.
“No! Don’t go!” you scream. “Think of your children! For the love of god man, think of your children!”
I’m not listening.
“They’re monsters!” you further utter. “They’ll make you apply for the department store credit card for 10% savings!”
You are a coward, I scoff at you.
“At least leave you two children with Hossmom!” This is your last piece of advice. “They’ll never retain their sanity!”
I can’t leave them with Hossmom. Because today they are my army. What you may see as insanity driven bargain shoppers, the kind that get up at 4 am on Saturdays for garage sales so they can buy other peoples junk, I see as glory waiting to be claimed. And I ride with Little Hoss.
We do not go unprepared to Old Navy. Our double stroller, henceforth known as the Vehicle of Ankle Death, is not an ordinary stroller. It’s not ordinary because I have drawn flames on my lime green Vehicle of Ankle Death. I used Hossmom’s nail polish, blood red to match the carnage that we are about to waste. If I could have chromed it out I would have. I go to my workshop and attempt to fashion a cow catcher but Hossmom stops me. You know the kind, the kind on all the old trains that would slaughter any wandering cow. In my case, I was going to use it for psychotic middle aged women. They should all thank Hossmom.
We are off to get a pair of gloves and a hat for Little Hoss. It’s gotten cold and she needs it and she will not be denied. I load up Little Hoss’s wingman, Bubba Hoss, and we set sail for Old Navy. The earth groans at our departure.
We arrive and it is crowded. It is carnage. It is victory waiting to be snatched by those with the guts to do so. We load up in the Vehicle of Ankle Death.
We do not come unprepared. Remember this.
“Mush!” my daughter says because that is what I have taught her to say this morning. We are in sync, we are of one mind.
“Mush!” I reply, proud of Little Hoss’s desire for destruction and submission.
We don’t even bother opening the doors with our hands and we use the Vehicle of Ankle Death as a battering ram as we storm the store. The doors fling open. Somewhere I hear a young Swedish chick gasp. We have arrived.
We stop at the beginning of the aisle. We see our goal at the end. The aisle is the 9th circle of hell, full of those that have betrayed the worst. They have betrayed sleep and common sense. They have betrayed courtesy and manners. They have betrayed themselves. But we will remind them.
The aisle is almost unnegotiatable. Thousands stand in the way. They are looking at racks but failing to make any room for anyone that wishes to pass. For some reason, people on this day lose all sense of decency, I have no idea why. But at least they are shopping which is more than I can say for the couple that has decided to argue in the middle of the aisle. You would think they would have some tact and at least take this to the side, but they don’t because they are madness, madness in this world and on this day.
Again, we are prepared.
“Now” I tell Little Hoss in my calm and commanding voice.
Immediately she unleashes her fury.
“Beep Beep!” she yells. This is the second special words that I have taught her this morning. “Beep Beep! Beep Beep! Beep Beep!”
I have given the people a chance at redemption. It is of no concern of mine if they choose to ignore it. The Vehicle of Ankle Death does not slow down, it’s flames burning on the side from the speed of our movements. We split the couple who are startled at Little Hoss’s warnings. We catch his shin but do not bother to look back. I smelled blood from his brand new leg wound. Others should take heed.
We hack down grandmothers, we scare old guys with bad hearts, soccer moms dive into the nearest sales rack to escape our wrath. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. A few running kids collide with the side of the Vehicle of Ankle Death. I help them up because I am not heartless. Then Bubba Hoss pukes on them because he believes that all should feel our justice, there will be no exceptions.
We reach the gloves and hats. We try them on. Little Hoss is still yelling Beep Beep and I am still proud. To the check out stand we go, Little Hoss and the Vehicle clearing the way. The check out girl charges me 8 bucks as I hear her heart flutter in her chest. A dad out alone on Black Friday with his 2 kids under the age of 2 makes any woman melt. I wink and she sucks in the air like she is trying to fill her soul with my presence. Here baby, take my card, I write a blog.
We again use the Vehicle as a battering ram as we leave the store. I glance back and see that in our wake the carnage still continues although with a few less unfortunate souls. We are back in the house within 45 minutes of leaving.
Hossmom is impressed and shocked. She likes the hat and she likes the gloves but truly they are of no concern to Little Hoss, Bubba Hoss and I. We have our victory and it smells of fleece.
