I'm Applying To Be On The Bachelor! A Guest Blog Post

The other day my good friend Stacey (@IEatMyKidzSnack on Twitter and the author of THIS funny-as-hell blog) and I got into one of our fantasy wars.

If you haven’t seen them before they kinda go a little bit like this.

Well this recent battle was about how awful we thought the other person would be as a contestant on The Bachelor.

That led to an email from Stacey to me which said, “I’m filling out the official Bachelor submission questionnaire for your right now.”

I responded, “If you do, I’ll post it as my first guest blog ever.”

And well…here it is.

I hope you laugh as much as my gap-toothed dumb-ass did.

_________________________________________________________

A Guest Blog Post By Stacey "Lady of the House"

www.IEatMyKidzSnacks.com

After a recent “I fantasize” tweet battle with my good friend, WhyIsDaddyCrying I decided to see what would happen if he wasn’t a happily married father of two and actually applied to be the next Bachelor.

THE BACHELOR QUESTIONNAIRE

Name: Don’t you know who I am? I’m @whyisdaddycryin on Twitter.

How did you hear about our search? Are you kidding? Ever since I was a boy I’ve dreamed of being surrounded by hot chicks with daddy issues desperate to hang out in a hot tub with me and compete for a crack at ALL this:

Occupation:  I’m a vegetarian and a blogger. Plus I started a movement called “Pants Optional Friday” where I advocate no one wears pants on Fridays. Frankly, this would work to my advantage at those Rose Ceremonies. Maybe change my line to, “Ladies, will you accept my balls?”

Annual salary: Let’s just say, I like a nice Sizzler salad bar once a quarter and even though I’m a vegetarian, I roll my own sushi.

What is your highest level of education?  Yes.

Are you a legal resident of the United States? Yup, unless there’s a place where hookers & weed are legal. What? Where? I’d like to change my answer.

Where did you grow up? I grew up in North (hick) North Carol (hick) North Carolina. Sorry, I have a case of the hickups.

*No offense to anyone from North Carolina. I just like to get daddy’s goat.  Since he probably fucked it while growing up in North Carolina.

Have you ever been arrested, charged or convicted of a crime of any type? Does an inmate shit in his cell? There may have been one time. What? I read dolphins love human contact.

Have you ever had a temporary restraining order issued against you? Please give details and dates: Yes, but it was terminated when Mr. Coleman passed away.

Have you ever been a performer, participant or contestant on television, radio or in film? Does really amateur porn count?

Do you drink alcoholic beverages? Yes, yes I do. Let me take you through what a “one on one date” would look like. First I’d have a cocktail while putting on my makeup getting ready to go out.

Next I’d do 5 or 6 shots of Jaeger in the limo all the while trying to fit my massive head out the top so I could yell “I’m The Motha Fuckin’ Bachelor bitches.” I’d spend the next several hours alternating between wine and Maker’s Mark and Sprite.

While eating annoying things like hummus and sprouts I’d talk incessantly about the weather and high cost of oil. I’d end the night by stroking my date’s hair, fumbling with her bra and vomiting into the hot tub. The same applies for a “group date” with the addition of trying to milk each girl like she was a dairy cow.

** This was the part of the application where they asked for age, height, weight, etc. I felt those questions were inconsequential compared to what I feel ladies need to know if they choose to use the overnight date card with WhyIsDaddyCrying.

Degree of halitosis: Somewhere between baby diaper and rotting corpse.

Diameter of space between teeth:

Degree of erectile dysfunction:  Moderate unless I’m watching “Meerkat Manor” then I’m fine.

How many days in between your period: N/A. But every 28 days I cry into a Snuggie because I feel unappreciated & bloated.

Brain Size: A full 4 ¼ inches. Yeah baby.

Thickness of back hair: Let’s just say there better be at least 3 pool skimmers.

Please describe your ideal mate in terms of physical attraction & in terms of personality attraction.  She’s got to have boobs, a butt and a face. Oh and hands and a vagina. She has to laugh at all my jokes and be smart and stuff. This is hard. No seriously it is. I’m like a pre-pubescent boy when I talk about boobs. Did I mention boobs?

