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 12^th 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.



My Son's Balls Are Making Him Competitive

Everything is a freakin’ competition with the boy these days. EVERYTHING!!

Going to the car. Daughter gets elbowed from behind and face-plants as the boy flies by to be the first to a door that is still locked and holds not a single trophy for him on the other side.

Walking down stairs….it’s like watching a murder scene in slow motion as he plows by me, throws his sister against the banister and jumps the last five steps so he can crash himself to the floor and claim victory as carnage and blood drip down the stairs in his wake.

Taking a shower. Within two minutes of walking out of the bathroom, I’ll hear the water cut-off and “daddy I’m finished!!!” echoes through the house till it finds my vulnerable eardrums a mere three seconds before ultimate relaxation comes over me. I vow to tape record this so when he’s a teenager and spends a half hour masturbating washing in the shower, I can prove that he has the ability to take one quickly.

Drinking his milk. The daughter doesn’t even like milk…so who the fuck is he racing? He’ll choke it down…white shit spewing from his nose, eyes watering like hell, slam the cup on the table and announce, “finished!!” while still breathing hard and sporting one kick-ass milk mustache. And for what?!

Playing Wii. I’m gonna just throw the damn thing away. I’m determined not to let him win all the time so that he learns to be a respectful loser, but damn….it’s like getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes. It’s painful and makes me cry, fall to my knees and want my mommy to hold me.

I’m competitive, but nothing like this. Is it the red hair? Is it his balls? That’s what it’s gotta be…those tiny little marbles of his are probably working overtime growing, expanding…. It’s like Donald Trump moved into my kids sac, started building skyscrapers everywhere, and decided to run for mayor, start his own TV show, take over the circulatory system, and overthrow his brain chemistry all in one foul swoop.

And the daughter totally provokes it. We’ll be on our way out the door to go somewhere and the boy will be off chasing something shiny in a corner. Then the daughter gets that evil grin and says, “Grrraaaayyyssooonnn….. I’m gonna be first to the caaaaarrrrr.”

And his head will poke up from behind the couch, and immediately he springs to his feet, vaults the ottoman, ducks and slides under my waiting arm to stop him, slams his sister against the front step railing, falls on concrete but turns it into a tumble, and slams into the car door, flipping around claiming victory! And behind him is a pissed dad, a mother picking up a bleeding, crying daughter, and a cat slowly slipping out of the house through the wide-open door while everyone’s distracted.

I just hope someday his competitiveness can be brought under control, harnessed, and used to make mommy and daddy rich beyond their wildest dreams. Until then…..I’ll I guess I’ll just write about it.

Earning Coins for the Bank of Nookie

“All right kids – you ready?”

“Daddy, we’re gonna miss it – lets’ go!!” my son screams with a tear literally creeping from his eye.

“Dude, we’re good. We’re gonna be early….let’s just go!”

Thirty minutes earlier the wifey had just left in one of our two cars to arrive early to my son’s elementary school. Tonight is the holiday play for  1^st graders, starring none only than my little red-headed rock star. The wifey bit the bullet to volunteer as an usher so that we could be guaranteed front row seats. A kick-ass move, promising nothing but great vantage points for pictures and a stunning view of all the MILFy moms scrambling to get pictures of their littler ones on stage. I promise I wasn’t looking.

So I’m at the door, fumbling through my “key bowl” looking for the one and only key to the car. And…yeah, it’s not there. Despite my repeated request that the car key serve as a stand-alone key from the wifey’s massive key-ring of no return, so that it will be free for use by whoever needs it….it has yet to happen. As a result, she took the only key we have for the car she DIDN'T take. The one I need in order to get my child to the play he’s supposed to be in for which this entire night centers around.

“We’re gonna miss it daddy!!! I knew it. I knew we’d never make it and that I’d miss it after all this practicing,” the boy screams as he kicks make-believe mommies and daddies in the air, turns red-faced, and somewhere in his mind imagines blowing us all to pieces.

“Dude…I’m on it…have I ever let you down?” The little angel on my right shoulder immediately says, “yes…remember that time that…”

“Shut up bitch!” I scream at right shoulder angel.

My son’s still crying, my daughter couldn’t care less and is pumped to score more time playing with her Lil Pet Shop critters. Me? Well I do the natural thing and call the wifey on her cell phone.

Now…out of all our monthly expenditures, the wifey’s cell phone is by far the biggest waste of money. Why? Well that’s a damn fine question…because she never freakin’ answers it. There’s been times where I’ve been with her and she opens her phone, see’s she has 8 missed phone calls and 5 voicemails and she goes, “huh?” Like she's amazed 1) someone called her, and 2) she missed it. She’ll go to work without it. She’ll plug it in to charge while it’s fucking off. She’ll have it soooo buried in her purse that it’s such a pain to dig out that she’ll just hear it ring and give up in pre-exhaustion of trying to fish it out.