11/29/07
Xbox Eulogy
Dear friends, thank you all for coming today.
Yesterday, as some of you may have heard, my Xbox 360 died quite suddenly. It suffered from the mythical Ring of Death that so many Xbox owners are familiar with. Unfortunately, there was no way to diagnosis this problem as there were no symptoms. As a result, my Xbox 360 passed away yesterday at 8:30 am. I am devastated as you can imagine.
The Xbox was always a good and loyal friend. He never judged and was always there with an open controller and an online game. He understood that sometimes a man needs a chance to distribute virtual justice to the legions of those that wished to doom me. He understood a chainsaw to the face was much better than any therapy.
The Xbox always understood that an hour without complaint is what every man wishes for. He understood that in that hour you could transcend normal work life and become an agent for justice as you let fly a grenade at your enemies. He understood that escapes in life are rare and he provided that rarity.
My Xbox will be remembered for the marathon sessions that we had together. He will be remembered the night we played until 4 am when all the kids were asleep. In that night we attained new heights as we waylaid the 14 year old bastard that had the smart mouth. In that night we put down destruction vs. the 20 year old gorked out of his head college student. And in that night, we became more than just a man and his video game machine.
We became a scourge on the multiplayer/online world. We became a name to be respected as Namssoh unleashed hell. Gears of War, Call of Duty, Halo—they were just the vehicles for our greatness, our shared glory.
And finally, he will be remembered for our last online adventure together. We had just gotten the new Call of Duty 4 game and we were finally getting to a point where we were not just cannon fodder for the kids with the greater reflexes and unlimited practice time. We entered the game and we were quickly promoted to Major General, which is a rank benefiting my greatness.
Oh the devastation that we caused! We quickly went from the hunted to the hunter as we stalked out latest victim. We used a ruse, a common tactic of feeding the enemy false information on our location. When that enemy came, we were behind him. And yes my friends! Yes! We distributed a version of vengeance not seen since biblical days. We destroyed our enemy and then took his gun. And we used this gun to further lay a siege upon all those that challenged us.
So to you my good friend, we say goodbye. Because after calling Microsoft we have learned that there is no easy fix for you. But as you are more than a man, and are a machine, perhaps all is not lost. We will send you in for repairs and you will once again be in our sweet embrace in 4 to 6 weeks.
Until that time, we will keep you in our thoughts and our prayers.
Let us now have a moment of silence to honor my Xbox.
Yesterday, as some of you may have heard, my Xbox 360 died quite suddenly. It suffered from the mythical Ring of Death that so many Xbox owners are familiar with. Unfortunately, there was no way to diagnosis this problem as there were no symptoms. As a result, my Xbox 360 passed away yesterday at 8:30 am. I am devastated as you can imagine.
The Xbox was always a good and loyal friend. He never judged and was always there with an open controller and an online game. He understood that sometimes a man needs a chance to distribute virtual justice to the legions of those that wished to doom me. He understood a chainsaw to the face was much better than any therapy.
The Xbox always understood that an hour without complaint is what every man wishes for. He understood that in that hour you could transcend normal work life and become an agent for justice as you let fly a grenade at your enemies. He understood that escapes in life are rare and he provided that rarity.
My Xbox will be remembered for the marathon sessions that we had together. He will be remembered the night we played until 4 am when all the kids were asleep. In that night we attained new heights as we waylaid the 14 year old bastard that had the smart mouth. In that night we put down destruction vs. the 20 year old gorked out of his head college student. And in that night, we became more than just a man and his video game machine.
We became a scourge on the multiplayer/online world. We became a name to be respected as Namssoh unleashed hell. Gears of War, Call of Duty, Halo—they were just the vehicles for our greatness, our shared glory.
And finally, he will be remembered for our last online adventure together. We had just gotten the new Call of Duty 4 game and we were finally getting to a point where we were not just cannon fodder for the kids with the greater reflexes and unlimited practice time. We entered the game and we were quickly promoted to Major General, which is a rank benefiting my greatness.
Oh the devastation that we caused! We quickly went from the hunted to the hunter as we stalked out latest victim. We used a ruse, a common tactic of feeding the enemy false information on our location. When that enemy came, we were behind him. And yes my friends! Yes! We distributed a version of vengeance not seen since biblical days. We destroyed our enemy and then took his gun. And we used this gun to further lay a siege upon all those that challenged us.
