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I Sleep Naked

Grab your puke buckets kids cause it's true.

I sleep naked.

Call it being sexually hopeful mixed with trying to be comfortable and add a dash of hating to wear clothes and walla! You’ve got a 35-year-old douche with back-hair his wife won’t shave for him who occasionally gets sweaty-ass syndrome when he’s nervous sleeping like a neurotic bear.

I remember in college when my roommate used to go home for the weekend I double and triple checked the door to make sure it was locked, slid out of my boxers, climbed into bed, and dozed off into slumber land with a huge stupid grin on my face.

When the wifey moved in with me I spent a few months being hesitant about revealing my love for sleeping naked.

“What if she thinks I’m gonna try and molest her in the middle of the night and gets all Lorena Bobbit on me?” I thought.

Shortly after, I dropped trou and never looked back.

Then we had kids.

When they were babies all was good. They had no idea at 2:16 a.m. as they screamed and cried while I changed their diaper and the wife dropped a boob in their mouth that daddy’s ding-a-ling was swinging free.

As wee toddlers they’d come in the bedroom but were too small to actually make the long-distance journey to the peak of the bed which gave me ample time to do a pillow tuck and cover.

Then…they got older.

This past weekend I woke-up and followed-through with my religious morning routine which encompasses time alone kidless and wifeless as they lay slumber above my head. A couple hours later as the wife came to life she said, “you really need to start wearing underwear when you sleep.”

I was all, “over my dead body woman!”

“Well, your daughter came into our bedroom last night and you were laying buck-naked on top of the sheets, on your back, with your entire package presented for the world and your daughter to see. And she saw… She saw it all.”

And that’s when it hit home. Sure there’s the occasional turn the corner while daddy’s getting out of the shower and see a split second of his pecker before the towel blocks the horror. There’s the walking in while daddy’s just finishing pulling up the undies and seeing a milla-second shot of his ass before boxer-briefs do their job.

But nothing. NOTHING. Is like the scaring of a young girl sleepily walking into her parents’ bedroom at 2 in the morning and finding her father counting sheep with his “sheers” laying flaccid for the world to see.

Well…I guess the only other worse scenario is if she caught her daddy actually using those “sheers” on mommy.

So chalk-up another long-loved comfort gone out the window. I now sleep clad in cotton and am none-to-happy about it.



Where's the Old School Porn?!

Yesterday Playboy announced the upcoming June issue is going to have a 3D centerfold.

After hearing this, my initial reaction was to slam my laptop shut, grab a 1986 copy of a Sears catalogue and head to Capital Hill demanding all teenagers be restricted from any and all masturbatory material via high tech methods.

Holding open the coveted page featuring high-end granny-panty-clad models, I’d slam my fist shouting, “this, my fellow elected officials, is what we grew-up with. This…this was our introduction to the female body and is what caused the crack in my childhood bathroom door from my mother continually pounding on it while yelling ‘finish up in the shower now!!!! You’re wasting water!!’”

As a kid my older brother introduced me to Playboy. I saw him looking at a copy one day and immediately grabbed it from his hands shouting, “where did you get this, man?!”

“From granddad’s closet. He’s got hundreds!”

From that point on, trips to the grandparent’s condo the next state over became joyous occasions filled with much plotting and planning. I’d stand watch as my brother shoved a few issues down his pants. Once safely in the guest bedroom, he’d provide me with one issue while he kept three. We’d high-five and each go our own separate ways to begin indulging.

Now, teens have the world of sex right at their fingertips…literally.

All they need is an Interweb machine thingy connection and BAM!!! hardcore sex all day, all the time. Computer or cell phone…doesn’t matter…it’s all right there. Wanna watch others masturbate – they have Chatroulette. Wanna watch porn…Google can hook you up.

Have a cell phone and a horny loved one you wanna play with – just dial up some sexting!

Teens now-a-days can pop off a quick text or two to their honey letting them know how they wanna get freaky on the back of an elephant while Richard Pryor tells racist jokes and Justin Bieber destroys any and all love for music they may have once had.

Back in the day, we had to write that shit down on a sheet of paper, fold it up, risk passing it in class, hope some douche didn’t steal it on its journey to the lucky lady, and then pray after the girl reads it her parents don’t find it shoved under some stuffed animal in her bedroom.

Hell, kids these days have probably seen more girls in their high school naked than were seen in all the high schools in the late 80s.

