You're a Meany!

So I’m officially a meany. How do I know? Well my son whispered it under his breath three seconds after I got upset at him.

“Meany,” he whispers while slowly glancing up just to make sure I was still drooling, sitting on the couch oblivious to everything around me.

I’m not really sure when that phase ends. The phase where you still believe if you’re not looking at someone, then they clearly can’t see you. Or if you mumble something, there’s no possible way in hell someone eight feet from you could hear it!

What my child is too young to realize is that I’m the poster child for ADD. I don’t miss a fucking thing. No….thing. If he rolls over in his bed at night, I hear it and wonder if he’s about to start puking everywhere. If the wifey sighs just a fraction harder than normal, the hairs stand-up on the back of my neck and I get queasy with fear. I can hear my neighbors two doors down having sex every other night…well…that might be because I have a video camera in the house, but I digress….

“Meany,” he mumbles, slowly looks up, and I can only imagine how badly he shat himself when he saw the look on my face.

“I’m mean?!! Really? I’m mean? Because I had to ask you four times to do the same thing and you wouldn’t do it so I raised my voice and now I’M MEAN?”

I remember as a kid getting in trouble and being chewed out and sent to my room. I’d be walking up the stairs and I’d stop and hold my middle finger up towards the kitchen where my dad had just reamed me. I was a totally bad-ass like that. I was all mumbling “fuck you!!!! Suck on this ya bastard!!!!,” while I grabbed my tiny package and shook it at him.

I’m still trying to figure out a way to rig a series of mirrors and cameras along the stairs to his room so I can catch him doing the same thing to me.

But then it sets in…. “damn….was I being a meany? I mean..he did kinda have a legitimate excuse. I know I said it four times, but in all reality, iCarly was looking pretty good on TV, there was a shiny object in the corner of the room, the cat did walk by, and old man Jenkins was cutting his grass creating some damn loud noises. So….there were quite a few distractions from him actually hearing me say the same thing four freakin’ times in a row.

So I start feeling bad…I want to call him back down, hug him and say let’s move on. But then what would that Super Nanny show woman say? In her British accent she’d be all, “you have to be consistent and stick to your guns.”

I always wonder if she’s like that in bed. “Paul…I’ve been naughty and you haven’t put my on my naughty stool yet. You won’t even spank my arse or give me a stern talking to. You must show me who’s boss of this house…and do it sternly, consistently, and while wearing leather.”

So I just let him sit up there and stew…while I stew…and try hard not to kick the cat.

And it’s always funny how the daughter acts like an angel after her brother’s gotten into trouble.

And then I let him back down…I do hug him…all’s good….we play, we laugh, and usually within 10 minutes I’m in the corner, naked, crying, and rocking back and forth….again.

A Day With Pink Ducky

So we have a ducky. A pink ducky to be exact. He’s a cool dude, hangs out, doesn’t really cause much trouble. The little bastard used to light up from within. When we first brought him into our crazy life he was a rock-star. The kids slept with him…the daughter held him on a pedestal. Mainly because his flashing guts made them feel like the owner of the most bad-ass piece of awesomeness that ever existed.

Then his lights stopped blinking.

He spent a week shoved between the mattress and the wall of my daughter’s bed until he was saved by the ole fashioned sheet changing maneuver. Then he lived on my daughter’s dresser and was there the day fishy died. A week later, the daughter rediscovered him and he was transported to the tub. Since that time, he’s become one of two dozen toys crammed in a bathtub toy baggy, rarely played with, constantly cold, damp, wet, and ignored. Until yesterday.

During a regular shower routine, I noticed pink ducky chillin’ in his bathtub bag. Sad. Angry. Depressed. I scooped him up and said, “hey little man!!! What do you say I make today, YOUR day?”

Three high-fives and a wing-bump later, we were on our way to live life to its fullest. And so….here’s our day….

He drove us to a pancake breakfast where he quickly scoffed one plate after plate after plate of yumminess. He carbo loaded like a master.

