Friday, December 30, 2011

Found on Fridge

This is part of a new installment I am calling "Found on Fridge". I'm pretty sure my fridge, Ethel, is coming on to me. I figure it's cause I'm always up in that.
I know you're hungry, girl, but seriously - no. No matter how much they get on my nerves.

I know, Ethel. But you're just so cold on the inside...

I'm not ready for that step in our relationship.

I would, but I'm AD/HD, and YOU SPELLED MY NAME WRONG, Ethel.

I'm not sure what this has to do with anything, but try giving THAT a Brazilian...

Now you're speaking my language, you big cold box you.

Does Greybeard have to choke a Fridge?!

Because live is the only way I take my fur bowl, thank you very much.

Why thank you, Ethel! Meow get me a cold beer.

I - what? Look, Ethel, I love you and all, but - your indecisiveness on verbiage is a major turn-off. 


Just like an icepick.

Ethel, you just so DIRTY!

As can be evidenced by your previous messages...

Yeah, Grace. Jesus. The poor thing looks dehydrated and mangy... 

Friday, December 23, 2011

Run, run, as fast as you can...

I can't eat gingerbread men. Or women. Gingerbread people. It's because they're looking at me. Looking at me, and smiling. What the hell, man? At least be... I don't know... disconcerted about your fate. Don't just willingly accept that someone is going to eat you. Maybe I anthropomorphize too much. But I can't eat anything with a face. I got a latte the other day, and the wonderful barista had done this fantastic foam artsy thing that was a guy sitting and reading with a thought bubble. And I couldn't drink it. I just sat there, staring at my cup, and eventually the barista came over and asked "Is something wrong with your drink?" and I looked at him, and I whispered "It's lovely, but I can't drink it. Because I just know Foam Guy's last thought will be "AAAGGGHHHH!!! HE'S SUCKING OUT MY BRAIIIINS!!!" And if I just stirred him in, his last thought would be "BOOBLE GLUDLE SPORP MACHIG!!!" " Once the barista had recovered from what I can only guess was a seizure, he remade my drink. Without a person in it.
There is one exception to the "No Faces" rule. Gummi bears. I will nosh the shit out of a gummi bear. But not because they're delicious and chewy. No,the little fuckers deserve it. If for nothing more than they are the effigy of a creature that has scared the shit out of me since the beginning of my existence. Bears are scary as fuck. And most people I know (okay - a few girls I dated way back when) talk about how they bite the heads off gummi bears and giggle about how "twisted" they are because they do this. FOOLS! Have you not heard of the Hydra?! Cut it's head off, 2 more grow back? That's some disturbing shit! I'm not taking any chances. That's why I bite the fuckers in half. Right down the middle. Rent asunder. Gummi guts and brains spilling everywhere, carnage incarnate, eviscerated and masticated to nothingness. It's a gruesome image, but it's gotta be done. Not chancing a fucking hydra-bear invasion of the gummi persuasion. 
I also think of them as little voodoo dolls, each one representing a member of the coming bear apocalypse. Oh, it's happening, people. You may not want to believe it, but bears are smart as shit. They must be STOPPED. If I have to eat a million gummi bears, then so be it. I'm doing this for my country!
And my wifey-wife does it too. I'm not sure of the specifics for her reasons, but in one of our first snuggle conversations - you know the ones, where you whisper, and caress, and get punched in the boner for ruining snuggle time with your prodding advances -  she revealed this secret to me, and I to her, and we knew it was love.  Gummi bears must DIE! And gingerbread persons must live. Nothing that happy should ever be eaten. I want to start a gingerbread reservation, where the gingers can roam free, in a land of colored frosting and cinnamon candies and gumdrops and candy canes, free from the fear of being devoured by some slobbery 2-year old. We'll have gummi bear hunting excursions, and it will be grand. Fucking gummi bears. 

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Yippy-kai-ay, melon farmer...

Hey! Dude in the Santa PedoBear suit... You come near my kids again, and intentionally antagonize my Biscuit, and Greybeard's gonna spork a bitch.
Granted, I can be a little overprotective at times. I love my kids, and I don't EVER want to lose them. But I like to think that, lately, I've been more relaxed about people getting in their bubble. My bubble. The D'Agobubble. Until this guy. 