And while thought of being 16 with a freshly opened Playboy complete with a 3D centerfold in front of my young eyes makes me jealously drool a little, I can’t guess most teens will see it as rookie porn.

There’s something to be said for the unknown, for the unseen, for the anticipation, and for the embarrassing pre-ejaculation (umm…not that ummm…not that that ever happened to me, yo!).

Now…well, I guess I’m just another aging guy looking down at the younger generation and shaking my head at the spoils they enjoy while also secretly enjoying them.



Geeze Daddy!!

Grayson: “OK Daddy!! Geeeze!!!”

That’s the shit I’ve been hearing religiously these days.

All it takes is me telling the boy for the second time to please put his shoes on so we can take him to school.

Or to please take a bite of his cereal that’s been sitting there for the past 10 minutes.

Or to stop telling his 5-year-old sister that he knows she’s lying about the fact she dreamt about a unicorn and when she woke up it was standing in her room.

It’s contagious as hell too. Yesterday the wife happened to catch me walking naked to the bathroom so she immediately threw what she was carrying to the ground and screamed, “fine – let’s do this, let’s just knock it out – geeeeze!!!”

The life of a 7-year-old can be so hard, having to always feel entitled enough to throw-down in a split second claiming you’re owed so much more than what you’re getting.

The boy honestly believes the world is against him these days.

Grayson: “What’s for dinner tonight daddy?”

Me:Hamburgers chief. Hamburgers, salad and corn-on-the-cob. Good eats my man!”

Grayson: “Awwww come on daddy!! You know I don’t like hamburger…geeeze”

At this point he’s walking out of the room like I told him I was going to run over his bike, kill his fish, and smash all is trophies.

Me: “Grayson…seriously? It’s hamburger. What kid doesn’t want a nice, juicy organic meat hamburger? I’ll even throw some cheese on that bad boy for ya!”

Grayson: “Can’t we have sushi?”

Me: “Seriously? Really Grayson, sushi? Are you buying? We can’t afford that Monsieur! Would you like some champagne with your meal?”

Grayson: “STOP DADDY!!! Not everyone likes the same thing!! Macy likes hamburger, I like sushi! GEEEZE!!!”

I don’t know what the solution is.

We put the smack-down on the boy from ever saying “geeeze” ever again. We’ve told him the world is not holding a major conference in downtown Chicago under the theme “How To Make Grayson’s Life Unfair, Unjust and Just Down Right Sucky.”

He’s a work in progress…like the girl…like the wife…like myself…like the blow-up doll in my basement that still wants me to take her out for dinner before we “get it on.”

A work in progress…



F-You Daddy!

The wifey and I have had a long-time agreement that when it comes to things like making the kids’ lunches for school, putting them to bed, giving them baths, cleaning their puke off the ceilings, etc…we take turns. And it’s a beautiful thing, this agreement is. Only catch is, the boy loves to have me lay in bed with him and talk once the lights are turned out. So, while I never get a night off, the flip side is that I’ve built an incredible level of trust with him.

In fact, I’ve kind of become his shrink. He lays there, bares his soul, then looks to me for advice. And while I may or may not be the most top-notch guy on the planet to ask for advice from, I feel I still do a stand-up job.

Here are just a few of the conversations to date. (Please note names of the boy’s friends have been changed to those of famous people as not to identify anyone):

The Naked Lady

Boy: “Daddy…R. Kelly has a picture of a naked woman in his room.”

Me: “A naked woman? Really? Did you see it? Does she look good?”

Boy: “Yes I saw it.”

Me: “Well where does he keep it?”

Boy: “Behind a poster.”

Me: “Wow…well Grayson, you and R. Kelly are a bit too young to be looking at pictures like that and looking at women in that way.”

Boy: “I know daddy.”

Me: “If that happens again I want you to bring the picture to daddy immediately, OK?”

Boy: “I will daddy.”


She’s Mine…No She’s Mine!

Boy: “Daddy…Matt Damon and Ben Affleck fight every day on the playground over Fergie and I really don’t like it. They’re both in love with her.”

Me: “What do you mean ‘fight?’ Like throwing fists and hitting each other and stuff?”

Boy: “They grab each other and try to throw each other to the ground. Whoever hits the ground first loses.”

Me: “And then what, the winner scoops Fergie up and carries her off into the sunset?”