After we got home, well fueled pink ducky said, "all right bitches...let's go for a ride!" So the whole family hopped on our bikes and headed out.

Along the way we made a stop cause ducky got wood.

Knowing this would probably be the last time pink ducky ever has a day in the real world, he thought he'd make his mark and let everyone know how he feels about the war.

Worn out, pink ducky ate a quick little snack and setteled in for some TV time and a nap. I took off and took care of some stuff around the house. An hour later I went back to check on everyone and pink ducky was gone. I looked everywhere. Then...I found him.....and was horrified.....

I decided to leave them alone....and let them get done what clearly needed to get done. Lucky ducky.

  Then we headed out for dinner with our good friends, the @momomatic family. It was there that Pink Ducky decided to get his "drink on."

And that wasn't enough.....afterwards he hit the liquor store for more....

Pink ducky didn't just get drunk....he got stupid drunk. He took his clothes off. He streaked a Chuck-E-Cheeze. He got depressed and tried to cut himself open to remove his dead flashy light thingy. He told off-color racist jokes. He even made passes at the wifey. Then...like all good stupid drunk pink duckies do....he got sick.

He puked like he'd never puked before. We all got to experience his Mexican dinner all over again. A couple hours later, we cleaned him all up, laughed about the memories, gave each other hugs, and promised we'd do it again soon. I love that little pink bastard.

After I tucked him in to his cozy warm bubble bath for night time, I cried myself to sleep and dreamt of pink ducky and me running through fields of dazies, laughing, and being free, together, and happy.....

The End

The Bumpit, The Snuggies & A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

So a few weeks ago a kick-ass friend of mine @nuckingfutsmama and I had an idea. She’s a hilarious blogger, I’m a hack blogger…what if we collaborated? Then the idea morphed to, I write a sentence, then she adds to that sentence, and we keep going back and forth till we have a story. Immediately our idiotic minds said, “hell yeah let’s do that shit,” and it was off to the races.

A week-and-a-half later…here’s the story. My sentences are the blue ones, hers…the pink. But before we get to the story…here’s a bit about my co-author:

@nuckingfutsmama

And here's her bloggy blog: http://mama2point0.wordpress.com/

Mother of twins, co-Chicagoan, stay-at-home-mom, marathoner, ninja yoga-master, hilarious blogger, noticer of dudes working out at the gym near her with massive bulges in their pants, super mom, wine lover, protective of her daughter who’s being stalked by a 1^st grader that’s obsessed with her wearing pony-tails, former patient of a chiropractor that prolonged physical exams so he could check out her ass in her green thong, and just an all around funny-ass, hot, kick-ass lady.

And now…the story!!

The Bumpit, The Snuggies & A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Every time I smell the scent of butter frying in a pan, I can't help but think of the scent of her neck, the way hair grew on only the knuckles of her feet, and how she could beat me in thumb-wrestling with her pinky.

I always found solitude in the unibrow that framed her over-sized googly eyes, and her summer-toothed smile (some were here, some were there) that just melted my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Those were the thoughts twirling in my head as I finished shaving the hair off the back of my last customer of the day where I work at Max's Back & Bikini Wax.

As I swept up the last of Big Bertha's pubes and Captain Carl's back fuzz, I knew that I needed to get in touch with the woman who showed me what love was all about. 

Slowly I slid my pants back on, being careful not to catch them on the 12-inch knife cut she gave me just a month ago....the last time I saw her.

She had been raging mad because I'd accidentally thrown away her most prized possession, her Bumpit.

I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know it was her girl toupee when it looked like Uncle Ned had come by our trailer again and left behind one of his fetish dolls?

That fight was the last I saw of her, and word on the street was that she was dancing for dollars at the Pink Puttycat Parlor down in the back woods of Alabama.

But "word on the street" wasn't gonna stop me from giving it one last shot - so I called her number, 1-900-HOTT-ASS.

When she answered the phone, I could tell she was reading a script as she robotically told me just what she'd do to me and a vat of Velveeta cheese, and I got so excited at hearing that burly voice once again that I nearly pissed myself.

