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.

No, You Call the Babysitter

So the wifey’s college roommate visited this past weekend. And we decided to get a babysitter so we could enjoy some kid-free time. A mere four days from the impending visit I realized, holy shit, we don’t have a sitter and I’m going to end up being left in the lurch as these two ladies hit the town leaving me behind.

Kicking into baby-sitter ninja action I decided to take matters into my own hands and have a conversation with the wifey:

Me: “Hey…so we should definitely get a sitter for Saturday night.”

Wifey: “Go for it slugger.”

Me: “But you got the Mecca of babysitter lists months ago. Can’t you just call one or two and make it happen?”

Wifey: “I lost it.”

Me: “You what? Are you serious woman? You lost that shit? That’s like someone giving me the unlock code for constant, unlimited free porn and then losing it…it just doesn’t happen!!!”

Wifey: “Call me ‘woman’ one more time. Seriously…say it…call me ‘woman’!”

Me: “Look, your college roommate’s gonna be here in …shit, what day is it?”

Wifey: “You really need a job! Seriously…you need to get out of the house, look at the sun, enjoy the day…you’re losing your mind in the basement!”

Me: “All right…let’s focus. We need a sitter. Who are we gonna call?”

Wifey: “ ‘We?’ No, you…you are gonna make that happen while I’m at work.”

Me: “Awe come on…that’s fucked. Guys don’t call to ask for babysitters. Seriously…there are rules against that shit.”

Wifey: “Rules…really? And who the hell came up with these rules? You’re just as capable as me to call and ask for a sitter.”

Me: “I know but seriously…what if her dad answers? I’ll be all, ‘hey man…is Tiffany there?’ And he’ll be all, ‘Who the hell is this? You sound like you’re 40 years old. Who the hell is this?’”

Wifey: “How in the hell can he tell if you’re 40 by the sound of your voice?”

Me: “Are you kidding…cause I’m all experienced in life and shit. Listen to me. I totally sound like I’m 40 and involved in 40-year-old life stuff…seriously listen…the stocks rose eight percent today as the Dow didn’t quite respond as well as investors had hoped and…”

Wifey: “Whoa!!! Wait…you’re calling our potential babysitter with stock options? Seriously you dork…seriously!!?”

Me: “I’m just saying that I know stuff! And I know that if I call the sitter her dad, her boyfriend, or her brother will answer the phone and they’ll be pissed and I’ll probably get killed when all I wanted to do was freakin’ drink beers with you and the college roommate away from the kids.”

Wifey: “Wow. You seriously need help. Look, bottom line is, I’m going out with Stacy whether you get a babysitter or you ARE the babysitter. So, ball’s in your court Mr. Man. Make it happen or don’t.”

Me: “You’re gonna regret it when I get killed and you have to raise these kids by yourself.”

Wifey: “It’ll be rough but I’m pretty sure we’ll pull through.”

Me: “Shit! Fine…I’ll call. Hand me the phone WOMAN.”

The Wife & I Discuss Pointy Bras

Wifey: “So, did you know pointy bras are coming back in style.”

Me: “Does that mean you’re gonna finally buy some new bras?”

Wifey: “You’re an asshole…just because my bras don’t have flowers and aren’t lacy and my panties don't have ‘sexy’ across the ass doesn’t mean they’re not hot.”

Me: “I never said your skin-toned skibbies weren’t hot. I was just asking because you starting talking about pointy booby holders.”

Wifey: “Seriously honey…do you have a problem with my undergarments?”

Me: “Isn’t an ‘undergarment’ like a slip or something a Sunday school teacher wears? It makes me think of my grandmother walking around the house before bed in like 18 layers of silky nastiness filled with hooks and wires and shit. I’d much prefer you to say ‘panties.’”

Wifey: “Why can’t we ever have a normal conversation anymore? Can’t you save your Mr. Funny-Man routine for the internet?”

Me: “You mean the interweb machine thingy?”

Wifey “SEE?!!!!”

Me: “All right…sorry…damn. So who in the hell would wear those pointy bra things, anyway?”

Wifey: “I don’t know…I wouldn’t.”

Me: “What about tassels? Would you wear them if they had tassels hanging off them? And you could shake your chest and make them twirl and go in opposite directions….that would be money if you did that.”

Wifey: “You really need to lay off the porn.”

Me: “I haven’t watched porn in hours.”

Wifey: “You know the kids can find that stuff on the computer, because you have it so easy to find.”

Me: *loud throat clear “interweb machine thingy” *loud throat clear

Wifey: “Did you go to school to learn how to be such a difficult person to talk to?”

Me: “No, I took bowling because asshole was full. So seriously, I haven’t even seen one pointy boob walking around in the city. I don’t think they’ve made a come-back quite yet.”

Wifey: “I’m just sayin’, I read an article that said they’re coming back.”

Me: “Since when do you read the newspaper?”

Wife: “I read the paper…you’re not around me all day, you have no idea what I read and don’t read.”

Me: “You saw it on Oprah didn’t you?”

Wifey: “I hate you.”

Me: “I seriously don’t think you like me anymore.”

Wifey: “Oh for the love of God here we go again.”

Me: “No…I’m serious. I wake up most mornings sore as hell, and I know it’s because you’re giving me badly practiced acupuncture at night. The other day, Grayson called me a meanie and I swear I saw you high-five him. And today…just today when I opened my lunch bag, there was a note in with my sandwich that said ‘die fucker’ and I’ve had a stomach ache ever since.”

