A Clip Show

"This is where it all starts - we are now one of "those people". Here we will discuss, with little to no shame, the goings-on of our family - near and far. Family fights, friendly drama, poo and kids."

That was the very first thing written on this blog, way back in 2007. Holy crap that was a long time ago. It wasn't even written by me, it was written by Hossmom. She wanted me to start writing and so she created the blog, gave me the password and told me to go and get it done. 4 years later and 638 posts later, I think I have.

Now she wants me to write a book and I think it's about time. I find that my life is easier if I listen to my wife, less dishes thrown at my head that way. So over the next 6 months, I'll be writing some things or re-working some older stories. I'll submit them and we'll see what happens.

But where to start is the real question. I am told that I need a literary agent. So first off, if anyone can confirm this or knows a literary agent, that would be awesome. Second, I am told that I need to ship off a writing sample and I also need matarial for a book. It's in here, somewhere in 638 posts, are things that should show my writing style and humor. At least I hope there is.

So here is what we are going to do and everyone is going to help because going through 638 posts is a massive pain in the ass. In the comments section, please let me know what your favorite post was. Don't worry if you don't know the name of it, I'll go back and find it and post the link for everyone else to read as well. Thus, I have basically turned this into a clip show which is fine for now as I have only been cranking out 1 post a week for 3 weeks.

I'll get you started. Here are Hossman's Favorites, complete with a little author commentary. If you've missed some of these, perhaps this will give you some good reading while you are at work. Don't expect to much from 2008, I pretty much sucked that whole year.

Enjoy and tell me your favorite posts!

The Flat Tire: The one that started it all. This was actually an email letter that I sent out to about 20 people because I was so pissed off. I wrote it pantsless in my office after one of the worst working days of my life. It's the third post to actually go up but when Hossmom read it, that's when she asked me to blog.

The OB/GYN: I remember hitting the vaginal sonogram with my arm. I almost threw up a little bit when the goop got on me.

Trekkie Support Club: This always makes every favorite list that I do. I think it's because I find it very funny, a lot of people do not, but it's the first post that I thought was truly original and different.

My ManCard: My first post to actually get passed around on the net. I still think it's one of my better ones.

Our Little Secret: Written a month before it was actually posted. It was always meant to be deleted but after Hossmom read it, she laughed so I knew it was going to say up. As a blogger they always tell you to be honest. This is the most honest I've ever been.

At My Mother In Laws: You have no idea how much shit I got for posting this. But holy crap I thought it was funny and I still do. Seriously, I just read it and almost came to tears again. I'm sure that I'll get in trouble for it again, sooo..........

My apology: the apology blog I wrote for the original posting of At My Mother In Laws.

The Stay At Home Dad: I wrote this in my office 20 minutes after I quit my job to be a stay at home dad. It's pretty cool being able to go back to the exact moment that your life changed and still have it so fresh. I remember writing this thing and my hands were shaking. 3 years later and I"m still here and still loving what I do. I think this one will make the book.

The Price of Adult Conversation: Surely you must expect that my children would be all over a "best of" list. If you like stories of Little Hoss and her destruction, this one is for you.

Rocky II VS. Thomas the Train: A man and his son. My son is still a train freak but I'm thinking that he will eventually watch Rocky II with me one day.

Made for TV: The first day of filming for the reality show that never was. But the experience was still great and fun and it's something I don't want to forget.

Safety: I just read this and it still makes me laugh. Don't read it if you don't want that song stuck in your head. It's still one of my favorite though.

Jeff The Squirrel: If there is anything that I have written that describes Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss better, I don't know what it is. The day this happened I was so proud of my kids and impressed by their fearlessness.

Why do Cows Walk: When a little girl spends all day with her father, this is what you get.

The Defeat of Hossman: One of the more recent posts of mine but I still think it's some of my best writing. It's odd to me to back and read an early post and compare it to now.

The Manifesto against Peanut Butter: Another recent post but if you missed it, give it a read. I thought it was great. The story that is, not what actually happened. That was pretty terrible.

The Sparkle Screens: For the record, the glitter is still there.

The Complaint Form: I wrote this right after Hossmom and I got into a fight. She wasn't impressed the first time she read it but it made me feel better.

The Battle Royal: I'll admit, I have forgotten what this one is even about. But it's on my list so here it is.

