Making Family Memories With A Dying Fake Santa

We kind of have this sporadic family tradition of going and cutting down our own Christmas tree from a Christmas tree farm.

Last year we were only a couple weeks from Christmas and not in the mood to do anything other than ask some poor schmuck at Home Depot to strap an overpriced dying tree to the roof of my car for a $0 tip because I suck at carrying cash around.

This year…the wife wanted to drive an hour each way to a farm that also had tractor rides, donuts, crafts, cider, and a dude in overalls with three teeth who spoke a language the cast of Deliverance would even have a hard time understanding.

*A quick side note: Fact - The wife loves to do things in the name of “making family memories” that I can clearly identify as “situations that will suck, create unnecessary whining amongst the little bastards, and eventually fuel me to blow my top in an effort to reign-in a situation completely and totally out of control.”

So we pile our happy little family into the car. It’s snowing like crazy outside as we head to this lovely sprawling tree farm located just a smidge to the north, northwest of bum-fuck.

Ten minutes into the ride the kids are screaming over the backseat middle armrest.

Three minutes later the daughter’s “bored.”

Nine minutes, 12 seconds later the boy’s stomach “hurts a little I think, but I’m not really sure…maybe if I fart it’ll help.”

Twenty seconds and one fart later the girl is crying because “Grayson farted on me and it stinks!”

Two minutes later the girl is half out of her seatbelt, pulling her snow-pants and boots off while whining because “life is too hard!!”

Five minutes later the car is pulled over to the side of the road as I’m being a Billy-Bad-Ass and laying the law down while I use my peripherals to make sure 18-wheeler trucks barreling down the Interstate aren’t about to turn us into a News at 5 with Jack Sherwoodstrassenford reporter-guy sob story.

It kinda continues this way till we get there. Ahhhh the memories.

Upon arrival we gear-up into our snow-garb. I grab a saw to begin a really shitty attempt at being a man in front of the family.

The kids throw snowballs at everything except the scary guy in overalls who speaks scary-farm-guy-tongue.

I cut down an overpriced tree with huge gaps in it that the wife really wanted because “it has a special yellow $30 tag on it,” and I spend 10 minutes strapping it to my car knowing we have a horrific hour-long interstate ride left to go home.

We then head into the “farmhouse” to get our free donut and apple cider.

This is when the Fake Santa comes into play.

We round the corner and there in all his glory is Santa! The kids start getting shy and whisper back-and-forth what they’re going to tell Fake Santa they want.

It’s the mecca of all family Christmas tree chopping down memory making events! Fake Santa’s in the house!!!

But as we approach, the wife and I begin to notice something’s a bit off with this particular Fake Santa.

He appears to be a demented, stroked-out, half-dead, redneck Fake Santa who’s “Elf” is literally texting her ass-off while throwing candy canes at anything under 4.5 feet tall and wishing them a Merry Christmas.

As my son half-sits on Fake Santa’s knee with a frightened look on his face and pondering his inner-toy desires, the old-man chomps his loose dentures while mumbling and looking off into space.

“I would like a Razor Scooter for Christmas please Santa,” was what the boy tries telling Fake Santa. But every time he started, Fake Santa says “What?!”

Like an old married couple sitting over a Grand Slam breakfast at IHOP struggling to hear what the other is saying, Fake Santa and the boy talk over each other, getting louder and louder by the second till Grayson stands and just says, “oh I’ll just write you a letter!!”

The texting Elf chucks a candy-cane at the boy’s chest and announces, “Merry Christmas. Next!”

Now there’s no way in hell the girl’s going anywhere near Fake Santa. But in an effort to entice her, Fake Santa manages to mumble, “you wanna come ring my bells little girl?” as he jingles his reindeer bells mere inches from his crotch.

“Happy Holidays Santa,” I announce as I whisk my family away from this horrific scene.

“Daddy? Was that Santa real?” the boy immediately asks as we walk away.

“No buddy. That was a Fake Santa. Sometimes businesses will hire fake Santas just to give a festive feeling to shoppers. And that one was a really bad fake Santa,” I said.

“Yeah. The other one at Marshall Fields downtown was much livelier than this one.”

“That’s right Grayson. This fake Santa’s probably going to die before we even get to the car. But he gave it a good shot didn’t he?”

“Why were his teeth falling out of his face?”

“Hey! Who wants more hot chocolate?!” I ask trying to change the subject.

Later on the car ride home, the wife gave me a whispered tongue lashing for revealing the imminent death of Fake Santa to the children. And in the back seat our little angels were sleeping.

A Christmas memory had been made.

I'm Done With You Snuggie!!

At some point in my social media madness I became as synonymous with Snuggies as Sarah Palin has with shotguns, seeing Russia from her backyard, and thinking North Korea is our ally.

Could it be my original post about sex and the Snuggie?