So to you my good friend, we say goodbye. Because after calling Microsoft we have learned that there is no easy fix for you. But as you are more than a man, and are a machine, perhaps all is not lost. We will send you in for repairs and you will once again be in our sweet embrace in 4 to 6 weeks.
Until that time, we will keep you in our thoughts and our prayers.
Let us now have a moment of silence to honor my Xbox.
11/26/07
The Ambush
I had my son sitting on one leg. I had my daughter sitting on the other because she has determined that every time I hold my newborn son she must be right there in the thick of the action.
It was bliss, a moment straight out of the goodness of the Waltons or Leave it to Beaver. I was the proper picture of the perfect father. I had both children calmly playing on my lap.
And then both kids farted on me.
At the same time, in unison. It was like it was some prearranged attack plan. It was the Pearl Harbor of the kid fart attack.
I have pretty much had to suffer many things as a father. Some I expected and some I didn’t. I knew that I would have to watch my kids come out in a bloody mess of goo when born and I took it in stride. I knew that I would never get any sleep and I took that in stride. I even knew that they would suck money out of me like a Vegas slot machine and I still rolled with the punches.
But no one ever told me that both my kids would think it was so funny to gas bomb dad. This is in no book I had ever read. There is no pamphlet at the pediatricians office explaining this eventually. There is not even a PBS public service announcement. That’s why I never donate to them, because they never get to the hard core topics like a 2 month old and a 20 month old laying down on pop.
My daughter, who’s vocab consists of Touchdown and Offsides, started to laughing as she said “Poop”, one of the few non football related words she knows unless you are talking about Notre Dame Football this season. Then I looked at my son and I swear to god that little chump smiled. He knew exactly what was going on.
I have no doubt that Little Hoss put him up to this. I know that she is the mastermind because she was not allowed to come into the kitchen when I was cooking. She threw a temper tantrum which I ignored which makes her even more mad. She has the temper of my wife. Hossmom will deny this but it’s true. Even the “upset” look is the same with the eyebrows coming down. I get it pretty constantly when I won’t give either of them shoes.
And now my son has been recruited into this diabolical revenge plan. But I honestly can’t say that I’m surprised because Little Hoss can be very manipulative and aggressive when she doesn’t get her way. Ok, let me back up, that’s a complete dad statement. I understand that as Dad I will forgive my daughter a lot and sugar coat things. So let me re-state it. Little Hoss screams her head off and then starts taking swings at people when she doesn’t get her way. She has a pretty good right hook, I’ll give her that.
I looked at both of my children and their smiling and laughing. I asked them it perhaps they want to rethink this farting terrorism on dear old dad. I mean, after all, I’m a 32 year old guy and this is not an arena that you really want to get into with me. I mean come on, one Mexican dinner night and I will have you begging for mercy. I have trained in the trenches of locker rooms and my mentor was my older brother who, like all older brothers, had farting on people down to an absolute science.
My daughter then bowed her head as she came in for a hug and said “I wuv oooo”.
See, I told you. Manipulative.
It was bliss, a moment straight out of the goodness of the Waltons or Leave it to Beaver. I was the proper picture of the perfect father. I had both children calmly playing on my lap.
And then both kids farted on me.
At the same time, in unison. It was like it was some prearranged attack plan. It was the Pearl Harbor of the kid fart attack.
I have pretty much had to suffer many things as a father. Some I expected and some I didn’t. I knew that I would have to watch my kids come out in a bloody mess of goo when born and I took it in stride. I knew that I would never get any sleep and I took that in stride. I even knew that they would suck money out of me like a Vegas slot machine and I still rolled with the punches.
But no one ever told me that both my kids would think it was so funny to gas bomb dad. This is in no book I had ever read. There is no pamphlet at the pediatricians office explaining this eventually. There is not even a PBS public service announcement. That’s why I never donate to them, because they never get to the hard core topics like a 2 month old and a 20 month old laying down on pop.
My daughter, who’s vocab consists of Touchdown and Offsides, started to laughing as she said “Poop”, one of the few non football related words she knows unless you are talking about Notre Dame Football this season. Then I looked at my son and I swear to god that little chump smiled. He knew exactly what was going on.