The Little Boy and His trains: Out of 638 posts, this is my favorite. This is the best writing that I have ever done. I wrote the whole thing in less than 10 minutes. I can remember everything about this post. The words and the story just flowed.

I hope everyone enjoys reading and if you have a favorite, post it so I can go find it and decide what to add and what to subtract. And a special thanks to everyone who has encouraged me over the last 4 years to keep going!!

Spinning, Spinning, Spinning

Around and around he goes. He's spinning faster and faster. Perhaps he will fall down. Perhaps he will throw up. Most likely he will do both. He has no care in the world, no responsibility to anyone, only to the spinning. He could stop but that would let the spinning down and he cannot do that. So he continues on, ignoring everything and everyone. He can hear the wind going past his ears. He can hear the scrapping of his feet on the gravel. He is one with the universe, the spinning universe, and he hears all.

Except for his father screaming his head off for the 14 millionth time telling him it's time for him to knock off the god damn spinning and get his butt in gear. This, apparently, he cannot hear.

As he spins he can hear ants marching toward the gold fish crackers that are slinging from his pockets. He can hear the flowers growing, their buds ripening and opening up to the sun, which he can also hear as it heats the world. He can hear the birds in the sky navigating their great migration.

He cannot hear his father start cussing to himself about how his own boy tends to ignore him like some sort of insignificant gnat.

He has transcended self. He has gone past space and time. He see's the future, the cities that will come, the cities that will go. He see's the past, the wonders that cease to be and the wonders that never were. He is spinning, spinning, spinning. As he spins, he see's all.

But not his father who has begun to stomp toward him, still cussing and muttering to himself, and who's hands are now punctuating the air as he slowly goes crazy. His father is not spinning.

The little boy spins faster and faster and the feelings now start to come. He feels the rotation of the earth and is in sync with it. He feels a little sick but not the same way as other people. He feels sick because he feels the pain of the world. He is everyone. But he also feels the joy of everyone in the world and it almost overwhelms him. He stumbles but the spinning corrects him, holds him tight, and encourages him to go on.

He cannot feel the crackers that his father is now throwing at his head as he is spinning in a futile attempt to get his attention. He cannot feel his father's frustration as he looks around for a water hose to douse him, hoping that the shock of cold water will bring him back to reality.

He spins but begins to decrease his speed. He comes back to himself, he leaves the metaphyscial world behind. The blurs start to slow and become shapes. The wind decreases in his ears and other sounds start to become coherent. His trance is ended. He looks up.

He see's his red faced father in front of him, almost in tears, and apparently in mid lecture. He doesn't know how it started but he hears how it finishes: "If you stop to spin every 10 feet you are going to be left behind! For Christ's sake boy, let's get moving!"

Yes, moving. His father is right, as usual. It's time to start moving again. But not here, this spot has lost it's magic, the vortex is gone. He walks behind his father for another 10 feet.

He stops again.

He spins.

Trapped

Fellas, I'm in a little bit of trouble here. I won't lie to you, it doesn't look good. I don't think good old Hossman is going to make it out of this one. I'm a bit stuck and I don't see anyway out of it. I'm praying but I don't think anyone is listening. After this I'm going to have to move and change my name to Lady Underwall. I will make tea cozies and serve guests crumpets.

That's the only solution because there is no way I'm going to be able to walk out of this bathroom unshamed. They say that when a hopeless situation rises that sometimes you the world goes into slow motion. That everything around you becomes almost a dream and is fuzzy. I do not find this to be the case, not at all. As I sat in the bathroom I could hear everything, clear as a bell. The laughing, the joking, the very food being eaten. Everything was crystal clear as well as the outcome of it: I was screwed.

We had accepted the invitation for lunch gladly. We didn't have any family in town and it was a holiday. Friends invited us over to spend the afternoon with them. The kids would play, we would eat and talk. It was to be a great afternoon. However, it did not appear that I planed for it very well.