I quickly took a deep breath, checked to make sure I hadn't made a wet spot on myself, and said, "Hey sugar-britches it's your little waddly boodly boo."

After about three minutes of dead silence, she laid into me for all the things I'd done to drive her away, like calling her brother a man-whore, using her wart cream as toothpaste, taking all the Beeno without asking, and throwing away her precious Bumpit.

Those words pushed me to my breaking point, so I angrily reminded her of the time she made me wear her Bumpit backwards while we had sex so she could comb it, and how she made me "wear" a tampon all day so I could “empathize,” and how my father had to get a restraining order against her so she'd stop breaking in his house to smell his dirty underwear.

I knew I'd gone too far when all I heard was silence on the other end, but then she blurted out my worst nightmare—she'd married that son-of-a-bitch neighbor of theirs who sold imitation Snuggies out of his trailer.

Slamming the phone down I knew I was finally going to have to pay a little visit to my safety-deposit box to retrieve and begin swift implementation of my diabolical master plan to rid trailer Snuggie sellers from the county once.......and for all!!

Gathering up my lighter fluid and matches from my highly protected treasure box, I headed on over to the White T Timbers Trailer Park to pay a visit to old Mike Hunt and his Snuggie wannabe piles of shit.

Hopping off my fire-engine red Schwinn bicycle with flesh colored truck nutz hanging off the back, I reached in my backpack for my matches and lighter fluid while hawking a loogie on the ground so that anyone watching knew that I meant business!!

With my purple pleather shit kickers, I knocked down Mike's shower curtain front door, grabbed as many fake Snuggies as I could from his king-sized brass waterbed and lit the biggest damn bonfire that trailer park had ever seen.

Then I tossed the remainder of the Snuggies on the front basket of my Schwinn, looked around to see if anyone was watching, checked my kick-ass pleathers I nicknamed "my shit kickers," lifted a leg to let off some "steam," and peddled off towards Tammie's house where I knew I could finish the deed.

Tammie was waiting for me on a lawn chair in her front yard, and after punching me smack dab in the teeth, she grabbed me by the neck and pressed her big red lips, crusty cold sore and all, right up to mine.

"That better be a shit-ton of snuggies in your pansy-ass bike basket idiot boy or else I'm gonna make you clean Rufus' anal glands again while me and the neighbor twins drink beer and watch ya," she said in her super seductive smoker's voice while stopping every 5th word to hack up a lung.

In between grabbing and groping each other's cottage cheese asses, we managed to gather up the shit-ton of burned Snuggie bits and erect a commemorative statue of them in the side yard of Tammie's trailer, attracting thousands of supporters of the anti-Snuggie movement to come and pay their respects.

We were partying, drinking 40s, shooting guns in the air, stripping, taking turns with the neighbor's goat, and that's when I noticed the most horrifying, disgustingly sexiest, fuck-o-licious part of Tammie I'd never seen before.....she had a third nipple!

The fact that Tammie had one overgrown testicle just like me, combined with this latest revelation of a third nipple just like mine confirmed to me that stealing her from that one-legged pimp all those years ago down by the river was the smartest decision I ever made.

To this day I still don't understand why that fur-wearing bastard only had one gold leg made instead of two, but I'm chalking it up to the thought that maybe he's just a big fan of hopping?

At any rate, I finally had my honey schnuckimcakes back, and I figured that if I could swipe her from a no good son-of-a-bitch gimp bastard, then surely I could snitch her from Mike Hunt and his lair of fake blanket robes.

And I had just the thing, buried deep in the crotch of my pants, that was guaranteed to seal the deal and bring her to her knees begging for me to be hers for the rest of our unnaturally born, inbred lives.

I lifted my one oversized very sweaty ball and pulled out a brand new Bumpit to replace the one I'd thrown away, complete with the biggest rock of a Ring Pop I could find at the arcade.