I have no doubt that Little Hoss put him up to this. I know that she is the mastermind because she was not allowed to come into the kitchen when I was cooking. She threw a temper tantrum which I ignored which makes her even more mad. She has the temper of my wife. Hossmom will deny this but it’s true. Even the “upset” look is the same with the eyebrows coming down. I get it pretty constantly when I won’t give either of them shoes.
And now my son has been recruited into this diabolical revenge plan. But I honestly can’t say that I’m surprised because Little Hoss can be very manipulative and aggressive when she doesn’t get her way. Ok, let me back up, that’s a complete dad statement. I understand that as Dad I will forgive my daughter a lot and sugar coat things. So let me re-state it. Little Hoss screams her head off and then starts taking swings at people when she doesn’t get her way. She has a pretty good right hook, I’ll give her that.
I looked at both of my children and their smiling and laughing. I asked them it perhaps they want to rethink this farting terrorism on dear old dad. I mean, after all, I’m a 32 year old guy and this is not an arena that you really want to get into with me. I mean come on, one Mexican dinner night and I will have you begging for mercy. I have trained in the trenches of locker rooms and my mentor was my older brother who, like all older brothers, had farting on people down to an absolute science.
My daughter then bowed her head as she came in for a hug and said “I wuv oooo”.
See, I told you. Manipulative.
11/20/07
The Racoon and the Pack
The doorman at the bar just shook her head when I pulled out my ID. She smiled and let me in. It would appear that there was no reason to check to see if I was under the age of 21.
I know the law about this in the State of Texas. If you appear within 10 years of 21 they are supposed to check your ID. Now granted, it has been a pretty long time since I have been to a bar but I had no idea that I now officially look “old”. Hey, here’s an idea, let me lay down and spread my legs so that you can stomp on my nuts to.
But maybe it’s because we went to a college bar and I was about the only one there not wearing torn jeans and a ragged out cap. I remember these days. You spend a good 2 hours trying to dress like you don’t care. How do I look laid back enough to get the women to be laid back for me?
The last time Hossmom and I went to a bar was a year ago. It’s so sad, really. I used to like bars. Not clubs but bars where you could drink and talk to your friends. But as I have been stamped “old” by this crowd I don’t think that I would have the same experience.
First, I wasn’t drinking. Do you have any idea how bad it sucks to be in a bar and not drink? I tell you what, you don’t go for the atmosphere. I mean, hey, I enjoy smokey rooms and vomit stink as much as anyone else. And as this was a college bar it was on the lower end of veneral diseaseville. I do remember these bars: cheap drinks and cheap women, that’s all I was looking for when I was 21. This bar is not different.
I wasn’t drinking because Hossmom and I made a deal when she became pregnant. For the next year of our life Hossmom would be the designated driver and I could drink my ass off where ever we went. When I made this deal it sounded great because I am instant gratification man. I get to drink and never have to worry about driving, how great is that. It’s great until Hossmom calls in to collect.
And tonight she was collecting. She was having her first cocktails in over a year. That meant I had to drive which meant that I had to stay sober because I have a family and I don’t trust my mother in law to raise them without me in the picture because who would teach them how to be hoss? No one would, that’s who. They would be taught to eat green peppers and enjoy Oprah. So as you can see, I have a higher calling—namely being the only one in my family that can teach my daughter all the signs in a football game. We’ve got three down.
But at least Hossmom is a cheap date. She has no tolerance after a year of not drinking so after 2 drinks she was pretty much done for the night.
What I really wanted to do in the bar was to watch my college football game. That was my redeaming moment. That and friends of course but I only say that because I know that many of them read this blog.
I went to Texas Tech University and tonight we were playing Oklahoma. Not to sound like a bad fan here, but I was shocked that we were actually in the game and had a good chance to win. Please god, let this happen tonight. Please let there be touchdowns and field storming so I can have something meaningful in my life tonight. Again, no drinking in a bar sucks ass.
We find our seats in the bar and I get a pretty decent seat where I can see the TV screen. There are conversations going on around me but to be honest with you, I have no idea what they were about. I’m a better listener when I’m drinking to.
The place is not to packed but is busy with college students sipping on their Zima and Keystone. Many are laughing and walking around, probably talking about old professor Rogers and his murderous tests. Then the college students will get deeper into philosophy the drunker they get because everyone that age is smarter when they drink, I certainly was.
