New Year's Resolutions 2010

Thanks to everyone who read my ramblings since I started this madness in August. Thanks to everyone who took time to knock out a comment. And…well, just thanks!

My New Year’s Resolutions

1) Get a job.

2) Stop calling the cat “jagoff,” “furry turd monster,” “sack-o-shit,” and “piece of shit” because it’s just got to be hurting his self-esteem.

3) Run a total of 1,000 miles by the end of the year.

4) Promote Pants Optional Friday until it becomes a global phenomenon or until the wifey starts participating—whichever comes first.

5) Find whatever the hell’s living in my garage and murder it.

6) Write the first three chapters of my book and start pounding down publishers’ doors.

7) Perfect my Moon Walk and be the first person to ever Moon Walk every sidewalk in the Village I live in.

8) Video myself burning the wifey’s Snuggie and YouTube the shit outta that thing.

9) Love the wifey and kids twice as hard as I loved them in 2009.

10) Continue our 7-year streak of not getting caught having sex by the kids.

11) Start a support group for people traumatized by being caught masturbating by their mother when they were a teenager.

12) Teach the boy that when he flicks a bugger they don’t just vanish in thin air—they land and turn into little hard, sharp landmines that eventually cut daddy’s foot open days later.

13) Continue to be honest, open, and consistent on whatever this blog thingy is that I’m doing here—cause in some screwed-up way it’s awfully damn therapeutic.

14) Finally take the picture of Robert Degen down from the wall in the living room and acknowledge that my idol really has passed on.

15) Invest myself more in my life than I ever have and stop acting like I’m waiting for something.

My Son's Balls Are Making Him Competitive

Everything is a freakin’ competition with the boy these days. EVERYTHING!!

Going to the car. Daughter gets elbowed from behind and face-plants as the boy flies by to be the first to a door that is still locked and holds not a single trophy for him on the other side.

Walking down stairs….it’s like watching a murder scene in slow motion as he plows by me, throws his sister against the banister and jumps the last five steps so he can crash himself to the floor and claim victory as carnage and blood drip down the stairs in his wake.

Taking a shower. Within two minutes of walking out of the bathroom, I’ll hear the water cut-off and “daddy I’m finished!!!” echoes through the house till it finds my vulnerable eardrums a mere three seconds before ultimate relaxation comes over me. I vow to tape record this so when he’s a teenager and spends a half hour masturbating washing in the shower, I can prove that he has the ability to take one quickly.

Drinking his milk. The daughter doesn’t even like milk…so who the fuck is he racing? He’ll choke it down…white shit spewing from his nose, eyes watering like hell, slam the cup on the table and announce, “finished!!” while still breathing hard and sporting one kick-ass milk mustache. And for what?!

Playing Wii. I’m gonna just throw the damn thing away. I’m determined not to let him win all the time so that he learns to be a respectful loser, but damn….it’s like getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes. It’s painful and makes me cry, fall to my knees and want my mommy to hold me.

I’m competitive, but nothing like this. Is it the red hair? Is it his balls? That’s what it’s gotta be…those tiny little marbles of his are probably working overtime growing, expanding…. It’s like Donald Trump moved into my kids sac, started building skyscrapers everywhere, and decided to run for mayor, start his own TV show, take over the circulatory system, and overthrow his brain chemistry all in one foul swoop.

And the daughter totally provokes it. We’ll be on our way out the door to go somewhere and the boy will be off chasing something shiny in a corner. Then the daughter gets that evil grin and says, “Grrraaaayyyssooonnn….. I’m gonna be first to the caaaaarrrrr.”

And his head will poke up from behind the couch, and immediately he springs to his feet, vaults the ottoman, ducks and slides under my waiting arm to stop him, slams his sister against the front step railing, falls on concrete but turns it into a tumble, and slams into the car door, flipping around claiming victory! And behind him is a pissed dad, a mother picking up a bleeding, crying daughter, and a cat slowly slipping out of the house through the wide-open door while everyone’s distracted.

I just hope someday his competitiveness can be brought under control, harnessed, and used to make mommy and daddy rich beyond their wildest dreams. Until then…..I’ll I guess I’ll just write about it.

Oooh...and one more thing!

