My wife normally doesn’t post on this blog. I really try to get her to sometimes just to give her viewpoint but she still refuses to. So there are times that I am forced to interview her to give you an idea into her life. Following is her answers to “What has changed now that you are a mom.”
My wife is the mother of 2 children under the age of two.
My wife is a vivacious reader. She still is except that ¾ of the books she now reads are about a lonely hippopotamus or a Llama who needs to find it’s Mamma.
Sleeping in for her now means that she gets to sleep in until sunrise.
Getting ready to go out is now a 3 hour marathon complete with volunteers handing her shots of Gatorade. And when she does finally get to go out she is always back in bed by 9 pm, every night.
She actually worries if the seatbelts in the back of our car actually work and are not just for show.
My son has learned that a new outfit means “Puke on it”. My wife has become the wardrobe coordinator on the scale of a Broadway play.
Instead of going to movies to see who will win the Oscars she now watches the trailers to see who will win the Oscars.
Instead of wearing a sexy bra to bed to entice me she has to wear a nursing bra to repel me. Its like she has a force field generator on the Planet Endor and the Force doesn’t work for shit. Her bra is now designed for easy entry for another man.
Fine china in our house has been replaced by plastic Dora Plates and easy grip sippy cups.
Her whole 24 hour day is now broken down on a 3 hour schedule and none of it includes things like sleep or clean.
Statements such as “Honey, grab me that bottle of Merlot” has now been replaced with “Honey, grab me that bottle of Milacon.”
Instead of flashing her tits to get free drinks in clubs she now flashes her tits to give someone else a free drink.
Public nudity is no longer something that bothers her.
She hasn’t gone to the bathroom by herself for over a year. Seriously.
Inviting company over for Tequila and Vodka shooters has been replaced with inviting company over for washable markers and Polly Pockets.
Showering daily has been replaced with showering optional and if she gets wet from my daughters splashing during her bath time, that counts.
A quiet house used to be relaxing. Now it means that someone has found the cat box an d is doing a kitchen makeover.
Walking in a home and checking out the décor has been replaced with walking into someone’s home and finding which areas are death traps for children.
“Your kid pooped” appears to be acceptable starter conversation for complete strangers.
There is someone pulling her hair and it’s A: Not Hossman and B: not sexy. She is now truly jealous of bald men.
Her hair coloring has gone from vibrant brown to purplish grape jelly with highlights of spit up.
My son gets more action than I do.
Maternity pants never go out of style.
She brags about her kids to anyone whether they want to hear it or not. She knows this and doesn’t care. “Ah, she’s cute” from the random stranger in Targe is her que to unleash an hour and a half speech about the greatness of disposable placemats.
She is absolutely sure that no woman my son may marry will be as good as her. I agree. Good luck kid.
She routinely finds that a good book she is interested in has the last 17 pages ripped out forcing her to wait and see the movie to find out the ending. Her direct quote to this: “Fuck that, when was the last time I saw a movie.”
My wife is the mother of 2 children under the age of two. Welcome to her life. We would be lost without her.
12/8/07
Welcome to my Life
I am the father of two kids under the age of two.
My sports illustrated has become a coloring book. The article with Brett Favre has been re-edited so that he is surrounded by Hot Pink Sunset and Purple Magic Marker.
Today I watched the rest of the Backyardigans episode without my daughter just so I could see if Pablo or Tyrone won the race around the world. Austin came from behind and I was happy for him.
My fever for cheering for my favorite football team has been replaced by me cheering my kids when they are about to figure something out. My son learned to roll from his stomach to his back yesterday and I was cheering like it was 4th and 1 with less than 2 seconds to play. I don’t mean after he did it. I mean when he was actually in the process of doing it. “Come on Bubba Hoss, let’s see some spirit. Kick that leg over and whip some ass!”
My meals now consist of at least one type of chicken nugget, macaroni and cheese or a hot dog. I have to taste each one because apparently my daughter thinks that they may be poisoned by the evil cat.
When I get drunk, which is rare, I now do it in private. I used to think that this was a sign of alcoholism. I have since come to understand that it’s a sign of a man with two kids who would not go to bed at the right time and god dammit I just need a beer.
I write with crayons. All the time.
My car holds a stroller, a baby bag, the houmoungus box of crayons that are no longer in the box, at least one magazine that my daughter likes to color on, 2 car seats, and I no longer get blow jobs on long car trips.
My outfits each day are classified as: 1. This one only has a little vomit on it. 2. This one has some vomit on it but I doubt anyone would notice and 3. This one has a lot of vomit on it but it’s less vomit than everything else.