How many serious relationships have you been in? 6

What happened to end those relationships? Came out as a lesbian, moved to Dikshit, India, attempted murder (her on me), rehab, eaten by a dingo and again, lesbianism.

What are your hobbies? I drink a shit-ton of beer, I love music, and I pleasure myself to pictures of Bea Arthur run. I also take zumba.

What is the unique talent of which you are most proud? I can fart the alphabet. I mean shart. I can shart the alphabet.

List the 3 adjectives that best describe you: Smoove, Phat and Foine.

Do you have any tattoos? If yes, what are they? And where are they located on your body? Yes.

Have you ever been married? Look a helicopter!

If yes, how many times? No, seriously isn’t it a prerequisite to arrive in a helicopter at least 3 times on “The Bachelor?” I assume you provide Depends Undergarments for men who have problems with high altitude and vibration?

Have you ever been divorced? Not yet but please, please don’t show this application to anyone who claims to be “married to me.”

Do you have any children? How is this relevant to me getting drunk and cliff diving with scantily clad women?

What accomplishment are you most proud of?  Ugh. Shit. FINE! MY FAMILY. I am most proud of my beautiful wife and children.

Why would you be a great husband? Because, well…………read my blog.

Why are you America’s Most Eligible Bachelor? I’m not.

*In the end WhyIsDaddyCrying would realize no amount of free tail is worth giving up the amazing family he allows all of us to see glimpses of on his blog.

**Also you have to submit a picture and video. We all know after seeing that “gap toothed bastard” all we’d hear is women openly weeping and limo tires screeching.

A Day In The Life Of Our Elf On The Shelf

Until a couple weeks ago I had no damn clue what an Elf on a Shelf even was.

Once I found out I figured, holy-leverage-over-the-kids’-awful-behavior-patterns-recently, it’s time for me to partake!

So, I ran out, bought the little shelf-bastard, and made it known “kids…Santa’s watching!!”

Then I kinda gave it no thought. Until a day ago when I noticed the little bastard wasn’t there anymore.

Instead, there was a note that read, “I can’t take it anymore…I…I just can’t!! Merry Christmas sickos!”

Scratching my head and trying to put the puzzle pieces together I noticed the dog chewing a tiny little book.

I immediately ran over and yelled, “DROP!!!”

Picking-up the drool-drenched book I immediately began to flip through it and quickly realized it was the Elf on the Shelf’s one day diary of his time in our house. In fact, he didn’t even make it a full day.

Here’s how it read:

Day 1. 5:13 a.m.

Dear Santa…did I really just see what I thought I saw. The dad just came downstairs, buck-naked, made a cup of coffee, got on the computer to announce he was going to go for a run then walked by me expelling some of the most horrific air ever!

Where are the happy children?

Day 1. 6:42 a.m.

“Drop, drop…DROP me damn it!!! He said ‘DROP!!’ Do what your master says and drop me!!!” That’s what I would have yelled at the dog if we were allowed to talk.

I’M NOT A PUPPET you stupid dog…..I’m an extension of Santa damn it!!!

Day 1 8:00 a.m.

OK, the boy’s gone to school and it’s just me and the daughter.

Day 1 8:11 a.m.

Elf on the Shelf does not get touched or dressed up for a tea party with Barbie!!!! Didn’t these rat-bastards read the book about me?!!! OK…sorry..I should not have spoken that way. I’m sorry Santa.

Day 1 10:42 a.m.

Awwww…the daughter has made me her “BFF.” She’s such a sweetie. Love little girls at this age.

Day 1 10:58 a.m.

I’m going to throw-up. Apparently the daughter picks random toy “best friends” to join her when going “boom boom” on the toilet.

How can something so tiny and innocent create smells so horrific?!!!?

Day 1 12:02 p.m.

Second kid’s gone to school. The two adults are working in their separate at-home offices. Dog is asleep. I’m so….so very exhausted.

This job seemed so much more glorious on the commercials and in the brochures.