Could it be my take on the Great American Snuggie Family?

Could it be that I just brought this Snuggie-shit-storm on myself?

Quite simply…yes is the answer to all the above.

Fact: At least once every three days I get a tweet, Facebook message, or text from a friend about a new Snuggie that’s come out.

It’s like I’ve become the Woodward and Bernstein of Snuggies. Apparently you’re all my “deepthroats” leaving it up to me to blast the hell out of the underground sadistic Snuggie world.

And I love it!! It’s been awesome!

However, it’s become blatantly apparent how the marketing gurus of the world jam just about anything down our throats and make us buy it.

If Justin Beaver’s skill-less singing triumphs aren’t enough to reveal how marketing sadly dominates our interests, then by Baby Jesus Snuggies definitely do.

It wasn’t until my dear friend Stacey (@ieatmykidzsnack on Twitter) sent me a Tweet of a Santa Snuggie that it hit me…I’m experiencing a mild, diluted version of what child actors must experience.

How many times did Gary Coleman get asked by a nervous elevator-rider to just say “what you talkin’ about Willis?!”

How many times did Macaulay Culkin get aftershave thrown on him in the hopes he’d throw his un-chapped palms against his cheeks and reveal his young, innocent “O-Face?”

The numbers must be obscene.

Am I even in same realm as a child actor? Hell no.

Did I think it was an awesome opportunity to use “O-Face” in a blog post? Yes.

But, it’s time for me to part with the Snuggie.

I’m forever grateful for every email, text, Tweet, Facebook post, etc…. that includes Snuggie insanity.

But I’ve made a grown-ass decision to try and leave it all behind. And, like most child actors…I’m doing it by nudity.

I’m grabbing my long coveted “Pants Optional Friday” by the balls and making it a life-style.

Clothes & Snuggies optional baby!!!

I mean come on! The Snuggie Sutra is just a cumbersome reminder of how painful it was to “get it on” under pegged jeans, long sweaters, and Madonna bracelets back in the day.

Who in the hell wants fake fibers creeping into private areas and getting absorbent at the wrong time? We’re all adults now, right?!

So let’s drop trow, throw those tops on a lamp shade and be done with it. It’s Clothes & Snuggies Optional Lifestyle!

Maybe it’s called the “Nudie?” Maybe it’s called the “What Honey? Yeah I Showered Today, I Swear.” Or maybe it’s called the “No I’m Not Sitting On The Remote, I’m Pretty Sure I’d Know!!”

Whatever it is, it’s not a blanket covering our holy given goods, instead, its letting them flaunt, breathe and hang.

So join the club my fellow campers. Let’s go Clothes & Snuggies Optional this holiday season and give the family something to REALLY talk about.

This blog post is not sanctioned by the people at Snuggie. Snuggie is a trademark carried by the Dudes Owning Universal Class H Eveningware (DOUCHE). Snuggies does not believe individuals should copulate, grope, see, touch, imagine, feel, dream, remember, or even brush up against anything that should resemble human skin. Snuggies should only be worn by WhyIsDaddyCrying’s daughter in the hopes it will keep all participants of the male gender from her doorstep. Any man and/or woman seen at Why Is Daddy Crying’s daughter’s doorstep with the desire to copulate, discuss copulation, or any other inappropriate action should be warned a gun is currently aimed at your “feel good” areas. If you are with the local law enforcement agency or FBI please note that last sentence was only a joke. No it wasn’t. Yes it was.

So I Got Tattooed....Again

So, I got a tattoo…again!

I’ve been working on a half-sleeve for over a year now.

The artist behind the needle is Dawn Grace. She's so bad-ass you have to wait at least 2 months before you can get time with her.

Here's the original outline she did and the meaning behind the tattoo.

Then, the day before Thanksgiving I sat for almost 4 hours while she started coloring the bad-boy in.

And, the overwhelming agreement amongst all involved is as Dawn put it… “fuck you’ve got a big arm!!!”

So, she only got the background done…and one flower.

February's my next and hopefully last date with her to complete the half sleeve.

But in the meantime…let’s get to the photos.

Here’s what it’s like with just the background colored in.



Top 10 Things I'd Say If I Had The Opportunity To Get X-Rayed & Groped By TSA

So, there’s a significant hub-ub going on around the Interweb Machine Thingy about the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) taking full body scans of people as part of the ever-changing airport screening process.

And supposedly if you refuse to go into said scanning machine, a TSA “pat-down” ensues.

What does that entail?

A TSA agent coming literally within millimeters of your “feel good” spots.

I KNOW!!!! Free feel-me-ups! That’s what I immediately thought of too!

So, I jumped in my car, threw the kid seats on the front lawn, sped towards O’Hare and lived in the moment that I was about to get a free government-aided groping.