Boy: “No…the winner is Fergie’s boyfriend.”

Me: “Does Fergie know this?”

Boy: “No. But they fight all the time and are always telling her they love her and she keeps saying she doesn’t love either of them.”

Me: “Do you like Fergie?”

Boy: “Yes.”

Me: “Here’s what you do. Never tell her you love her because you don’t, you’re too young to even be talking about love. Treat her like you would any other of your friends. Go play with her, get to know her, and let her get to know you.”

Three Days Later…

Me: “So are Matt Damon and Ben Affleck still fighting over Fergie?

Boy: “Yes, but daddy…I ignore it and have been playing with Fergie and her friends for the past couple of days. And we’re friends and have made up a bunch of games together.”

Me: “Atta dude…”…and a manly man tear slides down my cheek.


F-You Daddy!!

Boy: “Daddy…I know how to stick up my middle finger.”

Me: “You what?!”

Boy:Gary Busey taught me how to stick up my middle finger—see!”

Me: “Whoa…dude. Put that thing away. Do you know what that means?”

Boy: “No, but it’s such a huge finger and everyone laughs when I do it.”

Me: “You know the ‘f-word’ that you’ve talked about hearing before?”

Boy: “Yeah. Oh, daddy? That word is written on the table next to my keyboard in computer class.”

Me: “Wow…well, anyway, sticking your middle finger up is like saying the ‘f-word’ to someone. It’s not good Grayson. Don’t ever, EVER do that again. The school will send you home and mommy will cry.”

Boy: “She doesn’t cry when you do it.”

Me: “That’s different. When I do it to mommy it means ‘I love you.’”

Two seconds later the boy flipped me off and said “I love you daddy!” All I could do was give him a hug and say, “Grayson, don’t ever stick your middle finger up at me or anyone else again. And, I promise I won’t either… whenever you’re watching me.”


My Son the Ninja Wedgie Master

The wedgie….it’s played so many rolls in my life over the years.

Most recently my son is obsessed with giving the daughter a wedgie when he rough-houses with her. It’s origins are beyond me. When I was in first grade I can promise you giving someone a wedgie was not even on my radar. I think I was more worried about whether I had the most bad-ass lunch box in the cafeteria or not, and if I would get called on to read allowed in class that day.

But I walk in the room yesterday and find my son standing on the couch while holding the back of my daughter’s pants which is now halfway up her ass – and they’re BOTH laughing like hell.

Earlier in the week I’m playing Mario Kart with the little bastard and I’m getting so entranced by the world of Wii, that I didn’t even notice the boy had put his remote down and snuck behind me. Seconds later I’m wearing half my boxer-briefs up my ass.

Instead of making him use his toothbrush to clean my skibbies, I sit him down and explain how he could really hurt someone by hoisting their entire body in the air by tiny shreds of cloth slicing through their poop-shooter. He laughed during my entire speech.

When I was in middle school there was a ritual that the eighth graders would go after the sixth and seventh graders on the soccer team and give them wedgies in the locker room or out on the field. I ran like a little bitch that day….through woods, jumping benches, even down to the parking lot where parents were waiting to pick up the very kids that eventually showed me that in fact your tighty-whities can stretch from your ass to the top of your head.

But even then – I was 11 years old – not 7!!

Wedgies can be alluring in so many ways. Thongs….love em. Panty lines revealing a hidden wedgie problem underneath…perfect. Bathing suit creeping up the wrong way….I’m looking. Whale tail revealing itself…I’m thanking the lord. My son hanging his sister by her underwear….not cool my man, not freakin’ cool.

But then I over-think it like I do EVERYTHING, and I’m all: “holy shit – is my kid gonna be a bully?’

 I mean, I wasn’t a bully growing up. I was too focused on trying to make everyone like me. I was the class-clown, usually at my own expense. So where is he learning this crap and who’s ass do I have to kick?

But then I watch him more closely with other kids, at his school, in his class, around the neighborhood….and he’s just like me. He throws himself to the ground constantly getting kids to laugh at him. He makes farting noises with his tongue cause the kids laugh. And he shows his teachers pictures of me naked because they’ll give him an A on tests if he promises to just STOP.

He’s a good dude, he’s just learned that lifting his sister up by her Hello Kitty panties makes her laugh. And now he knows, when he does it to daddy, you get threatened with having a Wii control shoved up your nose.