Two days have gone by…and we’re already at the “oooh…and one more thing!” phase as the wifey walks out the front door to her jobby job. Oh how evil the flip-side of the coin is. There’s a part of me that thinks that after dropping an “oooh…and one more thing!” list on me, the wifey jumps in the car, cranks the radio, and bee bops her fine ass to work knowing I’m at home throwing stuff animals at my son’s imaginary friends, punching pillows, kicking cushions, and wasting valuable time that could be spent taking care of the “simple activities we’d talked about this morning.”

Wifey: “Hey, so are you picking up the kids today from school?”

Me: “Uh..yeah, I can…but I’m supposed to be making calls, and working on getting a job right?”

Wifey: “Yes dear, but I just thought you….oh, just forget it, I’ll do it.”

Me: “No…I want to do it, I just don’t want it to become this….”

Wifey: “Oooh …and one more thing, could you clean the cat litter box? I just walked down in the basement and it smells like your dirty underwear down there.”

Me: “My dirty underwear is down there…”

Wifey: “Oooh….and one more thing, please don’t spend any money, we really need to be careful.”

Me: “We needed milk…and you said, ‘oooh…and one more thing, could you get some hummus’ remember….!’”

Wifey: “Yeah… I remember, but do you really need all that beer!?”

Me: “Yes!!! Yes I do!!! Do you really need all that..”

Wifey: “Oooh…..and one more thing …can you please just wash one load of laundry…?”

She was a stay-at-home-mom for almost a year. I feel like such an ass cause I can count on my hands, and five of my friends’ hands, how many times I dropped the “oohhh” bomb on her before bolting out the door with the confident feeling that when I got home, the children would be dressed in their dinner clothes, smiling, pulling chairs out for me, asking me how my day was while dinner was wafting through the air, and birds were grasping my top coat and hat to be put away.

And now the shoe is on….yes…the wifey’s foot. And, she doesn’t mean it maliciously. At least I don’t think. I like to think she has no clue that she’s pulling the payback page right out of the book and shoving it up my ass. I like to think she’s giving me payback, without even knowing it! But, that would just be my ignorance showing again.  

What Pisses Me Off?!

Now that Thanksgiving is over, we can stop all this happy-dappy crap and get back down to brass tax—the things that piss me off. I did spend yesterday thinking about the so many many things I’m fortunate to have going right in my life. I know life could be significantly worse than it is now, and that for many out there, it is. But this is my life, and right now – I’m gonna get negative, cause I can.

There’s quite a few things that piss me off – some are long-term issues I have buried deep in my psychotic mind. Others are new and deserve just as much attention. So let’s get this thing started:

1) Screw you The Swine!! In my mind there’s three different types of flu. There’s the garden variety “flu” which everyone freaked out about back in the day (1 year ago), but now it’s seen as, “oh, you’ve only got the flu? Pshaw….dude, grow some balls, that’s nothing. Get back to work.” Then there’s “swine flu,” which will knock you out and is what my son is currently battling. It’s rough, but you can beat it. Then there’s “The Swine.” This bastard will take you to your knees, make you its bitch, tell you it loves you, then go bang your wife. My daughter had this last weekend and was hospitalized.

2) Kiss my ass Death! Yeah, I said it. Take your stupid black cape and go jump off a cliff. Seriously – you take one more of our family members and I’ll kill you while I…..oh wait….that doesn’t really make sense….

3) Last chance cat!! Jasper, our black cat pisses me the hell off. Why? Because he’s obsessed with knocking over cups and glasses. We cannot leave a cup or glass sitting alone or he will come over and knock it the hell off the table. It’s become common place to walk into a room to find a massive puddle or glass everywhere. Next time – Jasper – and I shave you and take you to Pet Smart so all the other animals can laugh at you.

4) The career decision I’m forced to make. Enough said on that.

5) Christmas makes me nuts! The materialistic nightmare that is now Christmas makes me wanna go postal on Santa’s North Pole sweat-shop. Even in an economy where we’re all counting pennies, the pressure to get out there and spend way more than you have is disgusting. If it weren’t for my kids, I’d boycott it all together and never….wait, hold on. “What’s that honey? No…no I didn’t say… But you know how I feel and… OK…OK! Just please don’t threaten to throw away the nookie jar again!” Ummm…. I’m I apparently love Christmas and enjoy buying gifts for the wifey.