With a Marlboro Red cigarette hanging from her lower lip and eyes popping out of her weathered face she stood there dumbfounded and expressionless before suddenly reaching deep down into the crotch of her pants.

She, too, pulled out a Bumpit and even a comb and told me that I could do the styling during sex next time.

This was the moment I'd waited for my entire life and was the reason I'd worn tear-off pants and a condom every day since I was 13.

So I ripped off my pants to expose my leopard print thong that was emblazoned with the words, "For fuck's sakes, will you marry me or what?"

A smile crept across Tammie's face as she ripped off her shirt to reveal a custom-made bra with three cups for her boobs and extra nipple with "You Damn Skippy" also emblazoned across it.

A we embraced in a sloppy, tonsil-hockey kiss, the whole trailer park came out to cheer us on, even Mike Hunt & the golden-legged pimp, and the two of us lived happily ever after in a van down by the river.

Back to My Southern Roots

So I’ll start off by apologizing to my blog readers who’ve given me shit (rightfully-so) for ignoring their giggle needs. I’ve had a rough 4 days…but I’m back!!!

So, my grandmother died. She was 90…I grew up with her as a huge part of my life….she rocked….and now she’s gone. But, she’s happier now so it was more of a celebration. Except, the celebration happened in Anderson, S.C.

Now let me just toss in there that I grew up in North Carolina. Born, raised, went to college, got my first job, first blow job, first relationship with a “little person and his pet horse,” first beer, first throw-up in front of my mom after drinking a whole bottle of MD 20/20 and trying to play it off like I had the stomach flu, first masturbation scene and first girlfriend who still journals about how badly I messed herup…all in North Carolina. So I love the state, SOME of its people, hate its ideals, wish the tobacco industry would rot in hell, and wish all racist bastards would burn a slow death. But other than that…I love it!

So my grandmother’s funeral was on Sunday at 3 p.m. An extremely convenient time for someone who lives in Chicago and has a boss that…well, let’s just say, gets inconvenienced by his worker’s personal life’s problems. But I sucked it up.

Saturday I hopped a plane to Raleigh, N.C., where my brother lives. My bro is just over 2 years older than me and has turned into one kick-ass friend. He’s got a wife who should be knighted for what she’s had to put up with, and two insane boys, 1 and 5 years old.

Long story short, we decide to drive to S.C. on Saturday (4.5 hour drive). We get there at 9 p.m. and meet my mother, her husband, and my godmother for dinner at Applebees. The Clemson game is on, everyone’s in orange, I desperately want a beer but no one else is drinking at the dinner table. Oh…and I’m also a vegetarian.

This seems to surprise a shit-ton of people, I’m not sure why, I’m guessing because I’m such an asshole they think I’ll tackle, kill, and maul any living thing that comes my way, but not so kids…it’s not so.

So the waitress doesn’t know this little tid-bit about me yet, which my step-dad loves to point out. So everyone’s ordering and it gets to my brother’s 5 year old who says, “I’ll have macaroni and cheese, and celery sticks.”

Silence.

Then the waitress looks up from her pad with a horrified look and says, “You ain’t gonna eeaaat no meeeeeat?” in the worst southern accent you could imagine. Immediately my very southern step-dad says, “wait till you get to the numbskull next to him. He eats lettuce and beats too cause he’s a vegetarian!!!”

And the amazement ensued. How could anyone live a life with no meat?!!!!

The next day, we’re on our way to the funeral - me, my brother, sister-in-law, their 2 kids, my mom, step-dad, uncle, and his two kids (teenagers). We have about an hour before we need to be at the church for the family-only graveside service. So we decide to go eat and we’re following my uncle who claims he “knows where to go” for some eats. I shit you not…we pull into a fucking McDonalds.

Wearing suits, on our way to bury a loved one, we eat our lunch at McDonald’s. On top of it…again, I’m a vegetarian…at ……Mc….Donald’s.

After arguing with the zit-faced douche on how simple it is to just NOT put the chicken on my salad and how yes, “picking it off” is not OK with me, I finally got a bowl of lettuce, two carrot skins, what looked to be the boil off a tomatoe’s ass, and dressing for the low-low price of $8.

