Getting The Kids To Stop Asking "Why?"

You’d think once your kids reach the age of six and eight that the “why daddy’s” would stop.

Yeah, not so much.

It’s gotten so bad that now when I answer the children’s question I try to be completely honest about everything in the answer I give, in the hopes they’ll be so brain-numb afterwards they’ll just walk away.

Example

Child: “Daddy, can we buy Kool-Aid?”

Me: “No, because it’s loaded with sugar which is not good for you and will make you hyper and completely out-of-control which will then get you into trouble with your brother, friends, dog, and us and will then cause mommy and daddy to yell at you and send you to your room with you crying while mommy and daddy stay downstairs and fight ultimately getting a divorce leaving you to have to live with mommy and see daddy on the weekend where I’m living in a one room shack crying, not showering, and surrounded by phone numbers of call girls which are girls that daddy has to pay money to have dinner with him. AND…it contains red dye 40 which will make your head explode from nasty chemicals people pumped into the sugary drink just so it’s the color red in the hopes we’ll drink more of it and provide the boss of the company with more money he can spend on bigger houses and more cars.”

And it worked.

Well…not at first.

At first they laughed and thought it was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. Half of what came rambling out of my mouth they couldn’t understand, but for some reason it was just hilarious to them.

Then…the light bulb went off. If I give their mother a long rambling answer they’ll see her immediately get disgusted and walk away.

They’ll learn by example!

So, I waited….and waited. And then…

Wife: “Honey, let’s go to Ikea and look around for a little bit. Maybe have lunch there with the kids.”

Me: “Schnookums, I don’t think that’s really a good idea. First of all the last time we went there both kids ended-up getting the puke bug from playing in the kid’s zone, while you got mad at me for publicly confessing in a very loud manner that you were the hottest MILF within eyesight, and after we made our huge purchase we spent an hour trying to find a clear spot where we could roll the cart to the car without having a 4-foot tall curb blocking us in and eventually we couldn’t so I had to go get the car and fight half the SUVs in Chicago for a space to back in and load the stuff we…..”

I quit at that point because she was long gone.

The kids? They took every bit of it into their tiny little developing brains and slowly digested it.

Then, the magic words came out as I overheard the daughter say to the boy, “I kinda don’t ever want to go to Ikea again.”

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve enjoyed a semi-blissful existence of having the first answer I give be the only answer I have to give.

And my responses are getting shorter and shorter. Usually by the time I’m taking my first breath so I can keep my ramble going, one of the kids just yell “fine daddy!!” And walk away to something else.

Now that, my dear people, is “winning.”

For now…



The Bumpit, The Snuggies & A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

So a few weeks ago a kick-ass friend of mine @nuckingfutsmama and I had an idea. She’s a hilarious blogger, I’m a hack blogger…what if we collaborated? Then the idea morphed to, I write a sentence, then she adds to that sentence, and we keep going back and forth till we have a story. Immediately our idiotic minds said, “hell yeah let’s do that shit,” and it was off to the races.

A week-and-a-half later…here’s the story. My sentences are the blue ones, hers…the pink. But before we get to the story…here’s a bit about my co-author:

@nuckingfutsmama

And here's her bloggy blog: http://mama2point0.wordpress.com/

Mother of twins, co-Chicagoan, stay-at-home-mom, marathoner, ninja yoga-master, hilarious blogger, noticer of dudes working out at the gym near her with massive bulges in their pants, super mom, wine lover, protective of her daughter who’s being stalked by a 1^st grader that’s obsessed with her wearing pony-tails, former patient of a chiropractor that prolonged physical exams so he could check out her ass in her green thong, and just an all around funny-ass, hot, kick-ass lady.

And now…the story!!

The Bumpit, The Snuggies & A Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Every time I smell the scent of butter frying in a pan, I can't help but think of the scent of her neck, the way hair grew on only the knuckles of her feet, and how she could beat me in thumb-wrestling with her pinky.

I always found solitude in the unibrow that framed her over-sized googly eyes, and her summer-toothed smile (some were here, some were there) that just melted my heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Those were the thoughts twirling in my head as I finished shaving the hair off the back of my last customer of the day where I work at Max's Back & Bikini Wax.

As I swept up the last of Big Bertha's pubes and Captain Carl's back fuzz, I knew that I needed to get in touch with the woman who showed me what love was all about. 

Slowly I slid my pants back on, being careful not to catch them on the 12-inch knife cut she gave me just a month ago....the last time I saw her.

She had been raging mad because I'd accidentally thrown away her most prized possession, her Bumpit.

I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know it was her girl toupee when it looked like Uncle Ned had come by our trailer again and left behind one of his fetish dolls?

That fight was the last I saw of her, and word on the street was that she was dancing for dollars at the Pink Puttycat Parlor down in the back woods of Alabama.

But "word on the street" wasn't gonna stop me from giving it one last shot - so I called her number, 1-900-HOTT-ASS.

When she answered the phone, I could tell she was reading a script as she robotically told me just what she'd do to me and a vat of Velveeta cheese, and I got so excited at hearing that burly voice once again that I nearly pissed myself.

I quickly took a deep breath, checked to make sure I hadn't made a wet spot on myself, and said, "Hey sugar-britches it's your little waddly boodly boo."

After about three minutes of dead silence, she laid into me for all the things I'd done to drive her away, like calling her brother a man-whore, using her wart cream as toothpaste, taking all the Beeno without asking, and throwing away her precious Bumpit.

Those words pushed me to my breaking point, so I angrily reminded her of the time she made me wear her Bumpit backwards while we had sex so she could comb it, and how she made me "wear" a tampon all day so I could “empathize,” and how my father had to get a restraining order against her so she'd stop breaking in his house to smell his dirty underwear.