They wax poetic about things that they just now noticed about life and how the generation before them just doesn’t know man, they just don’t know. They envision themselves as high powered executives at the age of 24 and a hot secretary. This is before they have discovered the greatness of mortgages and sexual harassment lawsuits. I will not be a dream killer tonight, let them have their future. Besides, the game is on.
The women are in packs which I very much remember from my college days. They spent hours getting their look just right before coming to a very dark and smokey bar where you are barely able to see the ebola covered peanuts infront of you. They have short skirts on and the boobs have seemed to bloomed like springtime.
I also remember that during this time in my life I would sit at my table and wait for any one of the members of these packs to have to bend over so I could get a free shot of the panty life. I quickly fall back into this role but added with the creepy older guy vibe as I have a good 10 years on just about everyone here. However, I am oddly comfortable with this new persona.
The packs of girls attract the single lone wolf man. I call them the lone wolf because I have no doubt that this is how they see themselves because this is how I saw myself. Now that I have some experience and am watching this ritual from my protected nature blind I can say that it more closely resembles not that of a lone wolf but of a raccoon sneaking up to a garbage can at night. He’s not sure if he can get in but if he can just work his little raccoon like charm he might be able to convince her that he is pitiful enough to give a morsel of table scrap to. Secretly, I root for him because I know how hard it is to do this.
I root for him for all of about 2 seconds when the pack and the raccoon decided to move their conversation right in front of my eye line for the TV. And there they make their little nest as the male of the species continues to determine if any of the pack like long walks on the beach, sensitive conversation and awkward sex with minimul drooling.
As is my nature when I walk into any bar, I took a mental assessment as soon as I sat down and decided that if a bar brawl broke out I would probably win. I don’t know why I do this but it is seeming like a better idea now that they are standing in front of my football game. It’s in the fourth quarter and Tech is still winning. This could be the biggest win and as a fan I want to be a part of it. I want to be able to say that I cheered them on and then talk about it for the rest of the year. But I can’t do that while the TV is blocked.
One of the friends that we went with is a District Attorney and I am trying to convince her to whip out her badge and start checking some I.D.s. I’m guessing that would clear this dive out pretty damn quick and allow me to watch my game as my wife finishes her second drink and is clearly at her limit.
But it would appear that she has ethics and said something about abuse of power. I make a mental note to hang out more with drug dealers in the future so that this will not be a problem again. My friend also went to Tech and is also watching the game. Lucky for me, she is resourceful and tells me there is a Better TV away from the pack and the raccoon.
We get there in time to see it end and my night is saved. I again secretly root for the raccoon and the pack to find the same happiness that I have sitting there with a slightly inebriated Hossmom, good friends and an upset win over a top 5 team. This is why I liked coming to bars in the first place. Sure, I’m not drinking but I make up for it because I went home to my daughter and woke her up at 2 am.
“Touchdown, baby” I say, a big smile on my face.
“Touchdown, daddy” she says and goes back to sleep. Life is good.
I know the law about this in the State of Texas. If you appear within 10 years of 21 they are supposed to check your ID. Now granted, it has been a pretty long time since I have been to a bar but I had no idea that I now officially look “old”. Hey, here’s an idea, let me lay down and spread my legs so that you can stomp on my nuts to.
But maybe it’s because we went to a college bar and I was about the only one there not wearing torn jeans and a ragged out cap. I remember these days. You spend a good 2 hours trying to dress like you don’t care. How do I look laid back enough to get the women to be laid back for me?
The last time Hossmom and I went to a bar was a year ago. It’s so sad, really. I used to like bars. Not clubs but bars where you could drink and talk to your friends. But as I have been stamped “old” by this crowd I don’t think that I would have the same experience.
First, I wasn’t drinking. Do you have any idea how bad it sucks to be in a bar and not drink? I tell you what, you don’t go for the atmosphere. I mean, hey, I enjoy smokey rooms and vomit stink as much as anyone else. And as this was a college bar it was on the lower end of veneral diseaseville. I do remember these bars: cheap drinks and cheap women, that’s all I was looking for when I was 21. This bar is not different.
I wasn’t drinking because Hossmom and I made a deal when she became pregnant. For the next year of our life Hossmom would be the designated driver and I could drink my ass off where ever we went. When I made this deal it sounded great because I am instant gratification man. I get to drink and never have to worry about driving, how great is that. It’s great until Hossmom calls in to collect.