I can only watch porn really, really late at night but I have given this up because the first time you hear a kid cry from their bedroom it ruins everything and I feel like a weirdo.
I alternate the songs on my radio from my heavy metal music to The Ants go Marching on and on.
My son has this internal clock that says “Hey, Dad and Mom are about to eat. It’s about time for me to scream my head off.” Fuck it, cold steak is still good steak.
My wife is breastfeeding our 2 month old son. I am no longer allowed to touch the boobies and I am sad. Yes, I blame him for this. When he is married I’m going to get my revenge by showing up unannounced with his mother and then have really loud sex on his living room couch in the middle of the night. Payback is a bitch.
I have, on occasion, drank out of sippy cups. Very handy.
Dora the Explorer judges my parenting style, I know it.
I have a daughter. I know that she will want to date one day. This worry has become all consuming.
The amount of tip that we leave at a restaurant is in direct proportion to how much food my daughter has flung off the table.
And also on that note: I no longer feel guilty if my daughter causes a scene in a restaurant that may annoy other patrons. She’s 2. Every meal is a scene and I ask that you just tune us out. I have stopped caring. I have now become “that” guy.
I touch other people’s poop at least 4 times a day. Every day. For the last 2 years.
I eat Cheerios as a snack. Without any milk. Just dry old boring Cheerios.
I teach my daughter how to say sports related things rather than useful things such as “There is a burglar in our house.” Instead, we say “Rock on.”
I. Love. Microwavable. Fishsticks.
Ketchup has replaced most of my daughters meals. Even if I smear it on something like a meat, she licks it off like ice-cream. I think this may be one of the grossest things I have ever witnessed.
I have not seen a movie in over 8 months. And when we rent movies, we can never find the time to actually watch them and end up turning them in late. Basically, I have to buy a movie that I will hate and watch it in bits and pieces over a 5 month period.
My daughter eats raw red peppers and spits half of them out. I count this as her vegetable for the afternoon.
I have a pretty good collection of tools in the garage but haven’t built anything in a very long time. However, I did use my sander to sharpen my daughters crayons. Honestly, I am quite impressed with myself.
My daughter has just learned to pick her nose. But instead of whipping it on the dog like a normal person she says “Here ya go” and gives the booger to me. I don’t realize what I have until it is to late.
I am the father of 2 kids under the age of 2 and I love it. Welcome to my life.
My sports illustrated has become a coloring book. The article with Brett Favre has been re-edited so that he is surrounded by Hot Pink Sunset and Purple Magic Marker.
Today I watched the rest of the Backyardigans episode without my daughter just so I could see if Pablo or Tyrone won the race around the world. Austin came from behind and I was happy for him.
My fever for cheering for my favorite football team has been replaced by me cheering my kids when they are about to figure something out. My son learned to roll from his stomach to his back yesterday and I was cheering like it was 4th and 1 with less than 2 seconds to play. I don’t mean after he did it. I mean when he was actually in the process of doing it. “Come on Bubba Hoss, let’s see some spirit. Kick that leg over and whip some ass!”
My meals now consist of at least one type of chicken nugget, macaroni and cheese or a hot dog. I have to taste each one because apparently my daughter thinks that they may be poisoned by the evil cat.
When I get drunk, which is rare, I now do it in private. I used to think that this was a sign of alcoholism. I have since come to understand that it’s a sign of a man with two kids who would not go to bed at the right time and god dammit I just need a beer.
I write with crayons. All the time.
My car holds a stroller, a baby bag, the houmoungus box of crayons that are no longer in the box, at least one magazine that my daughter likes to color on, 2 car seats, and I no longer get blow jobs on long car trips.
My outfits each day are classified as: 1. This one only has a little vomit on it. 2. This one has some vomit on it but I doubt anyone would notice and 3. This one has a lot of vomit on it but it’s less vomit than everything else.
I can only watch porn really, really late at night but I have given this up because the first time you hear a kid cry from their bedroom it ruins everything and I feel like a weirdo.
I alternate the songs on my radio from my heavy metal music to The Ants go Marching on and on.
My son has this internal clock that says “Hey, Dad and Mom are about to eat. It’s about time for me to scream my head off.” Fuck it, cold steak is still good steak.
My wife is breastfeeding our 2 month old son. I am no longer allowed to touch the boobies and I am sad. Yes, I blame him for this. When he is married I’m going to get my revenge by showing up unannounced with his mother and then have really loud sex on his living room couch in the middle of the night. Payback is a bitch.
I have, on occasion, drank out of sippy cups. Very handy.
Dora the Explorer judges my parenting style, I know it.