That morning was Easter and with Easter comes Easter eggs. As it so happens, the kids love finding Easter eggs. They love counting them, they love coloring them and hells yes do they love peeling the shells off of them. They just don't like eating them. So as not to waste what was given, I of course began eating them. It appears that some of them may have been hidden for far to long. And now I find myself in a bathroom paying the price for celebrating with my children.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the bathroom wasn't directly off the kitchen. If you open the door, you can actually see who's cooking what and have a conversation with them. If it was just Dad's around, I may have tested this theory. But as it so happens, there's only me and another Dad here. And our wives. His wife I know and have talked to but we have not crossed that threshold in our relationship where I can openly tell her "Hey, I got a turtle head here. I'll be back in a minute."

But this couldn't be avoided, thanks to the bounty of Easter eggs that my kids found. And because of them, I was doing things in that bathroom that could be described as an abomination. I don't want to get to graphic here, but it wasn't pleasant, even for me. And because the bathroom was so close to the kitchen, I was a bit freaked that everyone could actually hear what I was doing in the bathroom.

I did all the normal tricks. I turned on the faucets to mime like I was just taking 20 minutes to wash my hands. I turned on the fan and thanked the gods that it was loud. I tried to turn up the radio on my phone so that even that sound could mask the delivery that was coming from me. But it was so close to the kitchen, it was so close to the dining room, I was sure that everything came through like it was in HD. And I'm also sure the three courtesy flushes was a pretty big tip off.

I don't like pooping in other people's houses. I don't like pooping around women. I don't like pooping around other women's houses on Easter Sunday. Sometimes though that choice isn't up to you and that's how I find myself totally and utterly screwed.

I know that I can't stay in here forever. Eventually I've got to come out. If I don't then my wife will knock on the door and ask me if everything is ok. I'll lie but she'll see through the lie and then ask me if I want Immodiam AD or perhaps a nice hemoroid cream because at this point, that would only add to the utter embarassement. Then she'll explain to our hosts that her hubby has a little "tummy problem" and it may be a while before he comes out. They may want to get a priest to cleanse the bathroom with holy water after I am done, teehee. Suicide is looking like a pretty good option.

But I'll come out eventually, the coward's way out is no way out for me. And when I come out, what will follow me out will make children cry and maidens join the nunnery. I'll bow my head, eyes downcast as I do my walk of shame. They'll hear me apology through the echo of my footsteps as I make a beeline to the door, never to be seen again.

My feet start dancing as I begin to ponder my situation. I tap out songs that I know, perhaps those will help me. I read the back of the soap bottle, perhaps some insight will be gained by reading instructions of how to wash your hands. I open cabinets within reach. I count the tiles on the floor and see if they make any interesting patterns.

What I need is a distraction, something big. I have my phone on me and consider texting my wife: Have a bad poo. Set house on fire. Will explain later.

But I know she won't, she'll only come to the bathroom door and I'll get the speech. I also consider calling the police department and seeing if they can give me the number of their Hazmat team. Surely this would qualify as a toxic site.

I hear my friend's wife start cleaning dishes in the sink. I'm sweating and panicking. Hopeless. All is hopeless.

But then I hear footsteps. Running footsteps. I hear raised voices, confusion. Then quiet. Everything and everyone is quiet.

I take a deep breath, a pained one, and prepare myself to leave the bathroom. I turn out the light, open the door and walk out to face my shame and ridicule.

There is no one there. There is no one in sight. There is not a sound coming. I have been left alone, free to leave the dragons hold without so much as a glance. And it stinks to. A different stink than the foul smelling cloud coming from behind me. It's not me that stinks, but it is somehow familiar. I have smelled it before. I know what this is. I know where this comes from.

The minions! I have forgotten totally about the minions! Trained exclusively by me for the last 3 years. Day in and day out of constant lectures of how the Lord Dad is your only concern in this world. Do thy bidding and thy will be rewarded! The minions have given me my much needed distraction!

I walk around the house and head upstairs. There I find the minions, my wife, and our gracious hosts. Everyone is laughing but holding their noses as well. My son is laughing, my wife looks like she is about to gag as she takes his pants off. My daughter is running around going Yuck

My son has crapped his pants. God almighty, he has laid the greatest distraction a father in need could ever want. It's makes me smell like lavender on a spring morn. And he's laughing, cackling as Hossmom attempts to take the underwear to the upstairs bathroom. No one even notices that I am there. The minions, god bless the minions.

And that is how my son earned his trip to Disney world.

The Greatest Mother's Day Gift Ever.

This year I plan to give my mother the greatest gift ever. And I mean ever.

