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Words That End In "Yuuah"

It’s gotten to the point where I go to work and am all, “I know, but I called him two days ago-yuuah!!” in a really whiney voice.

That’s what our seven-year-old has done to not only me, but the wifey and daughter.

Take a walk back to non-kid days with me.

It’s Saturday in our 850-square-foot apartment we comfortable fit into. It’s 10:30 a.m. and the wife and I have woken at the same time. Tossing bad-breathe in the air like it’s Chernobyl on crack we laugh and remember back to when we were kids.

Wife: “You remember when you’d be all, ‘fiiiiiiinnnnneeeeyyuuuuahh!!’ at your mom?”

Me: “Are you kidding? I was the king at adding the ‘yuuah’ to the end of anything. Essentially it’s the closest a kid can get to ‘fuck you’ without getting jack-slapped into the next century.”

And so it became our “thing.”

Example Numero Uno:

Me: “So, you uhhh….you wanna fool around a little?”

Wife: “FIIINNNEEEEyuuah!!!”

Example Numero Dos:

Wife: “Honey, please take the garbage out before I cut you!”

Me: “FIINNNEEEEEyuuah!!!!”

I’d toss out example number three but Google’s being a bitch in telling me how to say “three” i.e. “tres” in Spanish.

Didn’t you hate when your professors used to say “i.e.” in college? I’d use it all the time with the wife and friends and I won’t lie, I almost got stabbed at a party one time using “i.e.” as part of my fighting vocabulary.

But I digress. And holy shit I’ve gotten off track.

The bottom line, all that “fiiiinnneeeyuuahh” stuff’s gotten us in to one hell of trouble. It’s the boy’s new favorite ending to every sentence.

Even so much so that our neighbor’s kick-ass kid who’s three calls my five year-old “Macy-yuuuuah.”

So, our family has embraced it. The other day we spent the day ending all our sentences with “yuuah.”

Daughter: “I gotta go boom boom daddyyuuaahh”

Me: “Hey look honey! If I see you naked, then jump up and down I can make three parts of my body clap at once-yuuuah”

Wife: “You scare me-yyuuuahhh”

Sure, we’re teaching out kids the improper use of language.

But in the end, it was so freakin’ awesome to see my son use his sense of humor to laugh at himself, which in turn will cause him to stop doing it.

At least that's what the book How To Parent Like A Champion said would happen.



Glitter Bitches! 

I’m a huge fan of being on the pranker side of a good prank. Although, when you choose that route in life, you so very often become the prankee, which requires humility, humor, grace, and the rare ability to not get such an itchy trigger finger. Qualities I’m so very far from mastering.

The other day, the wifey stopped off at a grocery store to look for a type of tea that might help curb her appetite.

So she buys “Dieter’s Green Herbal Tea,” a Triple Leaf Tear-brand product. She goes to work, heats up some water, drops the tea-bag in, lets it sit all day, and slowly sips her delicious, thinning, super tea. Later that day, she (how do I put this delicately?) throws-up out her ass for hours and can’t figure out why.

After recalling her day and doing a little detective Google research, she found out this type of tea is a super ninja natural laxative stuff. And the longer you leave the tea-bag in the water, the harsher it is on your system.

All I could think was: Holy shit this is the greatest freakin’ prank tea in the entire world!

And as I drifted off to sleep that night, I couldn’t help but reminisce about other wonderful and memorable pranks I’ve pulled off or experienced…

Glitter Bitches!

Before our children were born one of my wife’s college roommates came up for a visit. So naturally we threw a party. Tons of people were hanging in the backyard, good music, great beers and wine, tons of laughing… I’m sitting on a lawn chair, half-shnockered when the wifey’s lovely and talented roommate calmly walks by me, stop, turns, and shoots both her hands towards me like a crazed spiritual healer and yells “Glitter Bitches!”

Within a matter of 1.3 seconds, I was covered from head to toe with glitter. To this day, I still find a random flake of glitter in my clothes.

You have a message!

During my first job I was a writer for a weekly newspaper. Small staff, no budget, two phone lines, no answering machine, and the editor’s mother was our receptionist. After returning from an interview, there would undoubtedly be a stack of pink phone message thingy’s that have who called, why, when, and return number on them.