I have a daughter. I know that she will want to date one day. This worry has become all consuming.
The amount of tip that we leave at a restaurant is in direct proportion to how much food my daughter has flung off the table.
And also on that note: I no longer feel guilty if my daughter causes a scene in a restaurant that may annoy other patrons. She’s 2. Every meal is a scene and I ask that you just tune us out. I have stopped caring. I have now become “that” guy.
I touch other people’s poop at least 4 times a day. Every day. For the last 2 years.
I eat Cheerios as a snack. Without any milk. Just dry old boring Cheerios.
I teach my daughter how to say sports related things rather than useful things such as “There is a burglar in our house.” Instead, we say “Rock on.”
I. Love. Microwavable. Fishsticks.
Ketchup has replaced most of my daughters meals. Even if I smear it on something like a meat, she licks it off like ice-cream. I think this may be one of the grossest things I have ever witnessed.
I have not seen a movie in over 8 months. And when we rent movies, we can never find the time to actually watch them and end up turning them in late. Basically, I have to buy a movie that I will hate and watch it in bits and pieces over a 5 month period.
My daughter eats raw red peppers and spits half of them out. I count this as her vegetable for the afternoon.
I have a pretty good collection of tools in the garage but haven’t built anything in a very long time. However, I did use my sander to sharpen my daughters crayons. Honestly, I am quite impressed with myself.
My daughter has just learned to pick her nose. But instead of whipping it on the dog like a normal person she says “Here ya go” and gives the booger to me. I don’t realize what I have until it is to late.
I am the father of 2 kids under the age of 2 and I love it. Welcome to my life.
The Dropoff
I dropped off my xbox this morning at the UPS store so that it could be mailed back and fixed.
It was in a general box, no identifying information on it as to what it is.
The guy at the counter said: "Oh, an xbox. Make sure you have the tracking number." He was about 50
And that was it.
I find it disturbing that a random guy at the UPS store knows the look of the shipping box that Xbox uses considering that it's supposed be generic enough that it doesn't get stolen. I think it scares me because this has to happen a freaking lot for a 50 old guy to be so familiar with it.
I could use your prayers right about now.
It was in a general box, no identifying information on it as to what it is.
The guy at the counter said: "Oh, an xbox. Make sure you have the tracking number." He was about 50
And that was it.
I find it disturbing that a random guy at the UPS store knows the look of the shipping box that Xbox uses considering that it's supposed be generic enough that it doesn't get stolen. I think it scares me because this has to happen a freaking lot for a 50 old guy to be so familiar with it.
I could use your prayers right about now.
12/7/07
Career Day
A local middle school asked me to present during career day.
To be honest, I was a little skeptical at first but then I reminded myself that I rock and decided to take them up on there offer. I was going to get a chance to talk about me for 30 minutes, who wouldn’t want to do that.
My audience was going to be 11 and 12 year olds and I was sure that they would be hanging on my every word.
I went this morning to the school and was very happy with the reception that we were offered. They took all the speakers for that day and had us in the library. They had recruited some members of the school band to play background Muzac for us and offered us quiches.
I’m not really sure what a quiche is but I thought it was pretty cool that we had them. It made me feel fancy. It made me feel like an Astor or something on that realm.
There was some jovial small talk between all the presenters and I took the chance to see which chump would come in second to my greatness.
They had the expected cosmetologists there, which to be honest, I just don’t know why they don’t call them hairdressers. They had some nurses and some in the health profession—nothing that would really overshadow my presentation.
They had some guy from FedEx there and I knew that my presentation had to be a hell of a lot more exciting than the guy that dealt with boxes all day.
There was a guy there that was a writer and I may have mentioned that I write a blog and if he should care to read it, I might be persuaded to give him some tips on spelling and grammar.
All in all, I was feeling pretty good. I can hang with these people and the kids will love me.
Then the U.S Marshal walked in with his full on swat gear. Shit. I got nothing compared to that.
He was clad head to toe in black terminator type gear. There was a visor for Christ’s sake. I had no visor. And he had to bring his gun and holster, cocky asswhip. Seriously, this is career day we are not storming the beaches at Normandy.
I can’t follow that. Please God don’t make me follow that. Let me follow the FedEx guy, that would be great.
They broke us up and we each went to an assigned classroom. The kids would rotate between classrooms and we would give our little 30 minute speeches and then take questions.
I was rolling by the second class that came in. We had four total and I was just getting to the point where they were eating out of my hand. Jump monkeys, jump while Hossman tells you of his greatness.
