I Would Totally Suck as a Terrorist

So this sack of shit Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab tried to blow up an airplane coming into Detroit on ChristmasDay. There’s so many screwed up things wrong with this picture I don’t even know where to begin. I guess the most important is—why Detroit? I mean seriously…I have a new respect for Detroit living in Chicago and being so close to Michigan – but damn, Detroit is struggling!!! It’s the poster child for our shitty economy! So what in the hell kind of damage is dropping a plane in Detroit gonna do to the bigger USA picture? (no offense people that live there—I only mean that hypothetically!)

Anyway, the bottom line is, this sack of shit made it through security with all kinds of crap tied to his body. I kinda wish I’d thought of that earlier. I totally would have strapped my after-shave, mouthwash, and hair gel to my thighs and hips if I’d known I would have just breezed through security. Damn I hate learning kick-ass lessons from other people.

(Yes, this is really me. I'd like to thank the wifey for having the patience

to take this. I'd like to also thank Baby Jesus for being there, and most of

all, Marmaduke for just being you my man.)

But, I guess I have many down-falls which pretty much would keep me off any potential terrorist list that ever existed. What? What are they? Well…OK – here’s the top 10 reasons why I’d fuckin’ suck as a terrorist.

1)  Literally the second after I walk out of a store from buying the wifey a present, I call 10 people to tell them what it is, and usually within one minute of walking in the door, I’m all “so uhh..you wanna open a present early? I mean, cause you should. Cause I bought you something, wanna see it?!”

2)  I HATE any type of clothing or straps touching my body. Hence the Pants Optional Friday. Seriously, when I had to wear a heart monitor for a day, strapped to my belly with wires attached to my chest…I just laid in bed all day wanting to die.

3)  As much as I’ve flown during my life you’d think it was comfortable for me. And it kinda is…but not so much. So mix that with me being on a plane knowing I’m gonna blow it up!!! I’d drink to try and deal with it, then I’d get all “let’s party bitches!!!” and then I’d rip my shirt off and everyone would see the explosives and it just wouldn’t be pretty.

4)  I get nervous taking my cell phone through security. I mean, what if they confiscate the picture I pic-messaged the wifey last year of my...well, of my "thingy?" I mean, I was kinda proud of it, so I really wouldn’t mind if they stole it…but I’m pretty sure the wifey would be horrified. She called me within two minutes of sex-texting that pic to her, all “what the fuck is your problem? You just sent me a picture of your ding-a-ling? What’s wrong with you?!”

5)  I’m pretty sure that at the rate I’m going with this blog…I would have already written about my potential efforts to be a terrorist before it even happened which probably would have ended badly.

6)  My son would talk me out of it. His soul is still untainted and solid and I love him for that. If only we could all stay that way! He’d totally be all “but daddy why? Airplanes are good. And they’re all shiny and stuff and look cool in the sky and when they fly-by all loud and stuff I can say ‘shit’ and ‘damn’ and you won’t hear me cause they’re so loud!!”

7)  Because I have the whitest, most non-threatening name there could possibly be. And…well….I look like I’m too much of a tool to even be considered as a terrorist. They’d pull me aside for “special screening” and just spend 10 minutes laughing, all “if I ever look this white, just shoot my ass.”

8)  I can’t even light a damn grill without screwing it up. Seriously! I admit it…I’ve walked away from a fully-stocked grill, full gas tank, in total frustration cause I couldn’t get the damn thing light. And I swear as I walked away, the damn thing lit itself.

9)  Cause I’m too fucking tired to plot a damn thing. I mean, I’ve been with the kids for a month, with no job, only a few hours of the day alone, and I’m tired. Checking my email puts me over the edge. I just want to sleep….let alone strap shit on, fight traffic to the airport, sit next to some chatter box, act all normal and shit, then at the end have to remember what mixes with what and why? Screw that man!

10)  Cause I’m just not that angry. I mean…I’m angry when the wifey says, “can’t we just watch TV for a bit” when I ask her for sex, but that doesn’t want to make me blow shit up! Well…maybe it does, but not a plane!

So in conclusion – I’m lucky I can even breathe on my own and tie my own shoes. Oh – and I hope Umar Farouk Abdul Mutallab gets a hot poker in his ass…twice.

My Kid's Gotta Big Schtick

My kid throws himself on the ground on purpose and it makes me wanna kick kittens.

Phew.... There, I said it. But damn it I don’t feel better. Not at all.

Everywhere we go the boy HAS to take his entire body and just throw it to the ground. Walking down Chicago streets – BAM. Grocery shopping – BAM. Walking out of his school – BAM. Watching Emeril Lagasse on TV – BAM.

It’s as annoying as listening to Miss Teen South Carolina 2007, Lauren Caitlin try to order cheese fries at a drive through with her window up.

 For a while I thought it was a tick. I thought he might have inherited my Tourettes. I’ve also wondered if maybe this was the beginning of some kind of insane fetish that would blossom into having to hide anything covered in leather or that has zippers.

Then, I picked him up from school yesterday. And being the deadbeat, outta work dad that I am, I was late. As I walked up to the school yard he was standing with three other kids talking and then he threw himself to the ground. Then just as I was about to throw a park bench through a school bus, I noticed all the kids were dying laughing. Ten seconds later he was on the ground again—more laughter.