Long story short…after five calls…there’s no answer.

That’s when I feel a thought coming on and coming on strong.....And then it hits!

“I’ll call @momomatic!!,” I yell!

Her son’s in the exact same play my boy’s in and they live only a few blocks away. So I call, she answers, and they agree to pick us up! Score for me!!

Outside the boy is pacing up and down the sidewalk, mumbling, crying, informing the world there’s no possible way in hell we’ll make the play, we should have all listened to him and left hours ago, and everyone within earshot is mean.

“Grayson! Do you have a watch?”

“No!”

“Do you know what time it is right now?”

“No Daddy!”

“Do you know what time your play starts?”

“DADDY!!!! No!!!”

“Then how in the name of all things SpongeBob, do you know that you’re going to be freakin’ late?”

“Cause…daddy!!! Cause it’s dark outside!!!”

We made it to the show with plenty of time to spare. My wife seated my daughter and I in our rock-star front row seats. As she handed us our program I said, “Oh…hey, before you leave…can I have the car key to the Nissan? I'd sure hate for you to leave me stranded at home without it!”

It took a sec to sink in, but when it did….I immediately deposited that “oh shit I fucked up” coin into the bank of nookie. Only 23 more coins and it’s go time!!!

Back to My Southern Roots

So I’ll start off by apologizing to my blog readers who’ve given me shit (rightfully-so) for ignoring their giggle needs. I’ve had a rough 4 days…but I’m back!!!

So, my grandmother died. She was 90…I grew up with her as a huge part of my life….she rocked….and now she’s gone. But, she’s happier now so it was more of a celebration. Except, the celebration happened in Anderson, S.C.

Now let me just toss in there that I grew up in North Carolina. Born, raised, went to college, got my first job, first blow job, first relationship with a “little person and his pet horse,” first beer, first throw-up in front of my mom after drinking a whole bottle of MD 20/20 and trying to play it off like I had the stomach flu, first masturbation scene and first girlfriend who still journals about how badly I messed herup…all in North Carolina. So I love the state, SOME of its people, hate its ideals, wish the tobacco industry would rot in hell, and wish all racist bastards would burn a slow death. But other than that…I love it!

So my grandmother’s funeral was on Sunday at 3 p.m. An extremely convenient time for someone who lives in Chicago and has a boss that…well, let’s just say, gets inconvenienced by his worker’s personal life’s problems. But I sucked it up.

Saturday I hopped a plane to Raleigh, N.C., where my brother lives. My bro is just over 2 years older than me and has turned into one kick-ass friend. He’s got a wife who should be knighted for what she’s had to put up with, and two insane boys, 1 and 5 years old.

Long story short, we decide to drive to S.C. on Saturday (4.5 hour drive). We get there at 9 p.m. and meet my mother, her husband, and my godmother for dinner at Applebees. The Clemson game is on, everyone’s in orange, I desperately want a beer but no one else is drinking at the dinner table. Oh…and I’m also a vegetarian.

This seems to surprise a shit-ton of people, I’m not sure why, I’m guessing because I’m such an asshole they think I’ll tackle, kill, and maul any living thing that comes my way, but not so kids…it’s not so.

So the waitress doesn’t know this little tid-bit about me yet, which my step-dad loves to point out. So everyone’s ordering and it gets to my brother’s 5 year old who says, “I’ll have macaroni and cheese, and celery sticks.”

Silence.

Then the waitress looks up from her pad with a horrified look and says, “You ain’t gonna eeaaat no meeeeeat?” in the worst southern accent you could imagine. Immediately my very southern step-dad says, “wait till you get to the numbskull next to him. He eats lettuce and beats too cause he’s a vegetarian!!!”

And the amazement ensued. How could anyone live a life with no meat?!!!!

The next day, we’re on our way to the funeral - me, my brother, sister-in-law, their 2 kids, my mom, step-dad, uncle, and his two kids (teenagers). We have about an hour before we need to be at the church for the family-only graveside service. So we decide to go eat and we’re following my uncle who claims he “knows where to go” for some eats. I shit you not…we pull into a fucking McDonalds.

Wearing suits, on our way to bury a loved one, we eat our lunch at McDonald’s. On top of it…again, I’m a vegetarian…at ……Mc….Donald’s.