Day 1 1:46 p.m.

Hey, very cool. Right on! The husband seems to be giving me a tour of the house! I shouldn’t have complained so quickly!

Day 1 1:48 p.m.

Hey, here’s the bedroom. Nice…they have a small, but pretty cool bedroom! I like it.

Day 1 1:49 p.m.

Wait!!! Wait!!! No!!!

The husband just told the wife, “hey, let’s see what Santa thinks of an afternoon quicky!”

Why are they doing this with me on the pillow next to them? Why…WHY!!!?

Day 1 1:53 p.m.

OK, that was sad. Really? Four minutes? Santa, I know what this guy wants for Christmas.

Day 1 2:01 p.m.

Do I look like a post-sex teddy bear to snuggle with? Oh you bad-breathed, bearded sicko…I want my mommy.

Day 1 2:21 p.m.

He finally woke up to shower and left me here on the bed and guess what? Yeah…the cat’s cleaning me like I’m some damn kitten.

FUCK YOU SANTA…FUCK YOU!!!

Day 1 2:34 p.m.

I feel so dirty. All I want to do it strip naked and cry in a warm shower.

Day 1 3:11 p.m.

I think I passed out for a while. But now, I’m back on my shelf.

That was some horrific dream I just had.

Day 1 3:13 p.m.

Where in the hell is my left leg and why can’t I see out of my right eye? It wasn’t a dream was it!!! Oh my dear lord the dog is chewing on my detached leg. I think I’m going to be sick…

Day 1 4:20 p.m.

Hey, quick question.

What is a bowl and why would the husband be asking the wife if she thinks “the elf on the shelf could possibly work as a make-shift bowl?”

Day 1 4:21 p.m.

Just Googled “bowl” on the elf iPhone. I’m fucking outta here!!!!

____________________________________________

And that’s it. That was all he wrote.

We’ll miss that little bastard. He was fun while we had him.

And hey, if you make it to the pole, tell the bearded fat man I want an iPhone.

Come on…I’ve been good this year…hook a brother up!!

Rock on Mr. Elf On The Shelf. We’ll always have your leg to remember you by.



The Kids' Stuff

When we first moved into our house we immediately decided to give the kids the basement as “their space.”

We high-fived, renovated, threw shelves and cool shit down there, popped-in a couple space heaters, and dreamed the high-life dream of kids playing gleefully in the basement while we sipped wine, watched adult shows and chased each other around the house with sex toys.

Ok…that last part was only in my high-life dream…but regardless, we dreamt.

Then reality hit.

The girl….loves playing by herself. Dollies, house, school, and her favorite game “my brother’s evil and let’s plot to kill him.”

The boy? Well, he basically hates to be alone. NEVER wants to play alone, and ALWAYS wants to be involved in anything happening within a 50-yard radius.

So throwing him in the basement to play army, Legos, or whatever little dudes do these days is NEVER going to happen. He won’t do it.

Then, to make matters worse, we had a tween come visit us this summer from North Carolina. Basements are a rare thing in the south so when she was confronted with our decked-out underground awesomeness, all she saw was a dark, cold, dungeon of terror.

And she made it known. She refused to go down there unless all the lights were on and an adult was with her.

Ever since then…our kids feel the same way.

As a result, the adult space has become romper-room. Dollies, stuffed animals, plastic frogs and insects, Play-Doh, and little itty-bitty microscopic toys that can only be found by stepping on them with your bare feet at 4 a.m. have now entered into the adult “love palace.”

The daughter wins the biggest prize for being the most obnoxious about it. She brings arm-loads at a time of stuffed animals, dolly houses, and hooker boots to “our” area.

So, I guess the purpose of this post is to say, I miss you adult space.

I miss the gap in time when the Mrs. and I could have spontaneous sex once a year, throwing clothes to and fro without them landing on a fake full-sized cat causing it to meow and purr.

I miss watching watching “Cops” and yelling “get the fucker!!!!” without little ears and eyes being present.

I miss coming home from work and seeing a clean, relaxed space child-free of Barbie houses and army men.