To top the entire weekend off, I decided on the 4.5 hour drive back to Raleigh starting at 6 p.m., I’d count the number of redneck-ass cars I’d pass that have Truck Nutz. Eight…yes…eight idiots felt they needed to overcompensate for their douchebagness by purchasing a pair of rubber nuts they could hang from their rear trailer-hitch to make sure everyone driving within a 40 foot radius knew their wheels were in fact a dude.

So to recap… I love the south…I’m from the south…..southern women are incredibly hot…my wifey is a southern woman….truck nutz…..McDonald’s…..I fucking hate Snuggies…..vegetarians should never try to live in the south…..Deliverance……inbreeding……..I have an alarm on my house so don’t try to break in and kill me, I love the south, I voted for Obama!!

A Man and His Wiener

So I’m a man…and I’ve lived with my wiener for 34 years and over that time I feel comfortable in saying I’ve gotten to know it pretty well. I can’t say I’ve ever laid in a field, smoking a pipe, with a serious look on my face and reflected on my life together with the little fella. But when you have a son…you’re sort of forced into trotting down memory lane.

Many a morning I’ll be shaving as the boy walks in the bathroom in his little skibbies to take a wiz. The pants drop and there’s his little pecker standing tall and proud unleashing a child-sized stream of pee all over the toilet, floor, walls…. Ahhh morning wood at its best.

Woodies are just a fact of life as a kid – well, shit…actually throughout life. It happens, you don’t know why, and it doesn’t even enter your brain to care as a kid.

I remember when I was little and on the swim team, I was called “boner” by some of the older kids. I was all, “Hell yeah they like me. I’ve got a nickname and shit!!” Then I realized they always laughed after they called me Boner.

“Hey mom….what’s a boner?” Oh I remember asking that question to my mom like it was yesterday…..

Pubic hair was something I wanted desperately as a kid. I spent days praying at night that I would wake up in the morning with a virtual afro of pubic hair shrouding my man-wand, thus completing my journey into becoming Magnum PI (I always assumed he had a virtual forest down there cause…well cause it was Magnum P-fucking-I).

Over the summer I was taking a shower and heard the boy come in to pee. He finished, but I never heard him flush. As I opened the curtain to yell for him to come back and flush his stuff, I noticed he was still there, naked, looking down at his little pecker and pulling on a tiny little hair on his coin purse. “I didn’t know that,” he whispered.

Being the asshole that I am, I couldn’t resist scaring and embarrassing the shit out of him by saying, “Whatcha got goin’ on there sailor?”

“Daddy!!!!” he screamed as he ran off.

Then comes the touching. The constant rubbing of the package, I guess to make sure it’s still there. I remember after soccer games on the way home, my mom saying, “honey, you really need to try and stop touching it. Seriously…it’s not going anywhere and you’re embarrassing yourself.”

The boy is going through an introductory stage of that now….unlucky bastard.

But the part I’m not looking forward to….the masturbation. I remember giving it a try a couple of times and after a few minutes giving up cause nothing happened. But then the gift of having an older brother reared its head and the glorious day finally arrived where he one day said,

“You’re a fucking idiot. You have to use lotion moron.”

It was like the clouds broke, a rainbow came out, birds chirped a bit louder and crisper, and I was alive!!! For the next few years, I could not put my dick down. I was a man on a mission….and I can only imagine how many times my parents had wished they could shroud themselves in plastic when walking in my bedroom, or worse, my bathroom.

A man’s wiener is like an imaginary friend you have your whole life. It knows all your secrets, it grows with you, changes as you change, listens when you need a friend, reacts to all your emotions, talks you into things you probably shouldn’t do, and is by your side through thick and thin. High fives to my tiny little guy….thanks for being there bud.

Oh…and don’t forget, we’ve got our first therapy session at 5 p.m. today to deal with your separation anxiety from the wifey’s whoo-ha!