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Why is Daddy Crying?

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Q & A With "Why Is Daddy Crying?"

@MotherhoodFilm asks: What do you think of women who use the word "like" in a sentence repeatedly?

I was hoping you’d stop the question right after the word “woman.” Well, like, I totally think women who like say “like” all the time, or like totally not women at all….but girls. It like reminds me of last week when I like totally sat behind these two college girls who like OMG, drove me fucking nuts. And, I totally didn’t have my like, iPod. I was sooo, just….like OMG, OMG, OMG. I finally went and like slammed my head in a door for the rest of the train ride. Like…

@TrishB asks: How did you meet your wife, how did you know she was the one & how did you propose?

Jesus TrishB…get all up in my business why don’t you…. Seriously, we’re high school sweethearts. We met our junior year – she was the new girl in school – all the other girls wanted me dead or were tired of my stupid shit. She came walking into class wearing these white, tight jeans. Her ass mesmerized me and it was love at first…I knew she was the one. I proposed one day by walking in from work, flipping a ring at her and saying, “Let’s do this shit!!” Seriously – I spent months putting money down on a ring while we were in college. I finally put enough down to where the guy was willing to let me have it. I drove 6 hours to see her at her college, proposed, and she broke up with me. Aaahhh those were the days.

@ryanashleyscott asks: Do you enjoy playing cars w/ the kids? I gotta say, I really don't - but I'm thinking it's because I'm mom, not dad.

I enjoy playing cars with the boy for about 5 minutes. From that point on it’s a struggle. But I’m pretty much that way with everything….golf, sex, work, doing backflips, staring into my neighbor’s windows, streaking town hall meetings, painting random kids along the side of the road blue as they walk home from school….

@MamaBennie asks: How are you so fucking awesome?!?!?

By “so fucking awesome” I’m gonna take a stab that you really mean “such a fuck-stick.” For years people have pondered that question. My dad was the most vocal – “Jesus Christ…how are you even able to stand on two legs you fuck-stick?” My brother just beat me with sticks…and occasionally shot at my feet with a pellet gun. I hear my wife praying sometimes when she thinks I’m asleep – “dear lord…make this fuck-stick disappear. Honestly…I didn’t know what I was getting into and you’re all about forgiveness and stuff…so whatta say fella?!! Wanna give a girl her dream to start fresh?!”

Sorry I couldn’t answer it…’s just one of those unanswerable things….

@4uandme asks: Why is daddy cryin'?

Because fucking Twitter has a restriction on how many letters can be in your name. I wanted to have the “g” on the end, but nnnoooooo…can’t do that can we TWITTER?!!

@hotmom_of3 asks: What are you going to be for Halloween?

BJ Brittany from Twitter

@GratefulKim asks: U work, U cook, U help with the kids, UR funny, U love & honor your wife, U write...what is your advice for men?

Well GratefulKim…I’d like to thank you for helping me shoot to the top of the Dude Hit List. Why would you blow my cover like that woman?! Now all the husbands are gonna try and put a cap in my ass. My advice dudes….don’t do shit around the house. I don’t do jack around the house…I make the woman do it. That’s why I got married, so I could sit around and….hold on, what honey……no…no, I was just….yes dear..I mean ma’am…yes ma’am.

I gotta go.

@GratefulKim asks: What is the meaning of life?

Didn’t you just ask a question? You’re that kid in the backseat during carpool who can’t just chill…you gotta know EVERYTHING. Are we there yet? Why is the sky blue? Why does mommy need the mailman to go upstairs just to pay him for the mail?

The meaning of life is good beer, good laughs, good friends, and experiencing true love.

@GratefulKim asks: Boxers or briefs?

Jesus, you ARE that kid. You’re as bad as I am with the questions… Do people go running screaming from you sometimes?

I go commando GratefulKim. I let the boys breathe whenever I can. But during the winter – it’s boxer-briefs. Actually...I lied. I wear boxer-briefs all the time. I even blogged about it once. Except on Pants Optional Fridays…then…well…ya know.