I have finally figured it out. I have come upon the truth of the perfect mothers day gift. It's not an easy truth but it's the truth none the less.

What do mom's want for Mother's Day? Do they want home made ashtrays even though they gave up smoking 35 years ago? Do they want yet another knick knack? Do they want breakfast in bed? Well, somewhat.

Here's the truth and this is what they want.

Mom was right.

All the time. About everything. Scientists searching for the single unifying theory need to look no farther than Mom. She was right. Our universe begins and ends with her. She is our reason for being. She is the reason why we are here and she is the one we will ask for on the way out. And that mom guilt that she lays on you? It's because you have failed to realize the awe inspiring ass kickery that she is. We were wrong, all the time, about everything.

And we have never apologized for it. Ever. Not really. You have given lip service. You may have said the words but there is no way you could have meant it because you have no idea how deeply wrong we all were.

So here is the greatest Mother's Day gift a man can give to all the mothers in his life.

I'm sorry mom. You were right. I was wrong. I'm sorry.

That's all mom wants. Acknowledgement, an apology and perhaps a little ownership about what you didnt' listen to her about.

So here it goes. The completion of my mother's day gift.

This may be tough.

I am sorry that I am the reason that we can't have nice things.

I'm sorry we broke grandma's picture, wedding china, dishes, the fence, the car, the roof (you may not know about that one yet), the bookshelves (multiple ones), the T.V., the VCR--you know, there's really to much to list. So I'm sorry for all of it.

I'm sorry I got a tattoo.

I'm sorry I didn't realize that it was for my own good.

I'm sorry that you broke the wooden spoon spanking me. And I'm sorry I laughed when you did it.

You were right, she wasn't good enough for me.

I'm sorry that you had to break so many dishes in the sink over the years while screaming at my brother and I. I will replace them.

I'm sorry I broke curfew and didn't call you forcing you to track me down and embarrass me in front of my friends. I deserved it.

I'm sorry I faked being sick on some school days so that I could stay home and play video games. And no matter how great my fake vomit looked, it was still wrong.

I will always buy the cow rather than get the milk for free and I'm sorry that this was the most awkward conversation that we ever had when I told you I was moving in with my girlfriend. But at least I married her. I am now sorry that I am making excuses for not listening to you.

I am sorry that I rented "Single White Female" for us to watch when I was younger. I didn't know that there was a sex scene in it and I'm sorry it was the most awkward moment between us. My bad.

I'm sorry I didn't eat my vegetables.

I'm sorry I wore tight jeans in highschool.

I'm sorry I didn't think Sears was a cool place to shop.

I'm sorry that I spray painted my initials all over the house.

I'm sorry I didn't finish the yard work that one time.

I'm sorry that I busted you and dad "wrestling".

I'm sorry I didn't knock first.

I'm sorry that I put many holes in the wall. I was a teenager and stupid. I will admit it.

I'm sorry that I hid even more holes in the wall with posters and you didn't realize it until I moved out and went to college.

I'm sorry that I threw green goo on the ceiling to see if it would stick. It did.

I'm sorry that I punched my brother in the face and made you cry.

I'm not sorry that he cried but I am sorry that I'm not sorry about it.

I'm sorry that I took the car without permission.

I'm sorry that I didn't fill it up.

I'm sorry I took your gas credit card and used it to buy porn instead of gas.

I'm sorry that I just admitted that to my mother.

I'm sorry I demanded dressing myself and picking out my own clothes. A really bad idea.

I'm sorry I don't call more often.

I'm sorry that I didn't realize you were always right.

I'm sorry I stole all your quarters.

I'm sorry that I stole a lot of your dollar bills.

I'm sorry we threw a house party at our house when you went on that short getaway over the summer.

I'm sorry we broke the table.

I'm sorry we broke the window.

I am very sorry about all the carpet stains.

I'm sorry I made you insane. I'm very sure you were a cool chick before you had children.

I'm sorry that my music was to loud and I was to close.

I'm sorry that I sat to close to the T.V.

I'm sorry every time I didn't tell you where I was and you thought I was dead.

I'm sorry that at times I thought the baby sitter was mean. You were right, she wasn't a bitch and I needed to eat those lima beans to make me a big strong man.

I'm sorry that you spent a years salary to feed me when I was in high school.