Wifey: “I DID NOT high five Grayson. I would never teach him that name calling was OK.”

Me: “If I bought you a pointy bra would you wear it?”

Wifey: “Keep kicking back those beers and you might need a pointy bra, drunk-o.”

Me: “That would be awesome! It would be like a boob-flask for dudes. I could fill one with beer and the other with Jager with straws coming out of both. I wonder if that’s been patented?”

Wifey: “Idiot….”

Me: “We really should talk more often. This was nice.”

Wifey: “Sssshhh…CSI’s coming on.”

My Daughter Has Maggots

Well, actually they’re weevils. Acorn weevils to be exact. But we didn’t know those fuckers were weevils, we thought they were maggots. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’d just finished my tour of duty as single dad for 4 days and with chest fully inflated was about to head off to earn another paycheck. The wife got home late, tired, distraught, emotionally exhausted and was waking to herd the kids off to school. The little nippers were stretching, peeing, brushing, screaming, crying, and stating what they would not do. And then I heard it…

“Honey get in here!!!!”

So many thoughts run through my mind – she’s fallen and can’t get up, she found my box of porn, my daughter’s got the dreaded pukes, her fucking fish died again..... I slowly walk in and in front of her is my daughter’s “acorn collection”—a laundry basket half-way filled with a shit-ton of acorns.

“It’s Macy’s acorn collection and it’s out of freakin’ control. So what?”

“No – come here and look!” she says.

I walk closer and within the cute, harmless acorn collection are tons of what look like—white maggots.

I’m all – “WTF?!!” And she’s all “OMG.” Meanwhile the daughter can’t see what’s in there and is screaming that we can’t throw away her precious horded acorns! There were hundreds of the little bastards….on her floor, in her carpet, and who knows where else…..in the cat? In her hair? In her bed? IN HER BARBIES??!!!!!

OK – put on your science hats cause here comes your lesson!

What we experienced this morning was the little known and completely misunderstood acorn weevil larva. See – a small, brown-colored adult acorn weevil looks like a beetle. This daughter-of-a-bitch takes her long anteater like snout, burrows a hole in an acorn, and lays its larva. This maggot-looking larva lunches on the interior acorn nut all summer. Then, as Fall arrives, the bastard chews a perfectly round 1/8-inch hole in the side of the nut, crawls out, burrows itself into the ground, hangs out for one to two years and the Houdini-wanna-be emerges as an adult acorn weevil where it then finds acorns to start the process all over again.

And here’s another little known fact. Squirrels can tell if there’s an acorn weevil larva in a nut just by simply picking it up.

I’m absolutely convinced Mother Nature created these things simply to fuck with parents of small children. I mean, the weevil’s entire life centers around the laying of larva that emerges looking like a maggot. And, if he’s lucky enough to emerge and find himself in a cozy, pink bedroom with parents starring and children screaming – then he’s considered a rock star and dies a quick, famous rock star death. If not - then he just burrows in the ground to try his luck again two years later.

So – I write this to educate my fellow parental brethren. Go forth…spread the word and end this plague on the sanity’s of our kind. Ban acorns from your house and make sure no other acorn weevil larva is ever considered a rock star again!!!

Oh – and to end the story – the larva are harmless to furniture, carpets, people, etc.. When they can’t burrow into the ground they just lay there, wiggle harmlessly and die. You just sweep them up and you’re finished and can go try and drink the memory of the event away.

 The End

If I Put a Dirty Mag Under the Pillow Can I Get Sex?

Yeah – that’s the question roaming my distorted mind this week after my wife grew a wild hair, fertilized by none other than our dear friend Mom-O-Matic. My 6-year-old and her 6-year-old spent some time together this week. My boy learned that his buddy put on his Curious George hat and put a shark’s tooth under his pillow to see what would happen.

Well – Mom-O-Matic is the smartass of all smartasses. Her kid woke up the next morning with a can of tuna fish under his pillow. Fucking genius right?!

So what does my wife do? Oh – she tries to one-up that shit. My son puts a shark’s tooth under his pillow. Puts his sweet little red-headed melon on his night-time soft cushion and hits the dream world hard. Meanwhile, I slip downstairs to obsess about how incredibly slow my Twitter followers are growing, while the wife sneaks out the back to hop in the car and go buy…..fucking fish.

 

We have four humans in this house, one cat, and one bathroom. That’s 4 asses to be wiped, one litter box, and 5 mouths to feed. But we need more?!! And…and…and!!!!!!! Anyone with 2 or more kids knows – you can’t provide for one, without providing for the other.

Long story short – son wakes up – thinks he’s seen the second coming of Jesus, daughter says… “awwww – I should have put a shark’s tooth under my pillow.” And then does so that night. Wife runs out on night two – buys fish tank and fish…but this time (here’s where she can’t fucking help but one-up) – she buys a much more pimped-out fish tank than the boy has. Yeah…I know…you’re saying the same damn thing I said – “are you on crack woman? Grayson’s gonna produce a shit-storm in the morning when he sees Macy’s chromed-out fish tank!”

Our daughter woke up to a gold fish in a large flower vase filled with clean water.

I guess the moral of this whole story and why I’m bothering you with its contents is to announce I am effectively today, starting a test…..or to seem more scientific – an experiment. Tonight I will start easy and place a Playboy under my pillow. The next night – a blow-up doll. And I’ll go from there. God-willing…I will experience the same joyous, wonderful, and mind-numbing experiences my adorable children experienced. If not....well…..well I guess there’s always the interweb machine.