I understand he's a representative of the company. Still, I'm always wary of a guy in a mask. I can't see his soul if I can't look into his eyes. But I'm willing to let this slide, as it's daytime, and we are near a place of business. I even hold back when he grabs the twins by the hand and heads off into the restaurant. It was when we got to the table and Smokey the Ursine Creepoid was still following us, and Gaius put up his hand in the "back-off, bitch" gesture that is universally acknowledged as the leave-the-baby-alone signal and dude not only didn't listen, he pushed Gaius to the freak-out point, that I lost it.
I looked directly into his eyeholes while addressing the waitress in my most...protective tone - "He is seriously in my son's bubble, and if he doesn't get the fuck out, he's going to get kicked in the nuts."
She took immediate action and stepped between the Bear and the baby - "You need to go. NOW." He sauntered off, secure in his manliness for having intimidated a baby. Fucking prick. That waitress got a hell of a tip, though. 

Monday, December 12, 2011

It's the gift that keeps on giving

I managed to get the kids to watch "The Yule Log - Christmas by the Fireplace" for 11 minutes before they figured out nothing was happening.
"What's gonna happen, Daddy?"
"I dunno - watch."
"When's it gonna start?"
"It already has."
"I bet it's gonna explode."
" and tell me when it does."
"Probably when the music stops it's gonna explode."
"It sounds like the fire is slapping itself."
"Nothing's happening."
"Just wait - here comes the really good part."
Kids *cracking up* "It's not a MOVIE! It's just music and a fireplace."

Mama:11 minutes.

Patty Cake

Giovanna: "Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can Rooooollll it... Paaaaaaaat it... and mark it with an O, and..."
Me: "An O? Why an O?"

Giovanna: "Because I want mine to be a (mimes a circle in the air) pie!"

Friday, December 9, 2011

Do you feel lucky, punk?

I got to go shopping yesterday without the kids. *Hallelujah Chorus sounds* Sweet, blessed freedom! Just me and Costco, Mano a mano, tête-à-tête, poco a poco…So I took my time. Wandering those great aisles, browsing the bulk underwear selection…and it was Sunday, so you know what that means - SAMPLES! aka FREE LUNCH! My day was going swimmingly. And then, on the cookie aisle, little Miss Angsty-emo Dark-cloud Prostitart pipes up, and tries to ruin everything.
I was whistling Winnie-the Pooh - the go-to tune for the “shopping without kids“ whistle aficionado, followed closely by “The Fishin’ Hole”, better known as The Andy Griffith Show theme song - and a voice from beyond - or, behind me, and a little to the left - snidely tosses out “You, know, with the whole big, ugly, whistling - you look like a total creeper.” I was totally flabbergasted. It’s like I’m a magnet for crazy. A big, ugly, whistling crazy magnet.
Princess Poppet’s mom is standing there, 10 feet away, pretending that she’s not related. All gloaty, the Goth tot turned and started to flounce away.
“Wait- do I get to rebut that? At least defend myself?”
“Ew, mom - he’s talking about butts…”
Her mother tossed her a look that was so very, very tired.
“I may be big, ugly, and whistley, but at least I have enough intelligence not to poke a grizzly. You’ve got dummy written ALL over you. I expect we’ll be seeing you on “Teen Mom” sometime soon. My suggestion? Instead of talking, INHALE the oxygen you expend on spouting meaningless tripe and put it towards saving whatever is left of your brain. I happen to be the father of 3 AWESOME kids, and I pray to all the powers of the universe - including A’Tuin, the Almighty Unicorn, and He-Man - that they never turn out like you. You are a sad, sad little girl.”
“You’re a fucking ASSHOLE!”
“Charming. And witty.”
Oh, MAN it was awesome. Probably a little mean, but still awesome. Because seriously. You have got to be out of your goddamn mind to come up on me during my quality alone time and insult me. Especially on Sample Day. And more so if I come across as a “creeper.” Whatever the fuck THAT is. Creeper used to be weed that snuck up on you, and suddenly you were all “Man, I could totally eat a whole PLANET of nachos...” Now, apparently, it’s big guys walking through the store whistling to themselves. Kids these days. Meh. Her mom thought it was funny, though. She smirked when her daughter got all flustered and stomped back to her cart. Mama knows. Sometimes, you just gotta let them learn the hard way.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Clouds in my coffee

Consumption of my morning cup of coffee was halted abruptly when, nearing the bottom, I discovered a mass of something mucous-ey and - well, mucous-ey was enough. Turns out, the Biscuit had decided to backwash some of his oatmeal out while taking a sneaky sip of my coffee. Since our oatmeal is the groat kind, and having soaked in a bit of coffee, it looked like a wriggling mass of something putrescent. Combine that with the ill I already have, and the fact that Boogie was up every hour last night, which meant I was up every hour last night, and it's making for a rather nauseous morning.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

