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Why is Daddy Crying?
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Entries in embarrassing (3)

Thursday
Sep302010

I Was Caught Flogging the Dolphin

OK, I’ve been holding-out on this little story for a while.

But, thanks to the support of all my family and friends I think I can finally say it and be OK.

Hi, my name is Why Is Daddy Crying and I’ve been caught by my mom jerking off.

There!!! I said it OK?!

And the words I yelled immediately after?

“Damn it Mom!!!!!” as I quickly arm-swept my old school 1980s Playboys off the bed and into my lap hoping they’d cover my little chubby and whisk me back in time 5 minutes so I could make the decision to not pull on my pud that day.

Let me set the stage.

It’s afternoon. I can’t remember where my brother is, but I’m alone in the house with the mom. She’s downstairs doing whatever it is moms do in the late 1980s.

I’m approximately 12-years-old and, thanks to my older brother, have become quite the expert of making oh sweet sweet love to my hand.

I’m in my room. Hormones are raging. And, for the 12th time that morning, the “feeling” hits me.

So, I drop trow, grab one of many Playboys my brother and I have skillfully stolen from our grandfather’s collection in his closet, and settle in for teenage bliss.

But here’s where I make the critical mistake. Instead of heading into the bathroom that’s private and attached to my bedroom, what do I do? I decide to knock-it-out in the middle of my room in broad day light.

My thinking at the time, “I’ll be able to hear mom coming up the stairs, so I’ll have enough time to pull the pants up, tuck the magazine, and be all ‘hey, what’s up mother? Ready to go to the store?’”

Some psychiatrists and people like my wife might say, “you wanted to get caught you pervert!”

“Not by my freakin’ mother!!!” has always been my response.

So, I stand at the edge of my bed, centerfold presenting itself, pants dropped, and I’m whaling…I mean I’m going to town like I’ve never done before.

In fact, I’m going so hard and fast that when I hear my mother say, “are you ready to go yet?” she’s already climbed all the steps, seen her son pulling on his Johnson, and made it halfway into her room.

I’ll never forget the feeling of going from pure bliss to absolute shame within 0.0008ths of a second.

“Damn it MOOOOOOMMMM!!!!” I screamed, like it was her fault.

To make it worse? I had to get in the car with her immediately after and go to the store.

It was horrific.

Walking down the stairs and getting into the car was in my mind far far worse than the last walk any death-row inmate had ever experienced. And, of course, I’m mad as shit at my mom and not at myself for spotlighting my pre-teen horniness.

“Honey, everyone does it, you just have to find a private place to do things like that, or simply shut your bedroom door. It has a lock on it you know…”

“MOOOMMM!!!” I yell. “Just promise me you won’t tell dad or my brother!! Please mom!”

Despite her promise I got called downstairs later that night. I immediately knew what was up because as I entered the kitchen, my mother whisked my brother away so I’d be alone with my dad.

This next part was almost as bad as my mother catching me as I charged my laser.

My father begins to not only explain how “natural” this is, but proceeds to tell me how he regularly masturbates himself.

“Oh sure, I do it all the time! Usually in the bathroom or shower, but it’s a normal process.”

I can only imagine the look on my face was one of absolute horror.

It’s the same look I’d imagine having if I woke up at the age of 6 hoping to find money left by the tooth fairy and instead found my hungover father passed out next to me in bed while holding a half-full beer and wearing fairy wings and dry-humping my most prized sock monkey stuffed animal “Mr. Monk-A-Monk.”

Yeah, THAT look.

I was never quite the same again after that “talk.” I put a ban on touching myself but waved the white flag after 14 hours had passed. I was proud of my restraint.

But a piece of me died that day as the first of many sheets hiding the realities of life and my parents were lifted.

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Friday
Jul162010

Fine...I'll Confess...

True confessions…when I get nervous, my butt sweats.

There, I’ve said it and it’s out there for the world to know.

Headed in to a job interview…I can feel my ass sweat. The first date I had with the wife when we were 16…moist ass. Minutes away from giving a presentation to board members…you guessed it…wet butt.

It’s not a nasty swamp-ass kind of sweat. It’s like your armpits sweating, but just on the cheeks of my ass and without all the hair and stench. Actually…it’s nothing like armpit sweat.

The worst thing about it is if I’m sitting down whilst getting nervous, a lovely couple of wet spots appear on the back of my pants. So when I stand up, I get even more nervous and self-conscious about the fact I now look like my ass peed itself.