Occasionally, I’d leave one on my editor’s desk with an important person’s name and reason they called. Then the beauty of the prank comes in. I’d put 1-800-, and then make up a three letter word, followed by a four letter word that was sexual—HOTT-SEX, BIG-TITS, GAY-LOVE—find the corresponding numbers for those letters and wha-la! So his message would be like, “Mayor XYZ called with some interesting information, call him back at 1-800-244-8487.” (Go ahead, call the number!)

I Love You, Come Meet Me

By far the most vicious prank I pulled was while I was in college. The interweb machine thingy was still somewhat new to college campuses and chat rooms were all the rage in the late 90s. I found a buddy of mine’s chat room “handle,” and decided to mess with him by creating a female name and going after him for some hardcore loving. The boy immediately got hooked to this mistress of sexiness I created. The entire dorm hallway knew about it and would pack my room for days as I’d chat with the boy for hours at a time. Finally, a sense of remorse came over me and I decided to end it by asking if he wanted to meet me in person. When he said “yes,” I said, “then come on down to room G18 in your dorm and I’ll be waiting.”

Sadly, the boy knew he’d been had, walked downstairs to our hallway, and took the hard pill to swallow of 30+ guys howling and laughing at him. A month later, I got another guy with the same prank. Funny thing is, the guy I got, was in on the prank the first time I did it.

So many good stories and pranks could be told, but I’ll save those for another post, or to share with the boy before he goes off to college. They make life memorable. Besides, everyone should be able to at least tell one story in their lives that involves the phrase, “glitter bitches!”


My Kid's Gotta Big Schtick

My kid throws himself on the ground on purpose and it makes me wanna kick kittens.

Phew.... There, I said it. But damn it I don’t feel better. Not at all.

Everywhere we go the boy HAS to take his entire body and just throw it to the ground. Walking down Chicago streets – BAM. Grocery shopping – BAM. Walking out of his school – BAM. Watching Emeril Lagasse on TV – BAM.

It’s as annoying as listening to Miss Teen South Carolina 2007, Lauren Caitlin try to order cheese fries at a drive through with her window up.

 For a while I thought it was a tick. I thought he might have inherited my Tourettes. I’ve also wondered if maybe this was the beginning of some kind of insane fetish that would blossom into having to hide anything covered in leather or that has zippers.

Then, I picked him up from school yesterday. And being the deadbeat, outta work dad that I am, I was late. As I walked up to the school yard he was standing with three other kids talking and then he threw himself to the ground. Then just as I was about to throw a park bench through a school bus, I noticed all the kids were dying laughing. Ten seconds later he was on the ground again—more laughter.

How the hell did I miss this? This was his shtick. This little budding hack comedian has developed his first shtick and has been trying it out in downtown Chicago, grocery shoppers, school mates, and Emeril Lagasse. BAM!

I walked up, told the little dude to gather his things, ogled a few of the moms, made note that the boy had just ripped a hole in his band new jacket from his physical comedy routine,  and headed home. I was so conflicted.

I spent my entire life doing stupid shit to try and get people to like me. I wore only a red thong in the middle of a dorm party. I shaved a line down the middle of my chest at a wedding reception. I put two pairs of tube socks down my pants as a teenager and went into convenient stores to buy beer. I stole random bras from dryers in college and wore them in public. I was an I-D-I-O-T. Actually…the wifey would argue that I still am.

But regardless, the boy was just reacting to the really distorted genes I’d infected his body with. He was trying to be the class clown. He was trying to make sure everyone liked him. The beginning stages of the dreaded two words, “people pleaser.”

Go ahead….Google it…you’ll find a picture of me standing in a room filled with people with a big stupid grin on my face agreeing with everyone and making sure nothing controversial comes out of my mouth so that at the end of the day everyone’s thinks, “that big-eared gap-toothed idiot-boy we met today was really just a swell guy!”

So now I begin the process of trying to establish a balance for the little guy. A balance between allowing him to continue being unique, original, and true to his personality vs. showing up to school in his father’s red thong and nothing else while agreeing with what everyone says and does because he’s afraid of having even one single person not like him.

Just another item in the growing list of challenges that is parenthood. BAM!