@GratefulKim asks: What is the best surprise your wife could give you that doesn't involve sex or groping?

Holy shit GratefulKim…..all right. Let’s make a deal. I’ll keep answering your questions if you promise to buy me a beer for every question I answer? Deal lady?!

I’m not sure I understand how something can be called a “surprise” if it doesn’t involve sex or groping. I mean…sex and groping is….well when it happens it’s a huge surprise. I guess outside of that I’d have to say that I want an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle…without her telling me I’ll shoot my eye out.

@grnladybug asks: Do you believe in extraterrestrial life out there and if so, are they cooler or crazier than we are.

I used to scoff at the thought of extraterrestrial life forms. Then…Sarah Palin came on the scene and since then, I’ve seriously changed my mind.

@Jabulani9 asks: OK, Daddy, why were you cuddling mummy like that last night? You don't cuddle me that way.

Seriously…are you on crack? Did your parents drop you as a kid? There’s no cuddling going on in the WhyIsDaddyCrying estate.

@barbaragaines asks: What are Santa eyedrops?

You mean the eyedrops my daughter says Santa’s gonna bring her for her pink eye? Click here to see.

@allconsoffun asks: What's the best advice/worst advice you parents ever gave you? Please support your answers in a 25 word minimum essay style format.

Best: “Hey boy…come here and listen close cause I’m only gonna say it once… Don’t ever piss on an electric fence.

Support: Pulling your pecker out and using it where everyone can see is not smart. Keep that guy to yourself and whoever you’re with …and use it wisely. You’ll live longer and happier if you do.

Worst: “Hey boy….come here and listen close cause I’m only gonna say it once….drink the milk in the pink container…it’s strawberry milk.

Support: Even though the container was pink, it was just regular milk inside. Making personal decisions based on the exterior look of things is the most ignorant way to live your life. Read the carton, open it, sniff it, taste it, get to know it…then make your decision.

@crazysahm asks: Would you accept the Snuggie if it came with two options: 1) spots for beer cans and 2) BJ Britney.

Ab-so-fucking-lootly. But then afterwards I’d burn it.

@sassygael asks: Why aren't kids freaked by Yo Gabba Gabba like adults are?

I’m personally insulted by this question. I happen to watch Yo Gabba Gabba while stoned, at least 5 or 6 times a day. I have learned so much from that show that it’s ridiculous. “Freaked out?” About what? From learning awesome things like that you shouldn’t bite your friends? Or that there’s a party in your tummy? That freaks you out? You know what – you freak me out?

I’m sorry about that…that was mean… You wanna go smoke and watch Yo Gabba Gabba with me?

@drlori71 asks: What do you think is the most annoying kids show on TV?

Holy shit that’s easy. Caillou. Holy mother of all things that make me want to rip my ears off, shove them up my own ass, throw myself through a glass window, and run into oncoming traffic….I hate, hate, hate that show. His voice makes me…well…it makes me want to do everything I just said. I want nothing but misery for everyone of those characters on that show. I hope they all become crack addicts and featured on Intervention.


Daddy, I Have to Pee

It’s the dreaded words I can’t stand to hear my daughter say…. “Daddy, I need to go pee pee.”

In my mind I immediately turn to a 3-year-old, throw myself to the ground, start kicking and slamming my fists, crying and screaming “I don’t wanna!!!!” But in reality, I suck it up, pack-up whatever the hell is around me, tell my son “come on dude, you might as well go, too,” then head to the nearest shit factory.

As a quick side note, my precious, darling little angel was born with the magical gift of needing to pee at the worst possible times – especially when it’s just me and the kids. As soon as food is served at a restaurant..she has to pee. Movie just started and we have all our popcorn, drinks, etc….she has to pee. Just climbed aboard the Metra to head into the city…yep, she’s gotta pee.

