My Kids Launch Political Attack Ads On Each Other

It’s that time of the year. Election time!

I always loath and love election years.

Why? You may ask…

Because I LOVE the attack ads.

The formula is brilliant. Spend 15 seconds knocking your opponent down, pouring gasoline on them, and lighting them on fire in front of the world. Then spend 15 more seconds making yourself look like you not only walk on water, but created water, the land, Earth, and play poker with baby Jesus on the weekends.

I can just imagine the young-buck interns and political public relations strategists who sit around a large bong coming up with these brilliant, mind-numbing attack-ads.

So, with that thinking, I decided I should run a mock election between my kids. My son, the left-wing redheaded advocate of creating government programs (like ICFTAYS – Ice Cream For The American Youth Service) running against my daughter, the right-wing lover of supporting corporate America (primarily American Girl dolls) are vying for the senate seat in my Congress.

So now the stage is set…let the attack ads go!!!

This message is approved by Macy.

Candidate Grayson. He wants you to believe he can hoola hoop for an hour straight. He claims he can spell “because” without cheating. And he even tells adults that he loves broccoli.

Candidate Grayson pees with the seat down and doesn’t wipe-up afterwards. He once told his mother she has a large butt….and then laughed. Candidate Grayson eats his own boogers.

If you want a booger-eater representing you in Congress then Grayson’s your guy.

Candidate Macy once saved a unicorn from a tar pit and 10 minutes later fed Africa. Candidate Macy invented the clock and recently negotiated with the Mayans to fix their calendar so we all won’t die in 2012.

Candidate Macy once made Chuck Norris cry.

This November, vote Candidate Macy for Senate and let that turd-wrestler Grayson go back to the school yard.

“Hi, I’m Macy and I approve this message and I look really cute in pigtails.”

I’m fairly confident that’s an ad my dear daughter would have helped assemble and happily distributed on any media outlet willing to take her money.

Now, on to the boy’s ad.

This message is approved by Grayson

Candidate Macy kicks me in the shin when she doesn’t get what she wants. She can’t read, she can barely write her name, she doesn’t flush after she poops or pees, and she still needs her mommy to help her ride her 2-wheel bike.

I have personally seen Candidate Macy almost kill a grown man over her blankey being washed in the washing machine.

I’ve witnessed her beating a tree with a stick, smashing a tiny ant, and telling her mother she hates her just because she wanted to put her hair in pigtails.

Is that who you want representing you in Congress?

Candidate Grayson mapped out and personally taught the entire system of migration to birds in order to give these flying beasts a better lifestyle.

Candidate Grayson personally hand delivered Saddam Hussein to hell and then turned around and made it rain in the Sahara Desert.

He holds the record for the most “your mamma” jokes told in 24 hours, has the cure for cancer, and holds the patent for the design on ladybugs shells.

It’s pretty clear Candidate Grayson’s the man we all need in Congress.

“Hi, I’m Grayson. I approve this message and I CAN spell ‘because’ without a cheat sheet.”

All right....that's it. You've read both ads. Now tell me....who would you vote for?!

The Wife & I Discuss Testicles

This past Saturday we took our puppy Marty to have his manhood removed. Despite the wife trying everything in her power to have the doctors neuter me as well, I managed to escape with my bits and pieces.

But, the whole situation did instigate a conversation between the wife and I about testicles.

Me: “That poor little bastard is gonna have a twig with no berries. You think he’ll need doggie therapy to deal with it?”

Wife: “You’re not taking this too well are you?”

Me: “It’s a guy thing. When another member of the male gender loses his man-bits we’re required to take a collective sigh and moment of silence.”

Wife: “You have serious issues.”

Me: “Those things are important. They’re magical and scientifically speaking, I wouldn’t be shocked if they have some sort of roll in the Earth’s orbit around the moon.”

Wife: “They have a scientific affect all right. They cloud your thinking with images of boobies and panties so you say really stupid things. Case-in-point…the Earth revolves around the sun sweetie.”

Me: “If you ever say ‘case-in-point’ to me again you’ll be orbiting the sun.”

Wife: “I don’t know, I just think those things possibly do more harm than good. I mean, look at child molesters and rapists.”

Me: “Yeah, they should definitely have their balls removed immediately after being found guilty. But come on, they do a lot of good. They produced your children!”

Wife: “They did help with that process. Although, now that that’s done with maybe we should consider removing them?”