I told them of a case where there were a 120 cats locked in the house. I told them of the time I went into the meth lab to help the old lady and they ended up barricading the police out for 10 hours. I told them to help people sometimes you gotta get a little bit dirty damnit! It was good stuff.
Until the last class came in. I started with my usual banter about what I did and what they needed to become me. Stay in school, go to college, get a degree, don’t do drugs, drink your milk and love your mamma.
But this class wasn’t responding. In fact, they looked bored, what the hell. I told them that I had been on the news and had given interviews. They still looked bored. I told them that I was the biggest celebrity that they were likely to ever meet. Nothing.
Finally, a kid in the back let me know that they had just listened to the U.S. Marshals presentation.
He said that the Marshal chased bad guys and let them play with his handcuffs. Really? He let you play with the handcuffs. Ok, that’s pretty cool.
He said that the Marshal also let everyone look at his fancy bobophet visor and put it on. He let you put that on did he?
Finally, he said that the U.S. Marshal let everyone try on his bullet proof vest that he wore when he went all swat. They said it was heavy but very cool.
I looked down at my hand that held my sad little pamphlet. This couldn’t compete with a U.S. Marshal’s bulletproof vest.
So I turned the class over to my partner and left the classroom to find the U.S. Marshal. Maybe he would let me try on the vest and visor. Then we could play Xbox together and be Best Friends Forever.
To be honest, I was a little skeptical at first but then I reminded myself that I rock and decided to take them up on there offer. I was going to get a chance to talk about me for 30 minutes, who wouldn’t want to do that.
My audience was going to be 11 and 12 year olds and I was sure that they would be hanging on my every word.
I went this morning to the school and was very happy with the reception that we were offered. They took all the speakers for that day and had us in the library. They had recruited some members of the school band to play background Muzac for us and offered us quiches.
I’m not really sure what a quiche is but I thought it was pretty cool that we had them. It made me feel fancy. It made me feel like an Astor or something on that realm.
There was some jovial small talk between all the presenters and I took the chance to see which chump would come in second to my greatness.
They had the expected cosmetologists there, which to be honest, I just don’t know why they don’t call them hairdressers. They had some nurses and some in the health profession—nothing that would really overshadow my presentation.
They had some guy from FedEx there and I knew that my presentation had to be a hell of a lot more exciting than the guy that dealt with boxes all day.
There was a guy there that was a writer and I may have mentioned that I write a blog and if he should care to read it, I might be persuaded to give him some tips on spelling and grammar.
All in all, I was feeling pretty good. I can hang with these people and the kids will love me.
Then the U.S Marshal walked in with his full on swat gear. Shit. I got nothing compared to that.
He was clad head to toe in black terminator type gear. There was a visor for Christ’s sake. I had no visor. And he had to bring his gun and holster, cocky asswhip. Seriously, this is career day we are not storming the beaches at Normandy.
I can’t follow that. Please God don’t make me follow that. Let me follow the FedEx guy, that would be great.
They broke us up and we each went to an assigned classroom. The kids would rotate between classrooms and we would give our little 30 minute speeches and then take questions.
I was rolling by the second class that came in. We had four total and I was just getting to the point where they were eating out of my hand. Jump monkeys, jump while Hossman tells you of his greatness.
I told them of a case where there were a 120 cats locked in the house. I told them of the time I went into the meth lab to help the old lady and they ended up barricading the police out for 10 hours. I told them to help people sometimes you gotta get a little bit dirty damnit! It was good stuff.
Until the last class came in. I started with my usual banter about what I did and what they needed to become me. Stay in school, go to college, get a degree, don’t do drugs, drink your milk and love your mamma.
But this class wasn’t responding. In fact, they looked bored, what the hell. I told them that I had been on the news and had given interviews. They still looked bored. I told them that I was the biggest celebrity that they were likely to ever meet. Nothing.
Finally, a kid in the back let me know that they had just listened to the U.S. Marshals presentation.
He said that the Marshal chased bad guys and let them play with his handcuffs. Really? He let you play with the handcuffs. Ok, that’s pretty cool.
He said that the Marshal also let everyone look at his fancy bobophet visor and put it on. He let you put that on did he?
Finally, he said that the U.S. Marshal let everyone try on his bullet proof vest that he wore when he went all swat. They said it was heavy but very cool.
I looked down at my hand that held my sad little pamphlet. This couldn’t compete with a U.S. Marshal’s bulletproof vest.
So I turned the class over to my partner and left the classroom to find the U.S. Marshal. Maybe he would let me try on the vest and visor. Then we could play Xbox together and be Best Friends Forever.
12/6/07
The Headbutt
“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.
“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.
12/5/07
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.
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