How the hell did I miss this? This was his shtick. This little budding hack comedian has developed his first shtick and has been trying it out in downtown Chicago, grocery shoppers, school mates, and Emeril Lagasse. BAM!

I walked up, told the little dude to gather his things, ogled a few of the moms, made note that the boy had just ripped a hole in his band new jacket from his physical comedy routine,  and headed home. I was so conflicted.

I spent my entire life doing stupid shit to try and get people to like me. I wore only a red thong in the middle of a dorm party. I shaved a line down the middle of my chest at a wedding reception. I put two pairs of tube socks down my pants as a teenager and went into convenient stores to buy beer. I stole random bras from dryers in college and wore them in public. I was an I-D-I-O-T. Actually…the wifey would argue that I still am.

But regardless, the boy was just reacting to the really distorted genes I’d infected his body with. He was trying to be the class clown. He was trying to make sure everyone liked him. The beginning stages of the dreaded two words, “people pleaser.”

Go ahead….Google it…you’ll find a picture of me standing in a room filled with people with a big stupid grin on my face agreeing with everyone and making sure nothing controversial comes out of my mouth so that at the end of the day everyone’s thinks, “that big-eared gap-toothed idiot-boy we met today was really just a swell guy!”

So now I begin the process of trying to establish a balance for the little guy. A balance between allowing him to continue being unique, original, and true to his personality vs. showing up to school in his father’s red thong and nothing else while agreeing with what everyone says and does because he’s afraid of having even one single person not like him.

Just another item in the growing list of challenges that is parenthood. BAM!

My Wife is the Antichrist in the A.M.

Holy shit what a dangerous dangerous time of day the morning is in this house. You’d think it would be because of the kids…but it’s not….it’s the wifey—the angriest, most volatile human being on the planet in the morning. There are so many things that astound me about her mornings that I just don’t even know where to start.

She never sets an alarm clock. That in-and-of-itself would keep me from ever falling asleep for a second. I’d pick my massively oversized head up off my slumber cushion every two seconds to cast my eyes on those evil red digits on the clock checking…making sure my deadline hasn’t yet hit.

I go to sleep with two alarms set for shit-stake. That’s how mental I am about schedules.

Now, before unemployment grabbed me by the balls and dropped me to my knees, I used to get up at 4:30 a.m. to run every morning. Now…. I’ve got all day to run, so I sleep in!

By 6:18 a.m. it’s time to begin the lovely adventure of waking the wifey up.

We’ve been married for over a damn decade…you’d think I’d have thick-skin over this issue by now. You’d think I’d have some kick-ass routine down by now. No…I don’t….and it hurts. It hurts my heart….

Wifey in college sleeping...look how calm & delightful she looks, but evil lurks below.

I start by nudging her gently, “wifey (I actually use her real name) …it’s time to get up. Come on, it’s 6:18. Come on, wake up…”

“OK!! I hear you….Jesus I hear you, stop touching me and talking!!” are the words that come out of this delicate little flower as she flips over in bed.

“Did you just call me Jesus? Wow..that’s the kindest thing you’ve said in….”

“Ha-fucking-ha funny man…SHUT UP!!!”

I then get up, go in the boy’s room, lay in bed with him and slowly, lightly tickle him till he wakes up laughing his ass off. Then lay out his clothes, then head back into the lair.

Grabbing the wifey’s shoulder lightly and applying pressure, “hey – it’s 6:35. You need to get up honey.”

“I know!! You told me once, now, you’re telling me again. I liked it a hell of a lot better when you were running right now….I know how to WAKE UP!!”

Actually, this is where I need to leave myself a note every morning that reads:

Dear Idiot-Boy:

Well hey there sunshine!! Good morning to ya! Hey, I know you’re just crawling outta bed, eager to crawl into the basement and begin another day of hopeless job searching, but guess what slugger? Yeah!! You gotta wake up the wifey!!

Oh, she’s a finicky one…so taker easy. Poke her with a stick and run like hell man!! She’ll eventually wake up, and when she does…all she’ll want is more pillows and her blanky so she can sleep sitting up! Once that’s arranged, don’t say shit. Just keep on keeping on. Eventually….she’ll slide outta bed, turn around, and lean over so she’s still be supported by the bed, blanky, and pillow, but here’s where the bonus comes in…her buttocks clad with skin-colored panties will be poked in the air…BUT DON’T TOUCH!!! Just look. If you touch…she’ll cut you!

Now…here’s where you engage her in conversation to help her wake further. It seems like you’re not “telling” her to wake up, you’re “assuming” she’s “awake.”

You know how to take it from here. Good luck slugger….you’ll need it. And hey, make sure you put that cup on…..believe me…you’ll thank me!

Love,

WhyIsDaddyCrying

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.

I Guest Blogged!

The wonderful and talented Ms. Mimi Ruse (@mimiruse on Twitter) politely asked if I would do a guest blog on www.IHeartMimi.com.

I found a quiet place to hide and asked my imaginary friend, Seemore, if I should drop some words on ole Mimi for her blog or if I should very rudely email her and tell her to go suck on a tail pipe. Seemore’s always the first to conclude the tail pipe option is the way to go, but I knew differently. I’m a huge fan of her blog, enjoy listening to her nonsense on Twitter, and love her photos of her beautiful daughter. So I wrote her back and said, “sure, I’d love to.”

And here it is: Only Time Will Tell.