After arguing with the zit-faced douche on how simple it is to just NOT put the chicken on my salad and how yes, “picking it off” is not OK with me, I finally got a bowl of lettuce, two carrot skins, what looked to be the boil off a tomatoe’s ass, and dressing for the low-low price of $8.

To top the entire weekend off, I decided on the 4.5 hour drive back to Raleigh starting at 6 p.m., I’d count the number of redneck-ass cars I’d pass that have Truck Nutz. Eight…yes…eight idiots felt they needed to overcompensate for their douchebagness by purchasing a pair of rubber nuts they could hang from their rear trailer-hitch to make sure everyone driving within a 40 foot radius knew their wheels were in fact a dude.

So to recap… I love the south…I’m from the south…..southern women are incredibly hot…my wifey is a southern woman….truck nutz…..McDonald’s…..I fucking hate Snuggies…..vegetarians should never try to live in the south…..Deliverance……inbreeding……..I have an alarm on my house so don’t try to break in and kill me, I love the south, I voted for Obama!!

Enough with the Candy!

Candy, candy, contstant candy…

In the morning, “Daddy can I have a piece of candy if I eat ALL my cereal?”

And that’s followed by the sincere, but to-the-point explanation of why the candy cannot be taken from the bowl unless it’s following a lunch or dinner. And since the majority of lunches are at school, and we don’t want to be bothered at work from the principal claiming our children have climbed the flagpole 32 times in 5 minutes and are hitting up bums for pieces of chocolate and have the shakes…we reserve the right to dish out 2 pieces of candy following a delicious, nutritious dinner made with love by the wifey or I.

But…they…just…don’t….fucking…..get…..it…..

 So, we continue to deal with the fighting.

Yesterday I’m upstairs trying to iron my clothes cause it’s 2009 and I can’t rightfully say to my wife: “Woman….my work clothes have a wrinkle. Get in there and slap some heat on em!!” And I’m watching the Today Show cause …yeah, I watch the Today Show!!!... and I hear all holy hell breaking lose downstairs.

“But IIIIII should get a piece mommy,” this shrill little girly voice bounces its way upstairs pounding my ears and bringing me to my knees.

“I didn’t give him any candy Macy!!!” Now I know this voice well. This is the same voice that says things to me like:

“I asked you twice to please wash the dishes, yet you made the decision to….”

And – “Why is all this CLEAN laundry on the bedroom floor. You could have folded it with the time it took you to toss it on the floor.”

And – “Oh really? REALLY? I look ‘fine’ in this outfit? Not hot…or hawt…or sexy…or MILFy…but ‘fine?’ That’s what this has come to?!’”

So, fearing for my children’s lives, I decide to get involved. So with towel wrapped around my waste, shaving cream in my face, I bust all up in the argument.

“Hey – hey-HEY!!!!! What’s going on?!!”

Now I’ve been trying like hell for over a decade to break this woman…this saint…this goddess I call my wifey. And not even for a damn second have I seen the underside of that thick-ass shell she’s encrusted in that keeps us all shivering at night. But my kids…who have collectively been alive less than the number of years the wifey and I have been married…managed to do it.

Like a freakin 4-year-old…the wifey turns to me, holding an empty candy package and says, “Grayson picked up this old empty candy wrapper and Macy saw him holding it and thought I gave him candy, but I didn’t……I really didn’t and now everyone’s yelling at ME and I don’t like it and I didn’t do ANYTHING!!!”

Most people would have shat themselves…a few would have slowly sat down on the steps and started crying. If I was dressed, I would have said nothing and headed off to the train a few minutes early. But I manned up. I took control. I grabbed my virtual crown, threw that bitch on my head, put on the “look out cause the wrath of hell is coming down on your now” look on my face and I said, “The candy shall be thrown……AWAY!!!!”

And holy mother of shit did that unleash tears…. Even I had to bite my lip from crying at what a dick I’d become.

After pleading and negotiating, and reconfiguring the written contract originally drawn-up…we came to a conclusion. Candy will be given when the crying becomes too much, the parents can’t take anymore, and it’s the only thing that will shut everyone the fuck up.

After everything was signed, heads were in bead, snores were heard throughout sleepy land…I crept out to the ally with an evil grin on my face and threw everything but 12 pieces of candy away. Standing in the ally with my SpongeBob undies and undershirt with armpit holes I realized I’ve become that guy that hates candy, and therefore children, and therefore Halloween, and therefore all the awesomeness that comes with it. So I snatched the candy back out…ran inside…threw it back in their bowls and righted what was wronged.

I slept peacefull last night….but for shit-sake, don’t tell the wifey I accidentally dropped her favorite Twizzlers in our neighbor’s dog’s……