In fact, I'm sorry that I was ever a teenager in the first place.

But most of all, more than anything, I'm sorry that I can't be there this morning to give you breakfast in bed and tell you how much I love you. You are unique and I owe you so much. You're always my mom, no matter how far away I may be.

Love ya mom.

The Garage Sale

The lady is looking at the quarter, studying it like it's the lost treasure of the parking meters. She's intent on it, turning the quarter over and over in her hand. She holds it up to the sun to get a better look at it. She holds it close to her face. She holds it far away from her face. It would appear that she does not know if she is far sighted or near sighted.

She does this for 5 awkward minutes while my hand is out waiting for her to pay me the 50 cents she owes me for the shirt she is about to buy. I'm just sitting there waiting for the quarter while I run the Hossman garage sale. Me, the kids and the lady who is emotionally attached to this quarter. For a minute there, I thought she was going to bite it to check for gold.

The is the second year that we've done a garage sale. When you have children, it turns out that you have so much crap that you absolutely must get rid of it somehow. This is our somehow. We are selling as much as the kids clothes as we could part with. For me, that means everything. For Hossmom, that means maybe 50% as she started crying when she was labeling the baby clothes. And for the children, this means nothing should be sold as suddenly they want everything that I have pulled up from the basement. I put a onsie on my daughters head to show that there is no way that it would fit. She said it did and happily ran upstairs. So we all compromised. They all went away while I got the garage sale ready.

And now I'm waiting for my quarter to pay for the shirt. Normally, I love meeting new people. I like the different stories that each person represents. But I'll be honest, hard core garage sale people freak me out a bit. Eventually she decides that there is something special about the quarter and she can't give that one to me. She reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out about 20 more. This, of course, pisses me off just a little bit more. If she had so many quarters, why not just grab another one if she didn't want to part with the one in her hand. It's like I'm asking for her first born after she couldn't guess my name.

I get my quarter and she moves on, taking with her a shirt and a cat carrier. We have two cat carriers but only have the need for one of them. My wife, um, sent the other cat to "live on a farm".

The next customers show up. In a u-haul truck. 18 feet long.

I don't understand these people. I don't any of these people. At all. I know that they are going to be disappointed with my wares. It's obvious that I don't have any big ticket items, only kid related things. But it has been worn by "THE HOSSMAN FAMILY!" so I'm hoping there will be some keepsake value to some of them. The u-haul people do a quick walk through and head on out, making sure to stop at our free box. This contains broken or old toys that I give away free to kids. I thought it was a nice touch. They did to because they do spend five minutes going through it before leaving.

Next my hip hot ladies show up. The two of them are wearing heals to my garage sale. Suddenly I feel under dressed in my shorts and flip flops. But I flex all the same. Might as well give the ladies a show. They head over to the little girl dresses.

"What about this one?" one asks the other.

"Ew, no. No way." the other says.

I don't know how to take this. I know that my taste in clothes for my daughter has been suspect, but this still seems rather insulting. I'm assuming that they do not notice that I'm right next to the dresses, which is odd as my awesomeness is hard to miss. I flex even harder, throwing some grunts in there as well.

"This one?"

"No"

"This one?"

"Never."

Ouch man. Seriously, I'm right here. And so's my daughter. We are the two people juggeling chainsaws so you'll notice that we are here. We are going to set them on fire next. The hip hot ladies leave without buying anything. The only thing that they take with them is my pride and apparently it was cheap.

The next hip hot ladies that show up are much better. They ooo and aaaa over the baby clothes. They say how cute they are. They love them. They buy an arm load and I give them 3 things for free. Maybe it's because they were hot. Maybe it was because they flattered me by saying my daughter's old clothes were cute. Maybe it's because if they asked if I worked out. Either way, I thought they were nice and I like to reward nice people.

A family shows up next. They have two kids with them, both younger than my kids. This is my go to audience, these are the people that I want. They need summer clothes. But what I really want to do is to get rid of some of these toys that we have accumulated over the years. I have a plan. The parents see the free box and send the kids over there while they look through the clothes. But what they don't realize is that the free box is right next to all the other toys that I want to sale. My hope is that the kids will start with the free box and then move on to the toys I"m trying to sale. Then throw a fit when they can't take it home. Mom and dad will offer a free toy but that toy is crap and the kids know it. Thus, they will crack so as not to cause a scene as I will be judging from my lawn chair of power.