Me: “Why, so that I turn into a Snuggie-wearing, Oxygen-watching, girlfriend of yours who doesn’t hump your leg, do naked dances for you after my showers, or complain about going shopping?”

Wife: “Oh my God that sounds blissful. I think I had a small orgasm at the thought of that.”

Me: “That hurts….that hurts deep. My balls are staying with me till the bitter end my dear!”

Wife: “Speaking of that, there’s another testicular fact. Old-man-balls are an absolute horror show. Your balls are never gonna hit your knees are they?”

Me: “When the hell have you seen old-man-balls? Do you have some sort of old person fetish? Is this why you watch Golden Girls all the time?”

Wife: “I just think you should consider wearing like a man testicle bra so when you’re 80 your nuts aren’t dragging the ground.”

Me: “So can I take a second to recap what you seem to believe about my balls? They make me think of nothing but boobies and panties, clouding my thoughts to the point that I even dismiss Galileo’s hard work. You would like to have them removed so I turn into your dream-girl BFF. But, if they do remain part of me it scares you to the point that you spend sleepless nights inventing man-testicle bras?”

Wife: “Honey. You know you were staring at my breasts the whole time you were ranting just then?”

Me: “What color panties are you wearing right now?”

I Was Caught Flogging the Dolphin

OK, I’ve been holding-out on this little story for a while.

But, thanks to the support of all my family and friends I think I can finally say it and be OK.

Hi, my name is Why Is Daddy Crying and I’ve been caught by my mom jerking off.

There!!! I said it OK?!

And the words I yelled immediately after?

“Damn it Mom!!!!!” as I quickly arm-swept my old school 1980s Playboys off the bed and into my lap hoping they’d cover my little chubby and whisk me back in time 5 minutes so I could make the decision to not pull on my pud that day.

Let me set the stage.

It’s afternoon. I can’t remember where my brother is, but I’m alone in the house with the mom. She’s downstairs doing whatever it is moms do in the late 1980s.

I’m approximately 12-years-old and, thanks to my older brother, have become quite the expert of making oh sweet sweet love to my hand.

I’m in my room. Hormones are raging. And, for the 12^th time that morning, the “feeling” hits me.

So, I drop trow, grab one of many Playboys my brother and I have skillfully stolen from our grandfather’s collection in his closet, and settle in for teenage bliss.

But here’s where I make the critical mistake. Instead of heading into the bathroom that’s private and attached to my bedroom, what do I do? I decide to knock-it-out in the middle of my room in broad day light.

My thinking at the time, “I’ll be able to hear mom coming up the stairs, so I’ll have enough time to pull the pants up, tuck the magazine, and be all ‘hey, what’s up mother? Ready to go to the store?’”

Some psychiatrists and people like my wife might say, “you wanted to get caught you pervert!”

“Not by my freakin’ mother!!!” has always been my response.

So, I stand at the edge of my bed, centerfold presenting itself, pants dropped, and I’m whaling…I mean I’m going to town like I’ve never done before.

In fact, I’m going so hard and fast that when I hear my mother say, “are you ready to go yet?” she’s already climbed all the steps, seen her son pulling on his Johnson, and made it halfway into her room.

I’ll never forget the feeling of going from pure bliss to absolute shame within 0.0008ths of a second.

“Damn it MOOOOOOMMMM!!!!” I screamed, like it was her fault.

To make it worse? I had to get in the car with her immediately after and go to the store.

It was horrific.

Walking down the stairs and getting into the car was in my mind far far worse than the last walk any death-row inmate had ever experienced. And, of course, I’m mad as shit at my mom and not at myself for spotlighting my pre-teen horniness.

“Honey, everyone does it, you just have to find a private place to do things like that, or simply shut your bedroom door. It has a lock on it you know…”

“MOOOMMM!!!” I yell. “Just promise me you won’t tell dad or my brother!! Please mom!”

Despite her promise I got called downstairs later that night. I immediately knew what was up because as I entered the kitchen, my mother whisked my brother away so I’d be alone with my dad.

This next part was almost as bad as my mother catching me as I charged my laser.

My father begins to not only explain how “natural” this is, but proceeds to tell me how he regularly masturbates himself.

“Oh sure, I do it all the time! Usually in the bathroom or shower, but it’s a normal process.”

I can only imagine the look on my face was one of absolute horror.

It’s the same look I’d imagine having if I woke up at the age of 6 hoping to find money left by the tooth fairy and instead found my hungover father passed out next to me in bed while holding a half-full beer and wearing fairy wings and dry-humping my most prized sock monkey stuffed animal “Mr. Monk-A-Monk.”

