A Glimpse Into The "Man Bible"

Many of you wives out there may not know this but there is an actual “A Man’s Guide On How To Act Around Your Wife Behind Closed Doors.”

It’s a ratty, beaten-up old book that’s holding on by a thread. The pages have been taped into place and over 184 varieties of beer can be found stained throughout.

It is THE Bible we all live by and must obey or our balls will drop off for good.

I mean literally fall off.

The reason I’m talking about this is because the ladies need to know. They need to know we have no choice in this matter.

The way we interact with you behind closed doors is not a decision left to on to us.

Let me just toss out there a few examples from the Man Bible.

Page 28, Part C – When walking by your wife stare at only her breasts while saying “Damn…just…just damn those are fine.” If no one is near, feel free to lift your hand cautiously but with urgency to make sure they feel the exact same as they did the last time you walked by her.

Page 36, Part A, Section 2 – Entering the bedroom after a shower whilst only wearing a towel only to find your wife reading a book is one of the most coveted times of a man’s life. One must quickly thank the gods with a double bump to the chest and then spring into action with one of the following moves:

• The Helicopter – grab the base of your manly bit and begin swinging it around like a helicopter propeller while looking excitedly pleased at the wife.

• The Pose – shanty on over as close as you can to the wife, lift a leg up on whatever is near, lean down on your knee with your elbow while dropping your towel in one smooth motion. Follow this up with a sly “hey, I uh…gotta a little something for ya there sugar plum.”

• The Urgent Parent – immediately act as though you both had previously agreed upon a “quicky” and urgently shut the door, drop the towel, grab the lube and head straight for the bed while saying “OK hun, the kids are watching TV so we’ve got about 7.5 minutes to knock this out. Let’s do this!!”

• The Pool Boy – walk over to the closet, throw on some boots, drop your towel, grab hold of your dangly bit and walk towards the wife whilst uttering, “I uh…found a sturdy hose. You ready for me to give your pool a good scrub-down?”

• The Ride Em Cowboy – this is purely an old school technique used to visually attract the wife to you. Simply drop the towel, put a huge smile on your face, act like you’re mounting a horse, then with one hand slapping the fictitious horse’s ass and the other holding the fictitious horse’s reigns flail around viciously so that all your sexy attributes are bouncing and slapping to and fro as you scream “yee haw mother fuckers!!” as though you were leading a pack of bad-ass horse-ridin’ cowboys.

Each one of these moves is guaranteed to win her physical affection.

Page 1, Section 1 – Always rip the shower curtain back when the wife is bathing and repeat “You want me to get your backside?”

Page 49, Section 4,528 – Late at night while the wife is watching Hoarders, slip into a pair of her underwear whether you fit in them or not. Then, after sliding on a pair of your fanciest black socks, slowly tip-toe down the stairs. Get a running start and then slide across the floor into your wife’s view and just wait for her amazed and aroused response.

So, that’s all I’ve been sanctioned to share with you ladies. But I hope it’s enough for you to understand that we, by law, MUST do these things or pay the devil his due.

So bear with us. Continue to love us.

And know that we have nothing but your best interest in mind!

I Used To Sneak Out

Let me start this post by noting that my mother reads my blog. She occasionally leaves me little messages on my personal Facebook page putting me in my place after reading posts like the one about her chasing my brother and me around the house with wooden spoons.

I’m a bit lucky that so far she hasn’t sent me a gift from this website www.BoxOfShit.com.

But, I think after this post my luck will run out. So, mom…get up and just walk away from the computer. Go on….leave woman!!

Is she gone? OK, let’s do this.

So, I used to sneak out of my house with such regularity as a kid you’d think I was practicing for an Olympic gold medal in it.

I knew my parents nightly routine like the back of my hand.

9:10 – 10:36 p.m. – Fight like cats & dogs

10:36 – 11:21 p.m. – Father takes his drunk ass upstairs to watch HBO late night softcore porn

11:22 – 11:48 p.m. – Father passes out, mother follows suit.

12 p.m. – The house falls silent and the countdown is on till the coast is clear.

Waiting till the coast is clear for sneaking out is the hardest and longest time of your lives. I can’t tell you how many times I’d wake up to my alarm going off at 6 a.m. and screaming, “SHIT!!!!”

But one day I was digging through an old dresser in our guest bedroom and found this old-school clock that had an alarm only a mouse could appreciate. I set the alarm, put all my faith in it, and at 1:01 a.m. it went off.

I quickly snapped the alarm off and sat straight-up in bed listening.

My father was in his regular deep deep slumber which sounds like a mix between a 1920s broke-ass sawmill and two constipated virgin elephants trying to make sweet love.

My mother, she always slept like a rock. I can’t tell you how many times as a kid I’d run into her room frantically trying to wake her up  to impart upon her the very exciting news that I was about to throw-up all over this lovely house of ours. By the time she woke up to my childish nudging and whispering, “mommy… I think I’m going to...” I would inevitably puke all over the floor and bed beside her.

A smile crept across my face as I knew I had found a way to get in sleep while also being able to escape for a while in the middle of the night.