It works as scripted and we unload a Caterpillar riding toy and a truck. I am 10 bucks more awesome.

This goes on for two days. Sometimes it's busy, sometimes it's slow. One time I took a nap in my chair. The kids took half the stuff back inside. In the end, it was a decent sale. I made some green which I will put to very good use. We got rid of some clutter. And the hill people got to come down from their lairs and enjoy the sunshine for a little bit.

Daddyshome Blog

I didn't write a post yesterday and I'm sure many of you are so disappointed that you considered sending me hate mail and considered kidnapping me and breaking my ankles with a sledge hammer. Please don't do that. I have glass ankles and they would shatter.

But this was by design. I have a new post up at Daddyshome today. Head on over and take a gander and what crap I'm spewing lately for the stay at home dad community.

Actually, I don't think this one is crap, I kind of like it. Which means that when I meet some of you in real life you will make it a point to tell me that it "wasn't your best work."

Fantastic.

Ok, click here to get to the site and I hope you enjoy it enough not to break my ankles.

Shane, The White Trash Easter Bunny

"Daddy, where does the Easter Bunny come from?" My daughter asked me and my wife.

Hmmm, another parenting quandary. She has gotten very inquisitive lately. What is death, where do babies come from, and now where does the Easter Bunny come from. I have done my best to answer these questions without cutting the heads off any more bunnies (see earlier post, I'm not a monster.) But how to answer this one. After all, this is a big one. Here we have to weigh the knowledge of the spiritual and religious. Do I tell her some people's belief in the resurrection and then contrast that with the fertility of the Mother Earth religions? Stigmata vs. Fertility? The question leads into a whole other series of questions that she'll ask and I will discuss with her. In fact, we should probably go sit down for this one, grab alot of resource books and get to it.

"He comes from the dryer honey." My wife says.

"Really?" Little Hoss replies.

"Yup" Hossmom confirms.

I look at my wife. I look like a donkey trying to understand algebra.

"What?" I gently ask.

"The dryer. Santa Claus comes down the chimney and the Easter Bunny comes from the dryer." Hossmom explains. "It's what my mom told us while we were growing up."

Ok, now it makes sense.

But just so I'm straight, so we don't confuse our lies here about Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny lives in our dryer like it's his own personal double wide? And once a year he takes a break from his meth lab bathtub and delivers eggs and candy to good little boys and girls. I just want to be clear. I just to make sure that Shane, the white trash Easter Bunny, jumps his little tramp stamped white butt out of the dryer to do this one good deed.

And the rest of the year, our bunny Shane, just lives in our dryer watching the weather channel for the next tornado? That would explain several things like why our socks go missing and the addition of plastic pink flamingo's on top of the washer.

There's also a broken down yard chair up there, one of the old weird fabric ones, that has a half busted seat. Next to it is an empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and there have been a large quantity of Pal Mall cigarette butts jammed in the lint filter.

So yeah, that all makes sense. It would also explain some of the weird noises that I hear in the middle of the night. Honestly, I thought we might be haunted or something. I was starting to become concerned and was looking at buying holy water in bulk. But I don't need to worry now, now I know what is going on. It's just Shane and his beotch having it out again. She burnt his grilled cheese and ya know, he's got to take care of business. So he puts on his little Easter Bunny wife beater shirt and goes at her. But his women ain't no cupcake. She's a tough little cuss and so she grabs the frying pan. Pretty soon, Shane is missing one of his front teeth and the cops are knocking on my door.

It's good to know that I have house guests as well, I'll have to adjust my shopping. Usually I just buy stuff for 2 adults and 2 kids. But this changes everything. After all, what's Shane going to eat, laundry detergent? So tomorrow I'll make sure I grab a case of Mountain Dew and some Cheetohs. Maybe I'll pick up the weekly Auto Trader guide to and pass it off to him so he can see if they printed his ad right for a 1972 El Camino that he's trying to unload. It's missing some tires and the front seat has cigarette burns in them but he's hoping it will fetch enough so that he can buy that Astroturf for the front of the dryer that he's had his eye on.

One day my daughter will ask about the Tooth Fairy and where he comes from. I'm thinking that we'll call him Earl and he lives in the toilet.