For the Birds

I hated Thanksgiving. At least, I thought I did because everyone on the internet and their mother are always spewing negative shit about the holiday(s). People who love the holidays are feeling more and more cowed by the overbearing opinions of those who wish to take something that was once awesome - then twisted, then awesome again - and turn it into something horrid due wholly to the fact that they live pathetic lives hiding behind the blue comfort of their monitor and their bitter angst because no one will invite them to Thanksgiving. Well, guess what, motherfuckers - you suck.  I now love Thanksgiving.
Because my Thanksgiving went something like this - Didn't sleep, so delirium was the first course of the day, alongside a steaming pot of hot, black coffee. Fuck the mug. I then proceeded to clean house like a speed freak, complete with thong, Daft Punk, and a toothbrush. Made my way to the kitchen, and whipped up some of the best honey rolls ever. I was prepping the veg for my stuffing, heard a commotion in the yard, went to check, and ended up single-handedly battling A GINORMOUS, FEROCIOUS, SCREAMING, CHICKEN-STEALING SON OF A BITCH MOTHERFUCKING RED-TAILED HAWK! WITH IT'S TALONS OF FUCKING DEATH! AGAIN! You read that correctly. The fucker(tress?) had flown down, got one of my girls in it's TALONS OF FUCKING DEATH!, and ended up stuck in the shrubbery, flapping and screeching and shit, but refused to let go of Wheel (my kids named the chickens. Shut up. We have Zelda, Godzilla, Link[previously Godzilla as well], Quetzl, Black Debbie, and Wheel.). This is the second time this particular goddamn bird had gone after my chickens, and I wanted my wife to see it, so - in redneck fashion - I called out "C'MERE! You gotta fucking see this!" When she got out there, I was all "What should we do with it?" while I have it restrained at pitchfork length, doing all I can to avoid being gut-checked by TALONS OF FUCKING DEATH!, and she's all "It's trying to eat our chickens! I don't know - kill it?" 
But I couldn't. I know the bitch was tormenting our birds, but it was only going after it's version of turkey dinner. With fixins. Because our birds are FAT. Fat fat fat fat fat. Which was why it couldn't get Wheel last time, because it couldn't lift her fat ass off the ground. Besides - the last time it tried to snag our biddies, they laid twice as many eggs the next day. So I decided to let it go. Which, as it turns out, is a fuckload easier said than done. I proceeded to gently extricate it from the bush with a pitch fork, while it's slashing and screeching and resetting it's beak and TALONS OF FUCKING DEATH! from "chicken" "to disembowel the fat guy coming at me with a giant fork", all the while keeping it pinned with the flat of the tines so the TALONS OF FUCKING DEATH! came nowhere near my precious genitalia, got as far back from it as I could, and released Satan's Death Raptor to do it's fiendish bidding elsewhere (AFTER having struck an accord that she no longer torment our birds but once or twice a month, and then, only to scare us up some more eggs). She flew off a bit drunkenly, and I went back inside and made the awesomest fucking dressing ever. Then we had a delightful family meal with the grandparents and auntie. And pie. True story.The end. 

Thursday, November 17, 2011

And shepherds we shall be...

Do you want to know why I don't take my girl on shows like "Toddlers and Tiaras"? Other than common sense, I mean. It's because Boogie would elbow check every one of those painted tarts right in the juicebox. Then she would go to work on their kids. Pa-DOW! She is sweet, and loveable, and intelligent, and absofuckinglutely ruthless. 

This one time, when she was a little over 2, she and her brother were playing in the play area in the mall, and this 5ish big ol' bully came along and pushed Roman down. When Robot got up, the bastard pushed him down again. Little jerk was prancing around the play area, so proud of himself. Boogie, in all her innocence, was sitting at the top of the slide, and - calculating speed and trajectory, and factoring in the kids inflated ego - pushed off at the right time to take him out at the knees. He buckled, and then pitched forward, slammed into one of the foam cars, and split his lip. Boogie got up, dusted her knees, then STEPPED ON HIM, and went on playing. The child's mother was livid. "Aren't you going to do anything?!" "You're right - BOOGIE! Come here please." Boogie walks over. "Want to go get some ice cream?" Then we called Roman over and walked out.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

In My World, Everyone is a Pony, and They All Eat Rainbows, and Poop Butterflies.