But I know it’s a phase. And…I focus on the positive. Maybe now is the time I put the pool table and bar in the basement and shove all the kids’ shit into their rooms?

I mean…they do have light up there…& a boogie man’s never been sighted there! At least not yet…



Wanna See If That Fits In My Gap?

I may have mentioned a time or two that I kinda have a gap between my two front teeth. If you haven’t heard me say that before well…I’ve got a gap between my two front teeth.

Between that, my Dumbo ears, and my oversized head I’ve given quite a number of people plenty of teasing material over the decades I’ve stomped around on this crazy planet. But it’s all good. I’ve embraced my “uniqueness” – which is what my wife calls my distorted attributes.

So, it’s in that same vein that I gathered the family last night and sent them on a quick hunt to find two things each they’d like to see me shove in-between my two front teeth.

You want to see the results don’t you? Well here it goes:

The Wife Chose:

8 business-sized envelopes

 

My Blackberry charger cord while still attached to my phone

The Daughter Chose:

 

Barbie’s hand. And the whole time I did this one Ken was in the corner laughing like a school girl. Sick bastard.

8 Silly Bandz...stupid Silly Bandz.

The Boy Chose:

 

Yes…that’s a nickel. The fattest of the pocket change being circulated in this great country.

 

A Lego ladder with SpongeBob and Patrick attached. I guess they’re ornamental?

So that’s it people. Now you’ve seen the gap in full display. I hope you’re happy cause my damn teeth hurt like hell now!

No More Eating Out for Me!!

I’m absolutely done with taking the family out for dinner. Done! Can’t stand it any longer…

It always begins with deciding where we’re going to go. The boy wants pizza and the girl wants chicken strips.

The boy wants sushi and the girl wants chicken strips.

The boy wants Subway and the girl wants macaroni and cheese…with chicken strips.

During this riveting debate is when we’re eagerly shepherding the little demons to get shoes on. This is essentially the equivalent of trying to teach a cat to sit while someone’s using a laser-beam to play with it.

After a spirited race to the car, always won by the boy because he elbows the girl sending her cart wheeling to yet another scabbed knee, we wait while the daughter spends 10 minutes gathering every essential toy scattered throughout the vehicle before getting buckled.

I’ll spare you the drive because it’s just too damn painful to recount.

Then alas we arrive and make our grand entrance. This is always the best part of the night. The second they walk in, they quiet down, put their hands by their sides and take in the scenery.

Diners gaze upon their young innocent faces, smile, and nudge their loved ones usually saying, “oh look…he looks just like Opie and she’s just a princess.”

Little do they know that in the time they’ve uttered those words, both kids have managed to figure out the first 12 ways they’ll make us both cry, pay-off the cooks to spit in my food, and waged a bet on who can make me say, “guys, stop it!” the most.

Then the menus come and they want nothing that’s on it.

Then I order three beers at once which gets the typical waitress response of, “Oh, will someone else be joining you?” as she reaches for more menus.

“No, it’s just us. So again, we'll take water for the kids, margarita for the wife, and I’ll have three beers. Thanks!” This is when the waitress either tells me that’s illegal or slowly backs away from the table.

Almost immediately the daughter hands me the little piece of paper holding the napkin and silverware together and says, “daddy!! Paper airplane.”

“Say please sweetie.”

“Yes ma’am!” And that’s always followed by giggling from both kids and it goes from there until dinner is served.

This is when both kids begin an intellectual discussion about life, the names of all the presidents, whether Barbie poops at night while they’re sleeping, what we should name the daughter’s first tooth she loses, and why daddy wants to do serious harm to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Twenty minutes later the wife and I have finished and the kids haven’t even taken a bite of their food.

All and all it could be significantly worse. And there are occasionally good eating experiences.

But after last night’s escapade of my daughter mimicking the Italian busboy to the point where he’s contemplating shoving a spork in my jugular. I’m done…

Now I’ve moved on to the phase of just throwing a pile of sushi and chicken strips on the floor, turning the TV on, and slowly escaping with the wife to the back porch to drink beer and chill in silence.