So I end up trying to walk in angles that won’t allow people to see my drippy butt marks.

When I was in college I’d wear basketball shorts under my regular shorts because it was normal after class to pass by friends on their way to play ultimate Frisbee, flag football, basketball, and I wanted to be ready to hop in the car and go.

It was during that time I realized they provided a Maxi-Pad-like protection against the ass moisture. I was invincible!!

I could plan to streak the next football game and kick-back, enjoying my nervousness without having to worry about my friends having to carry my damp underwear back to the police station with them to pick me up.

But I couldn’t go on living life wearing two pairs of pants forever.

So now I worry about passing this godforsaken trait on to my kid. Will he someday find himself sitting next to a really pretty girl and suddenly realize an uncomfortable dampness?

The poor guy already has my big ears, gapped front teeth, uncontrollable thick hair, Tourettes. I just hope to hell he was spared the ass-sweats.

And just to let you know how hard it was for me to reveal this little fact, I’m going to have to go change my shorts now. And no…not for the good reason.

So there…now I’ve revealed what my body does when I get nervous…now it’s your chance. Man-up and tell me what yours does!! Sweaty armpits, back sweat, habitually glance at pictures of Gary Busey? Whatever you do, let’s hear it!!

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Wednesday
Feb032010

I've Got 99 Problems & My Zipper Is 1

My son has what we call in the business, a problem “shutting the ole submarine hatch.”

Eight out of 10 times the boy goes to pee, he will undoubtedly come strutting out with his zipper wide open to the world. If he were John Holmes, he would have felt the breeze and nipped that little zipper problem in the bud a long time ago. But he’s only seven, and he’s packin’ heat the only way a seven-year-old can, and has no idea his junk has only one more layer of clothing to surpass before getting a front row seat to the world outside.

So I let him know…:

  • “Hey Grayson, the cucumber has left the salad my friend.”
  • “Grayson! You’ve got a security breach at Los Pantaloons.”
  • “Whoa there slugger, Paul and Mary aren’t here so put Peter away!”
  • “Hey man…you’ve got a hole in your jeans!”

The list is long, but they all leave the boy screaming, “awe come on!!” and buckling over to quickly zip his cage up while looking around to gage the level of embarrassment he should feel.

And the messed up thing—I swear the shit is becoming contagious. I kid you not, a few weeks ago I went to spend the day with the executive director of a potential job I may get, and that’s when the zipper-down-bug struck.

I’d been there at least two hours. I’d leaned back in my chair, arms on my head all confident during conversation. I’d crossed and uncrossed my legs many times. I stood at one point to talk on the phone for a couple minutes, pacing back and forth. It wasn’t until well into the meeting, when I was doing another kicked-back movement that I happened to look down and notice my zipper had its “O-face” on.

Yeah, it wasn’t just a half-way unzip, or an unzip with a small little pooch of a hole showing…no…it was as if I’d stuck a pencil in there to prop it open as wide as it could go, hung bedazzled banners around it and shone spotlights from all angles.

I dropped the Cool Hand Luke look like a bad habit and went into, doubled-over-I-look-like-I-may-shit-myself-if-I-don’t-find-a-bathroom-NOW look—which, in retrospect, is significantly worse than letting my potential boss know that I was sporting green skibbies that day.

Continuing to act interested and engaged, I nodded, took notes and dropped mad ideas. And, when the time was right, I said, “I’m gonna take a quick break and be right back.”

This nightmare has happened two more times to me, the most recent was a couples days ago at the Museum of Science and Industry when I discovered a docent checking out my “junk.” Out of habit I lightly brushed myself to get a quick blind-man’s read on why the stares, when I felt the dreaded openness.

The boy and I will survive. We’ll make it through this tortured time in our lives. Although, it does leave many questions unanswered.

  • Why the hell is this dreaded disease so contagious?
  • Will the boy eventually wear his button-fly’s open?
  • Will that problem then head north and leave him with the horrific disease of Leaving-Your-Shirt-Half-Unbuttoned-So-Everyone-Can-See-The-Wolly-Mammoth-On-Your-Chest.
  • If so, will he be destined to wear gold chains and rings, too?
  • Will my son become a hack bowler, drink only Budweiser (a sincere plug to this wonderful company who should definitely be advertising on my blog), and comb his hair straight back?
  • At what age do people stop telling your zipper is down?
  • And, why, when it’s so much fun to say, “Hey, cowboy, wanna put the gun away?”