The next piece was huge. Putting together the elaborate mental puzzle I’d created that when put together, revealed the exact locations to step when walking down the carpeted L-shaped stairs to freedom.

The key to it all…banisters. After three steps I could place my hands on both banisters and swing my anti-gymnastic-skilled-ass passed five steps and a half-landing.

The last three steps always squeaked the loudest so I had to turn around and take those them backwards so I could steady myself with my hands.  

At that point…it’s game-on and I was out of there.

I never really had a purpose to sneak out at night. Very rarely would I meet-up with a friend. When I did it usually ended with them saying, “why in the hell are we doing this? I’m tired dude!!!”

My brother used to make the journey from time to time with me. But again, why? We get to hang out all day every day. Why waste sleep and risk getting caught to do it under moonlight?

So, I’d just walk or ride my bike. I’d go to the lake nearby and throw rocks from an old decrepit concrete pier. I’d occasionally leave a tennis ball in my girlfriend’s mailbox so she’d find it and think I was a badass rebel.

I experimented with smoking and alcohol.

But most importantly I was living that very moment of my life exactly how I wanted to live it. There were no rules. No parents. No one was watching.

Parents weren’t fighting. My father wasn’t asking me to make him drinks.

The escape I’d created in my room with music, my piano, writing poems, and reading lyrics had gotten so much larger. It was now filled with fresh air, endless roads and no boundaries.

But despite all the freedom and time alone with my brain, there was a tiny little piece of me that found motivation to sneak out of the house from the idea that I might get caught.

I figured, if I was caught, it would show my father that I was in control of me and capable of leaving his tiny kingdom whenever I wanted. I could defy him. I could break the chains whenever I felt like it.

And like that the night would be over. It was time to head home.

There was always this one corner that was six houses away. As soon as I turned that corner I’d have a clear shot of my parents’ bedroom windows.

Light on – I’m screwed.

Light off – Home free. Just make it through the front door and the rest can be explained by sleep walking.

In all the times I ventured into the night, I never came home to find a light on.

I never came home to find my mother and father sitting downstairs holding the letter I left on my pillow every time I snuck out that read:

Dear Mom:

I am OK. Nothing bad has happened to me. I snuck out of the house to just go for a walk and be alone. I know it’s very dangerous for me to do and I’m sorry.

I love you and will be home very shortly. I hope you will not be too mad and if you found this before dad woke up all I ask is that you don’t wake him or tell him until we talk.

Love,

Justin

A few times a year when I can’t sleep in the middle of the night I’ll get up, toss on the running gear and go out for a short three-miler. As my feet pound pavement I look at all the rows of houses dark and filled with slumber and I feel free again.

Free like a 14-year-old boy gliding through the streets of his neighborhood at 1:30 a.m. without a care in the world and nothing to lose.



If I Were A Parental Crack Dealer

“Daddy!!! I can’t go to sleep!!”

Holy mother of all things that make me want to slam my head in the door…that one ranks up there near the top.

Every time the wifey and I hear that, our first response is to pound the pause button on the remote of whatever mindless insanity we’re watching, look at each other and drop our heads in that position that screams “are you fucking kidding me?”

We quickly draw straws (or actually the wife gives me that look like “you better take your ass up there chump!”) and  I make my way upstairs to explain to the children that “daddy has no magical pixy dust to toss in the air allowing my sweet SWEET children to fall patiently and quietly into slumber land.”

This is often met by, “aaawwww come on daddy…my eyes don’t want to shut!!!”

Or, “But it’s not night time yet!!!”

Or my favorite, “can’t I just have dinner?”

As if I didn’t just spend the past hour fighting them to chow their nighttime morsels.

Wouldn’t it be fantasticly awesome if we, as parents, had nighttime flakes allowing anyone we sprinkle them on to experience an eight-hour blissful sleep?

It would be the parental crack we’ve all been searching for.

No longer would Friday nights be filled with fathers surrounding grills, wives sipping wine and laughing in a corner while the kids destroy house and home.

Instead wives would be sipping wine and glaring at their watches like hawks as husbands flocked to their favorite dealer in the hopes of scoring even a dime-bag of the “I Cant’ Sleep Daddy” dust.

Parental mobs would storm the streets burning down businesses and taking over governmental positions to make sure “I Can’t Sleep Daddy” dust was considered “medicinal.”

Then “clicks” would form along the school playground as parents divide themselves amongst “those who have kids addicted to the ‘Sleepy Daddy’ dust,” and those who simply kiss their parents on the forehead, thank them for providing them with the greatest life ever, and nod quietly off to sleep.

Eventually all hell would break loose on the football field as the favorite quarterback, who according to Susan is a “Daddy Dust” user, throws the game-losing touchdown and suddenly it becomes a city-wide school board issue.

Actually, now that I think about it…it’s not worth it. I guess I’ll just stick to the old fashioned parental rhetoric of explaining to the children that daddy’s only magical power is to piss off their mother in 2.1 seconds flat.

And, I’ll save the magical sleeping dust for myself.