I’m fine with the boy. Once I taught him to use his damn zipper so his pants wouldn’t land in a heap around his ankles and in a massive pool of piss in front of the urinal – we were good to go. The daughter…well, she has to sit where dudes poo, pee, puke, and whatever other P-words you can think of.

I usually kick open the bathroom door while holding coats, popcorn, food, camera, and all the other kid accoutrements you can think of, and immediately announce, “all right…nobody touch anything but yourself. OK?!!!!” Which is then followed by a simultaneous “yes daddy.”

The boy heads off in his own direction. I then begin a frantic search for the cleanest shitter for my princess to place her precious bum on while also keeping an eye on her to make sure she really isn’t touching anything. I find one with only a dribble of pee on it. Score! Ripping toilet paper out like a mad man on a mission, I clean up after some douche who’s too lazy to use his foot to lift the lid. I stand back and admire the perfect little soft toilet paper seat and announce, “your majesty?! Your throne is ready.”

As she sits sideways on the seat – hands in her lap – I’m glancing around to check on the boy who’s already washing his hands. Score again! I hand over a wad of toilet paper, she gets dress, I kick the handle to flush it, we wash our hands, and we’re done!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to throw a diaper on the girl before taking her out by-myself. I’ll never do it though – mostly because I’m confident someone would notice, call TMZ and Parenting Magazine, and next thing I know I’ll be on Oprah crying and telling the world what a miserable wretch I am because I hate taking my daughter into the men’s room to piss. Instead…I’ll keep cleaning up after sick fucks so my daughter can keep her kidneys healthy. And one day, hopefully she’ll return the favor by choosing to continue lifting me to the toilet rather than putting me in an adult diaper.


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… 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….


Sex & The Snuggie

I got a glimpse last night into what my winter will be like. Let me rephrase that…what my sex life will be like this winter.

My wife is sick right now. I fell badly for her because she’s clearly not feeling well. She tries to help around the house, but all I see through my insane, fucked-up way of thinking is her spreading germs all over the house.

Last night I’m hanging out, just finished putting the little bastards to sleep, when it happens. The wifey descends from upstairs and flops down on the other end of the couch wearing the big, blue, stupid, frock looking, Snuggie. Yeah the real Snuggie.

Now…she knows I hate the Snuggie. She knows the first time I saw an ad for the Snuggie I picked up the TV and threw it out the front window. She knows that the very site of the Snuggie makes me want to take a flamethrower to it. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me. But what am I going to do? She’s sick, and achy, and clearly wanted to get warm.

Then I suddenly became paralyzed with a sudden formula:

Comfort + Warmth = Snuggie cock-blocking all winter long.

She’s never going to take this thing off again. It will forever be the oversized sheath covering wifey and keeping us from the wonderful world of whoopie-making. It will become one with her. Once the children are tucked nicely in bed, she will shroud this magnificent piece of marketing bullshit around her body making her impenetrable to any and all efforts me and my little fella make towards sexual bliss.

I know, I’re thinking, “well climb in there with her you idiot.” No..for a few reasons...

1) I hate the fucking Snuggie and don’t even want it touching me.

2) Wifey is clausterphobic and would be miserable with her and me in the Snuggie

3) I hate the fucking Snuggie and don’t even want it touching me.

And there’s no such thing as a crotchless Snuggie. There’s no Velcro strap that can be removed and placed back once the deed is done. There’s no flaps up top like women’s breast-feeding bra flaps.

My anger for the Snuggie has now reached new dimensions.

You’re on notice Snuggie. I will fuck you up. You will die. I will watch you burn, Twitter about it, TwitPic the whole thing, blog about it, then burry your ass in the alley where I can drive over your remains every day. You’re dead to me and I’m coming for you…….


Herding Cats is Making Me Crazy

I thought I’d just give a quick run-through of this past Friday morning. A somewhat typical morning in my family’s house.

4:41 a.m. – My alarm goes off. I make the snooze bar my bitch for a little bit, by 4:55 a.m. I’m out of bed. Kick back some water, head off to the Y and have an awesome spin class.