Yeah, THAT look.

I was never quite the same again after that “talk.” I put a ban on touching myself but waved the white flag after 14 hours had passed. I was proud of my restraint.

But a piece of me died that day as the first of many sheets hiding the realities of life and my parents were lifted.



So I Got A Tattoo

For a while now I’ve had the idea of trying to turn my arm into a canvas of birth flowers for my family.

Last summer, August 2009, I went to a somewhat new tattoo artist and had the first three flowers tattooed. He did a damn good job, but it was clear my standards hadn’t been met.

So, I did what any dude did wanting some damn good ink thrown on their body and hit Google to find an artist. And that’s when I found Dawn Grace.

I emailed her, sent a picture or two, and she shot back, “let’s do this!”

It was March when I emailed Dawn. Her next available opening was in September. So I waited. And waited.

Then, the day came. I was nervous as hell. I rolled up, met Dawn in person for the first time and she immediately got what I was after.

The birth flowers:

Wife – Chrysanthemum

Kids – Calendula

Me – Water Lily

And then the final, the sunflower – the constant in the wife and our lives.

Since I’ve known the wife, we’ve always had a sunflower planted in the yard, or a picture placed on the wall, or stood in awe of sunflower fields running miles long. But, sunflowers were never our spoken connection, it just kind of was. So, I chose it.

Then, I wanted it all tied together by long, flat, thick reeds, to me symbolizing the intricate insanities of life surrounding love and family.

And here’s the results. In eight weeks I'll be going back to get it finished with color.

It was an amazing experience. The inside bicep of the arm is definitely a tender area. Although, I know it’s nowhere near as painful as the ribs, upper chest and inside thigh.

But still, it was painful enough to where I felt I “earned” my tattoo.

And I earned it from a kick-ass artist.

If I Could Lick My Own Crotch

OK, let’s get the obvious out of the way.

I’m a dude

I have a wee wee. (At least, that’s what the wife calls it for some reason.)

If I had the backbone of my puppy and could reach my “Johnson,” well…you better believe my life would be completely different than today.

Oh sure, dudes talk about it. Ladies bust other guy’s balls saying they wish guys could do it. But when you have a puppy, and you see that little rat-bastard go to town on himself…I don’t care what kind of guy you are, you take a brief moment to just embrace the thought, “what if I could participate in that holy batch of awesomeness?”

Well, I took more than just a brief moment and jotted down the top 10 things I’d do if I could lick my own crotch.

Number 10

I would have been in diapers for 1 day and 1 day only. Which…probably would have made my parents rich for having the first kid ever that could bathe his own junk and poop in a toilet.

Number 9

Go to yoga and drop an epic shock-n-awe campaign on all the ladies as I bundled myself up all pretzel-like. OK…maybe 90% of the class would run out screaming and throwing up, but the other 10% of you…well, you know who you are and you know you’d totally watch.

Number 8

Well…I’d lick my own crotch. On Letterman. On The View. On The Today Show. And, on Oprah. Actually, I’d only do it on Oprah if Tom Cruise would jump on her couch afterwards in joy and she agreed to give away “Why Is Daddy Crying” bumper stickers under people’s chairs.

Number 7

I’d self-finance myself to appear at every talk Sarah Palin gave just so I could attend the Q & A at the end and start licking my own crotch in front of her. Plus, I’m sure her husband would be my biggest fan because we all know that sack of dumbass hasn’t had his crotch licked since his last hunting trip. Let’s move on shall we?

Number 6

I’d give classes on how to lick one’s own crotch, charging $39.99 for the first hour, resurrect Billy Mays, then hire him to sell them for me on street corners.

Number 5

I’d sell a logo of myself licking my own crotch to the Tea Party to use as their logo.

Number 4

I’d probably look like George Burns by the time I’m 40 years old. Actually, now that I think about it…his cigars did look an awful-lot like…

Number 3

Oh wait…my mom reads this blog. Mom!!!! STOP READING NOW MOM!!!! GO WATCH CIS OR SOMETHING!!!!

Number 2

I’d go on American Idol and do a rare but unique number where I have Mike Tyson pour sugar on me while I lick my own crotch and hum along to Def Leppard.

And now…the Number 1 thing I’d do if I could lick my own crotch like my disgusting little puppy can?

I’d never do any of the other 9 things on this list and simply spend my days in my basement licking my own crotch.

(Side note...I just read this blog post to the wifey before posting it and this is what she said Click Here.)