Thirty-minutes later I was back in the car dejected, depressed, and disturbed by the fact that you have to pay the fee of an airline ticket to get nude pictures of yourself and a slight brushing against your man-area.

Seems like everything these days is over-priced.

So instead, I went home and day-dreamed about how wonderful it would be to experience the joyous TSA screening and all the wonderful things we would say to each other.

So, I give you:

The Top 10 Things I’d Say If I Had The Opportunity To Get X-Rayed & Groped By TSA

1) “Should I look into the camera while you do it and give you my pinky in the mouth bashful look?”

2) “If someone were to have a sock stuffed in their pants would it show up on this thing? Hypothetically of course!”

3) TSA Agent: “Sir...SIR!! Please, place your pants back on your person!!”

Me: “Easy tiger, I was just trying to reveal that I harbor no terrorist weapons…other than this one!!! AAahhhh got you sucka!”

4) “Dude!! I’m sporting a pair of my wife’s panties. Can you be a pal and not grope me in a way that reveals them? She’s watching me like a hawk!!”

5) “Holy shit I look good under these clothes. Seriously, can you text me that x-ray so I can toss it up on Facebook?! Thanks chief.”

6) “Hey bub…try taking a chapter out of your mom’s ethics diary and warm your damn hands up first you masochist!”

7) “Just a heads up, there may possibly be a ‘dangerous package’ in my pants you’ll want to explore. I’m just sayin.”

8) “Heeeyyy…I know those hands. Fred? Is that you?”

9) “What the hell are you laughing at? It’s freakin’ cold in here OK! Jackasses.”

10) “I trimmed things up down there this morning for you and you didn’t even mention it. Not even a thank you. Selfish bastards.”

Oh the good times I’ll have with those frisky TSA cats.

Leave a comment and tell me what you'd say!!

The Age of Not Listening

It’s starting to happen.

The boy is getting the taste of the tragic disease which doctors call the “I’M NOT LISTENING” syndrome. What does it stand for?

The horrific I’M NOT LISTENING syndrome is an acronym for “I May Not Open These Listening Instruments So Try Elling Nomeone Ielse Noure Guff!” (screw you!!! I tried to come up with an explanation for the acronym but damn all those n’s and ending with a g!!! Think you can do better?  Leave it in the comments!!!)

Anyway, the I’M NOT LISTENING syndrome is basically where a kid, usually a teenager, completely, totally and blatantly ignores and defies your commands whilst in a public arena.

As with most kids these days, the syndrome seems to be hitting kids at a younger age. And…well, our boy has been infected.

It first starts out with him ignoring your first request while looking at the other adults for approval remarks that tell him "yes…yes I am being a bad-ass."

All it takes is one misread gesture and it all goes downhill from there.

You want examples don’t you?

Example #1

Standing with a group of neighbors enjoying the afternoon, a few beers and riveting conversation when all of a sudden the boy decides it would be genius to show the world his razor like precision of a soccer ball kick in our direction.

Me: “Grayson! Please don’t kick the ball in our…”

*The ball goes flying and I stop it mere inches from destroying the face of a neighbor.

Me: “Seriously Grayson!!! Really!!?! Come on, you know better.”

*As he launches ball #2 towards the group nailing the wife in the butt.

Me: “Grayson!!! Do you hear the words that are coming out of my mouth, son!!?!”

The Boy: “Can I have the balls back? I want to kick them again?”

Me: “You must be insane!!!”

The Boy: “What? It’s just soccer.”

Me: “I told you twice to not kick them at us and you didn’t listen and kicked them anyway.”

*Two minutes later ball #3 slams into my back causing me to drop my beer. I turn with “that look” and the boy takes off in a sprint that would make Hussein Bolt look like a chump.

Example #2

 Me: “Grayson, go brush your teeth.”

*The boy plays with the dog.

Me: “Grayson…seriously man! Go brush your teeth for bed!”

*The boy glances at dinner guests in the next room sipping their wine, then continues to play with the dog.

Me: “You know I know where you sleep right? You know that there’s no way you could possibly stay awake longer than me EVER! Right!!?!”

*The boy talks over me calling for the dog to do a trick.

Me: “You know you’ve told me the girl you think is cute in your class and I could rat you out with one simple little Facebook posting right?”

The Boy: “Love you dad! Goodnight! I’m off to go brush my teeth!”

And that’s my new weapon against the syndrome. “Humiliation.”

I didn’t just spend eight years of my life wiping his butt, picking his boogers, and cleaning his puke just to raise a delightful well-rounded boy.

No, I did it so I could have a life-time of memories which could be used against him at the right moment to get what I want!! In this case…it’s to get him to do what I say the first time.

So stand back Grayson, daddy’s going to win this public war.

Go ahead, ignore me when I ask if you to brush your teeth or go put your shoes on. I just might have a picture of you reading a book while sitting on the baby shitter in the playroom.

Bring it on buddy!!