6) What is it with Quitters? No, not people who quit….but “Quitters.” You know, that one sock in the pair that’s magically lost its elasticity so it’s all big at the top and won’t stay up and forces you to have to throw away a damn good pair of socks with no holes in them. Yeah – I’ve lost two pairs of socks in a week and I don’t even have kankles.

7) Cancer can suck it! Seriously…why can’t you only attack mass murderers, idiotic politicians, or Balloon-Boy’s father….OK, I took it a bit too far there, but you get my drift. The wrong people seem to always be the target and for that my friend….I hope cancer gets cancer.

8) And last, but certainly not least….yeah, you guessed it – Snuggies. You Smurf colored, backwards robe looking, piece of shit. I mean, the fleece it’s made from is not even good quality fleece. You make it impossible to sexually attack my wifey. You make sexy women look like turd smugglers. Your commercials make me want to obsessively stalk kids’ football games to find that couple in the stands wearing you so I can kick the ever-loving shit out of them in a parking lot. You’re stupid. You’re a washed up, worn out, piece of cloth that couldn’t  hack it in the bathrobe world, so you went rogue, got popular for a short period of time, and will end up a phenomenon that everyone laughs at three years from now. Oh wait…am I still talking about the Snuggie or Palin?

I Need You Maury Povich!!!

Yesterday I was changing out of my work clothes in my room, when the boy came in and said, “daddy…I looove math.” I immediately got tears in my eyes, fell to my knees, and started sobbing. I knew right then and there….he couldn’t be my child.

I mean...just look at us both side by side!!

I rest my case.

So, I collected myself, rose to my feet…gave him a huge hug and said, “I’m proud of you. Keep it up…not everyone rocks like you do at math.” Then I walked passed him to find that hussy wife of mine.

She was on the computer in the basement…or should I say, her love communicator machine….when I found her. I said, “woman, we need to talk.”

She looked annoyed and said, “please stop calling me woman…and broad…that’s just so..”

“Look, this is more important right now. Tell me who the real dad is damn it,” I interrupted.

She shook her head and went back to what she was doing. “I’m serious!!!,” I yelled.

“What the hell are you talking about now?!”

“Grayson just said he likes math,” I belted out.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

“You know, for years people have asked me, ‘where does your son’s red hair come from,’ and I’ve always joked saying, ‘the mailman I guess.’ And now he comes to me saying he loves math when I still think 2 + 2 = 3. What gives? Who’s the boy’s pop?”

“You seriously need help,” she said while giving me a dramatic pause, death look, followed by a “you’ve got 3 second to disappear before I fucking cut you” look.

I ran upstairs, kicked the cat out of my way, grabbed a beer, opened it and threw the bottle cap at our framed wedding invitation, snagged the laptop and immediately typed into Google, “Maury Show.” I was determined to get answers and if anyone could knock out a paternity test, Maury Povich could.

As I started plowing through the Maury website, desperately trying to figure out how to send that daytime TV god an email, Grayson came walking by and sat down to watch TV. I glanced up at him, then back at the screen…then back at him. He had those kick-ass freckles all over his cheeks and nose. It reminded me of when kids at school made fun of my freckles and would try to draw on me like they were connecting the dots. I smiled and chuckled cause the little bastard just couldn’t sit still…kinda like me. Then he did his little thing he does with his hands, something I spent half my childhood doing.

He could feel I was looking at him, so he looked at me and that’s when I saw those massive ears…the ones I clearly genetically burdened him with. That’s when it clicked…..my wife didn’t bang the mailman. She didn’t wanna keep me from ever duplicating any part of my idiotic self and hit the sperm bank. This little punk was mine…all mine!

I threw the computer off my lap, stood up and hugged the little guy. “I love you man,” I said.

As I put him down, the daughter came walking through with a stick doing some weird throwing motion. I said, “whatcha doin’ baby?”

“I’m playing lacrosse daddy..I love lacrosse!,” she said.

I immediately fell to my knees, started shaking….and crying….then got up and stormed back down stairs….