6:45 a.m. I cruise back up to the house. It’s the wifey’s first day of work. Before I left earlier, I had re-set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. to wake her up while I was gone. I slowly look up and no lights are on.


6:46 a.m. I open the back door and I hear someone stomping up the basement stairs, turn the corner…it’s my daughter. She continues, then stomps up the stairs to the second floor. She’s carrying clothes. I think to myself..well, that’s a start!

Daughter – “These mommy!! I WANT TO WEAR THESE!!!”

“Oh fuck..” I say as I drop my gym back. I walk into the kitchen to make a quick cup of coffee and WWIII in its very infancy upstairs. I think, "bye was nice knowing you. It was such a short relationship."

7:00 a.m. Slowly I walk up the stairs..

Wifey – “Grayson, get your pants on son!!”

Wifey –“, you cannot wear that you wore it yesterday and it’s dirty, put this on now!”

Daughter – “But it’s blue!!! I’ll look like a boy!!”

I hesitate for a second before reaching the top of the stairs, only because I remembered there’s still a ton of beer in the fridge. Then I continue up… I look in my son’s room and he’s still in his little red undies tapping on his fish tank…jeans still on the floor. My daughter brushes by me to go down stairs – still wearing the pink dress she was told to take off. Wifey, checking her ass out in the mirror to see if she has panty lines.

Me – “Macy…get back in your room and change please. Grayson – are you trying to get your fish to help you put your pants on? Come on man – it’s simple…one leg at a time, button, zip – score – you’re all done!”

My daughter falls to the ground screaming and crying. Son – “I FORGOT DADDY sheeeshh..never give me a second to do ANYTHING!!”

My chest puffs out and I start stomping towards my son’s room, “son, you’d better respect me…do you hear me? Don’t talk to me like that ever again!! Now put your pants on now!!” He falls to the ground crying, but somewhere in the crying he manages a, “yes sir.”

I turn feeling as though I’d won one battle. “Macy, get those clothes on now, or I’ll put them on for you and you won’t like that!!” She stands, walks to her room and throws herself on top of the clothes she should be wearing.

7:11 a.m. - I storm in our bedroom pissed. “Fuck!” I mumble under my breath. The wifey is all: “I know, I just don’t understand why it’s got to be so damn hard. Every morning I have to…..” her voice slowly turns into Charlie Brown’s teacher as I start to pull my work clothes out to iron.

Five minutes later, my son walks in our room, STILL in his underpants, holding a picture from his room and says, “Daddy…what was the name of this fish I caught again?”

It took a second for the disbelief to fully hit before I could speak… “ this a joke? Seriously, are you kidding me?

Son, with his arms out, eyes big, true confusion on his face, “What daddy? What do you mean?”

Me – “Seriously…are there cameras in here? Are we con Candid Camera? Is that douche gonna jump out holding balloons with my family laughing and tell me it’s all been a joke?”

Son – “DADDY!!! Just tell me what the name of this fish is!”

Me – “FIVE minutes ago I told you for the 4th time to put your pants on and you’re still in your skibbies!!! What are you doing? Son – you have to focus!!! GO…PUT…YOUR…PANTS….ON….NOW!!!!”

Son…immediately becomes the victim, starts crying, stomps off angrily and screams, “Daddy you’re so mean, I just wanted to know the name of the fish!!!”

This went on for another 10 min. before I turned into the atom bomb, flew myself into each kid’s room, dropped myself from their precious angle-filled skies, and exploded. There was a lot of tear debris, screams could be heard for miles, the cat was in the basement trying to tunnel out of the house, but no lives were lost.

We should be able to fire our children if they don’t perform simple tasks well when asked. Then, you put an ad in the paper, interview new children, and hire the right ones. Then…life would go on blissfully with beautiful songs, rainbows, helpful – well behaved children giggling and bringing you beers….ahhh…if only.