And tonight she was collecting. She was having her first cocktails in over a year. That meant I had to drive which meant that I had to stay sober because I have a family and I don’t trust my mother in law to raise them without me in the picture because who would teach them how to be hoss? No one would, that’s who. They would be taught to eat green peppers and enjoy Oprah. So as you can see, I have a higher calling—namely being the only one in my family that can teach my daughter all the signs in a football game. We’ve got three down.
But at least Hossmom is a cheap date. She has no tolerance after a year of not drinking so after 2 drinks she was pretty much done for the night.
What I really wanted to do in the bar was to watch my college football game. That was my redeaming moment. That and friends of course but I only say that because I know that many of them read this blog.
I went to Texas Tech University and tonight we were playing Oklahoma. Not to sound like a bad fan here, but I was shocked that we were actually in the game and had a good chance to win. Please god, let this happen tonight. Please let there be touchdowns and field storming so I can have something meaningful in my life tonight. Again, no drinking in a bar sucks ass.
We find our seats in the bar and I get a pretty decent seat where I can see the TV screen. There are conversations going on around me but to be honest with you, I have no idea what they were about. I’m a better listener when I’m drinking to.
The place is not to packed but is busy with college students sipping on their Zima and Keystone. Many are laughing and walking around, probably talking about old professor Rogers and his murderous tests. Then the college students will get deeper into philosophy the drunker they get because everyone that age is smarter when they drink, I certainly was.
They wax poetic about things that they just now noticed about life and how the generation before them just doesn’t know man, they just don’t know. They envision themselves as high powered executives at the age of 24 and a hot secretary. This is before they have discovered the greatness of mortgages and sexual harassment lawsuits. I will not be a dream killer tonight, let them have their future. Besides, the game is on.
The women are in packs which I very much remember from my college days. They spent hours getting their look just right before coming to a very dark and smokey bar where you are barely able to see the ebola covered peanuts infront of you. They have short skirts on and the boobs have seemed to bloomed like springtime.
I also remember that during this time in my life I would sit at my table and wait for any one of the members of these packs to have to bend over so I could get a free shot of the panty life. I quickly fall back into this role but added with the creepy older guy vibe as I have a good 10 years on just about everyone here. However, I am oddly comfortable with this new persona.
The packs of girls attract the single lone wolf man. I call them the lone wolf because I have no doubt that this is how they see themselves because this is how I saw myself. Now that I have some experience and am watching this ritual from my protected nature blind I can say that it more closely resembles not that of a lone wolf but of a raccoon sneaking up to a garbage can at night. He’s not sure if he can get in but if he can just work his little raccoon like charm he might be able to convince her that he is pitiful enough to give a morsel of table scrap to. Secretly, I root for him because I know how hard it is to do this.
I root for him for all of about 2 seconds when the pack and the raccoon decided to move their conversation right in front of my eye line for the TV. And there they make their little nest as the male of the species continues to determine if any of the pack like long walks on the beach, sensitive conversation and awkward sex with minimul drooling.
As is my nature when I walk into any bar, I took a mental assessment as soon as I sat down and decided that if a bar brawl broke out I would probably win. I don’t know why I do this but it is seeming like a better idea now that they are standing in front of my football game. It’s in the fourth quarter and Tech is still winning. This could be the biggest win and as a fan I want to be a part of it. I want to be able to say that I cheered them on and then talk about it for the rest of the year. But I can’t do that while the TV is blocked.
One of the friends that we went with is a District Attorney and I am trying to convince her to whip out her badge and start checking some I.D.s. I’m guessing that would clear this dive out pretty damn quick and allow me to watch my game as my wife finishes her second drink and is clearly at her limit.
But it would appear that she has ethics and said something about abuse of power. I make a mental note to hang out more with drug dealers in the future so that this will not be a problem again. My friend also went to Tech and is also watching the game. Lucky for me, she is resourceful and tells me there is a Better TV away from the pack and the raccoon.
We get there in time to see it end and my night is saved. I again secretly root for the raccoon and the pack to find the same happiness that I have sitting there with a slightly inebriated Hossmom, good friends and an upset win over a top 5 team. This is why I liked coming to bars in the first place. Sure, I’m not drinking but I make up for it because I went home to my daughter and woke her up at 2 am.
“Touchdown, baby” I say, a big smile on my face.
“Touchdown, daddy” she says and goes back to sleep. Life is good.
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