How I Saved My Son's Life

For the better part of a month I’ve been fighting the wife like a heavy-weight champ to NOT build a loft bed from scratch for our first born male’s room.

The initial response?

Wife: “Oh, so you’re saying I CAN’T build a bed from scratch?”

Me: “No I ummm….we should maybe…I ummm…Well, first, I love you. Second, he is the only male.”

Wife: “What in the hell does that mean? Are you going off to war or something?”

Me: “Going off to war…haha. You should seriously design t-shirts and…”

Wife: “No, I’m serious. You don’t think I can make this?”

Me: “Ok, you know what? We’ve been married long enough for me to drop some truth knowledge on you woman! Yes…I think you building a tall, loft bed in which our first born will rest his sleepy head at night is a bit of a risk considering you’ve never ‘wood-worked’ in your entire existence. There…I said it. Now what?!!!”

Wife: “Now what? Well that’s easy. First off, I’m closed for business starting now! Second, I’ll build your coffin you bearded terrorist. And you’ll sleep like you’ve never slept, just keep talking!”

Me: “Did you just threaten my life? Damn that’s hott.”

For weeks this went on. She’s searched on Ebay for lofts nearby. We’d call, finagle, and always walk away empty handed.

And for good reason, they were a mix between placing a wooden fortress in the boy’s room, or allowing him to sleep on top of four rickety sticks of wood.

Then, the light bulb went off.

Me: “Honey, look outside. You see all that snow on the ground, icey sidewalks, and that little dog freezing over in the corner of our…oh shit, I forgot I let the dog out an hour ago. Anyway, you’re going to spend 90% of your time out there in that building your first loft bed.”

Wife: “What are you talking about? I already decided we should buy the one from Ikea.”

Me: “Suuuuurrrreee you did sweetie. Sure you did.”

Wife: “Go get the dog before I do that jugular ripping-out thing Swazey stole from me and used in Road House.”

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I saved our first born’s life from a sure death at the fruit of his mother’s labor.



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.



I Got Blocked!

Writer’s block from hell has set in.

The past two weeks I’ve been all out of sorts. I’ve walked into walls, fed the kids rocks, and spent hours chasing the dog around the backyard screaming “come here piggy piggy.”

I guess it’s not technically writer’s block because I’ve been writing.

I write a lot for work. I wrote (and drew) a little something something for JC Little and her blog that should be posted soon! Stay tuned!

But as far as here. Well….it’s been sporadic at best.

So, I’m going to just free write about a few blog ideas I’ve been toying with, post it and move on hoping it solves my problem.

At first I was going to write something about politics because…well because you better have voted today! Except you people…please don’t vote today.

I was going to continue the post I’d done a week or so ago about my kids running campaign ads against each other and write about them at polling stations telling voters as they walked by that the other candidate pees on Dora’s map and at night tells their most inner secrets to a stuffed SpongeBob doll.

But then I was all, “that’s stupid. You can’t recycle old posts like that.”

Then I thought about writing a post about how my wife just got prescription glasses.

She’s had headaches for a longtime and recently it dawned on her that, “holy shit. I think on account of me not see’n too good (she’s from the south) I reckon I might need me some spectacles.”

Originally I thought she said “testicles” and promptly ripped my clothes off, tackled her, and was seconds away from “the sex” when the pepper spray hit me.

So, she got her eyeballs checked, a prescription written, and yesterday, picked-up her new eyewear.

Then, as I was sitting at my computer working she walked by sporting her new glasses. BUT!!! Not JUST her new eyeglasses, but also her tight-fitting spandex running gear.

*Side Note: I have a huge….HUGE glasses fetish. I have no clue where it stems from. Maybe I had a super sexy elementary school teacher that sent me down this road, but regardless… glasses do it for me.

*Side Note’s over…back to the stupid.

My foot started thumping like a happy puppy’s tail, my eyes bulged from their sockets and immediately my wife reached over, tapped my nose hard and said, “NO!!!! DOWN BOY!!!! NO!!”

But then I was all, “you can’t write about that…it’s just too revealing and women sporting glasses will avoid the ever-living hell out of you!”

Finally I contemplated the fact that our stupid damn new dog, who I’ve affectionately named “That Furry Fuck I Didn’t Want Yet My Kids And Wife Talked Me Into But That Now The Wife’s Even Overwhelmed By Even Though It’s Always Left To Me To Take Care Of Him Dog,” has an obsession with peeing on our damn kitchen carpet.

He’s awesome everywhere else throughout the house. But for some reason, that red carpet is his pee-bitch.

But then I was all, “who cares? Everyone’s dog pees in the house at some point and who wants to read about your damn pets?”

So…that’s how my brain’s operated over the past two weeks. Yet, I’ve blogged and yet, I blog today.

So, with that, I make my final plee to the blogging lords and ask them to free the brain!!!!

Guess we’ll see what their verdict is over the coming days! Hang in there reader kids, I promise it’ll all come back!!



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?”

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.)