I knew I'd gone too far when all I heard was silence on the other end, but then she blurted out my worst nightmare—she'd married that son-of-a-bitch neighbor of theirs who sold imitation Snuggies out of his trailer.

Slamming the phone down I knew I was finally going to have to pay a little visit to my safety-deposit box to retrieve and begin swift implementation of my diabolical master plan to rid trailer Snuggie sellers from the county once.......and for all!!

Gathering up my lighter fluid and matches from my highly protected treasure box, I headed on over to the White T Timbers Trailer Park to pay a visit to old Mike Hunt and his Snuggie wannabe piles of shit.

Hopping off my fire-engine red Schwinn bicycle with flesh colored truck nutz hanging off the back, I reached in my backpack for my matches and lighter fluid while hawking a loogie on the ground so that anyone watching knew that I meant business!!

With my purple pleather shit kickers, I knocked down Mike's shower curtain front door, grabbed as many fake Snuggies as I could from his king-sized brass waterbed and lit the biggest damn bonfire that trailer park had ever seen.

Then I tossed the remainder of the Snuggies on the front basket of my Schwinn, looked around to see if anyone was watching, checked my kick-ass pleathers I nicknamed "my shit kickers," lifted a leg to let off some "steam," and peddled off towards Tammie's house where I knew I could finish the deed.

Tammie was waiting for me on a lawn chair in her front yard, and after punching me smack dab in the teeth, she grabbed me by the neck and pressed her big red lips, crusty cold sore and all, right up to mine.

"That better be a shit-ton of snuggies in your pansy-ass bike basket idiot boy or else I'm gonna make you clean Rufus' anal glands again while me and the neighbor twins drink beer and watch ya," she said in her super seductive smoker's voice while stopping every 5th word to hack up a lung.

In between grabbing and groping each other's cottage cheese asses, we managed to gather up the shit-ton of burned Snuggie bits and erect a commemorative statue of them in the side yard of Tammie's trailer, attracting thousands of supporters of the anti-Snuggie movement to come and pay their respects.

We were partying, drinking 40s, shooting guns in the air, stripping, taking turns with the neighbor's goat, and that's when I noticed the most horrifying, disgustingly sexiest, fuck-o-licious part of Tammie I'd never seen before.....she had a third nipple!

The fact that Tammie had one overgrown testicle just like me, combined with this latest revelation of a third nipple just like mine confirmed to me that stealing her from that one-legged pimp all those years ago down by the river was the smartest decision I ever made.

To this day I still don't understand why that fur-wearing bastard only had one gold leg made instead of two, but I'm chalking it up to the thought that maybe he's just a big fan of hopping?

At any rate, I finally had my honey schnuckimcakes back, and I figured that if I could swipe her from a no good son-of-a-bitch gimp bastard, then surely I could snitch her from Mike Hunt and his lair of fake blanket robes.

And I had just the thing, buried deep in the crotch of my pants, that was guaranteed to seal the deal and bring her to her knees begging for me to be hers for the rest of our unnaturally born, inbred lives.

I lifted my one oversized very sweaty ball and pulled out a brand new Bumpit to replace the one I'd thrown away, complete with the biggest rock of a Ring Pop I could find at the arcade.

With a Marlboro Red cigarette hanging from her lower lip and eyes popping out of her weathered face she stood there dumbfounded and expressionless before suddenly reaching deep down into the crotch of her pants.

She, too, pulled out a Bumpit and even a comb and told me that I could do the styling during sex next time.

This was the moment I'd waited for my entire life and was the reason I'd worn tear-off pants and a condom every day since I was 13.

So I ripped off my pants to expose my leopard print thong that was emblazoned with the words, "For fuck's sakes, will you marry me or what?"

A smile crept across Tammie's face as she ripped off her shirt to reveal a custom-made bra with three cups for her boobs and extra nipple with "You Damn Skippy" also emblazoned across it.

A we embraced in a sloppy, tonsil-hockey kiss, the whole trailer park came out to cheer us on, even Mike Hunt & the golden-legged pimp, and the two of us lived happily ever after in a van down by the river.

It's All About the Boobs

Yesterday I was sitting on the couch with the kids, watching some boob tube, when a commercial comes on.

Most parents know that when a commercial comes on, usually the children snap out of the TV coma and begin random acts of destruction. So I was braced for the worst. But instead, my daughter says:

“My head almost reaches mommy’s boobies.”

My son pops up from his seat – “My eyes can look right at mommy’s boobies. Come stand next to me and let’s see how far away you are from looking at mommy’s boobies.”

They then proceed to stand next to each other and begin the arduous process of calculating exactly how far my daughter has to grow before her eyeballs see eye-to-eye with my wifey’s rack.

I honestly didn’t know what to say or how do I react. Do I stand up, lift the boy off the ground by his shirt while screaming, “those bad-boys are mine damn it. You keep your dirt-crusted, goopy eyeballs off them, ya hear?!” Or do I say, “hey children, come sit next to daddy mmmkay! Listen, those are mommy’s personal body objects that are not to be discussed, touched, or looked at, mmmkay?!” Or, do I stand up and say, “Oh yeah, well my belly is even with your midget mother’s boobies which puts them in perfect range for…….” Umm…I didn’t chose that one.

Nope, instead I smiled, chuckled, and realized that those precious mounds I so often admire from a far have entered a new phase. I’ve seen many a boob phase over the past 7 years – pregnancy, birth, nursing, post nursing, etc… And now…measuring stick. I gave up the whole, “I don’t like to share” thing a long time ago.

Regardless of what phase they’re in, they’re fabulous and one of many attributes that make wifey a sexy sexy MILF. Now if I could only get her to agree to let me take pictures for my blog post….