Boogie(upon waking): "I FARTED!" *giggles*
Boogie:"I think a fart is my poop breathing out my butt."


Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Get all up in that...

Autumn Squash Muffins

5 cups cooked squash (3 cups smashed to shit, 2 cups chopped into tiny fucking little pieces)
4 cups flour
3 cups raw cane sugar (Yes, raw cane sugar. If you wanna use that other shit, you're going to have to adjust the goddamn recipe, and then it will be YOUR recipe, not mine, and you can do what the fuck you want with it. I don't care. This is my recipe, and if you want it to turn out as delicious as mine, then you will do what I fucking say.)
¾ cup melted butter (BUTTER. Not margarine, asshat. BUH. TURRRR.)
¾ cup olive oil
6 CHICKEN eggs (Yes, I have had to make this distinction before. Duck eggs are too oily. Goose eggs are too big. And if you have 6 OSTRICH eggs, motherfucker, you have a whole nother set of problems I am not going to address, which may very well include some extremely pissed off ostriches gunning for your ass. Just stick with the chicken eggs and you'll be safe.)
2 cups mixed raisins (You have a problem with things being "mixed?" You don't get to use my recipe. Go away.) 
2 Tbs baking powder
2 Tbs vanilla (Or rum. Here is the one thing I encourage you to experiment with. Try different flavor liquors and see what you can come up with. 2 Tbs is just enough to add a subtle undertone without fucking up the goddamn flavor. Besides- now you have an excuse to buy more liquor. "It's an INGREDIENT, honey. I HAVE to buy it.")
1 tsp baking soda
1 Tbs kosher salt
1 Tbs cinnamon
1 Tbs fresh grated nutmeg
1 tsp ground clove

In a big fucking bowl, sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together. Put it somewhere that it won't fall off the goddamn counter.
Crack the eggs into a little bowl, and then pour them from there one at a time into your mixer, so you dont get shells and shit in there. Whip that bitch. While it's getting beaten, toss in the melted butter, sugar - well, everything else but the flour stuff, the pumpkin, and the raisins. Turn your noisy-ass machine down to the low speed setting - because you're gonna wake the kids if you keep that noise up for too much longer - and add the flour until it's just combined. Take the bowl off the mixer, and using a rubber scraper spatula thingy, gently add in the pumpkin and the raisins. Now that that's done, have a drink.   
Scoop into muffin cups. Bake for 33 minutes at 325. Stab with a knife. Preferably the muffins. If it comes out gooey, THEY'RE NOT DONE, AND YOU DIDN'T FOLLOW DIRECTIONS. If it comes out with a few little crumblies, you're good to go! Have more drinkys and wait for muffins to cool. Then nosh on your grubbage. 

Monday, November 7, 2011

I'm Not an Animal!

I recently discovered this about myself - I’m really hung up on how people smell. I was watching a makeup commercial with Drew Barrymore on it, and all I could think was “I wonder if she’s ever farted in public? Does it stink when she does? In fact, I wonder if she’s ever queefed and owned up to it?” Weird, I know, but this is a large part of why I find myself unable to be attracted for too very long to any movie star or media icon. I think about the reality of the person. The odor of the person. I know I’m not supposed to, that they’re supposed to be these projections of beauty, but I can’t help it. “Hmmm…Robert Downey Junior talks about spending 12+ hours a day on set. I wonder if he walks around smelling like balls and ass?”
Angelina Jolie and NPH are the exceptions. I’m pretty sure she smells like angels and stardust. And I'd bet Angelina smells pretty good too.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

The Twins: "Daddy, can we have cookies for breakfast?"
Me: "Sure!"
The Kids: "YAYYY!"
Me: "With milk?"
Roman: "Yeah, and, Mommy is at work, so she can't say no."
Me: "Wait - Mommy already said no?"
Roman: "Yeah, but she's at work. Sooo..."
Me: "And you are bragging about this? NO COOKIE FOR YOU!"

The OTHER Vulcan

Boogie (holding her hand up in the Vulcan V) - "Live long. With a crossbow."

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

No more Ace Ventura for that boy...

I'm going to my very own special hell, methinks. Well, I'm certain our doctor's assistant thinks, anyway.

Today was "Shot Day" for the twins. Which, with them, is a big production, but it's generally over pretty quick. YAY! (I say "yay", not because I LOVE seeing my children jabbed with pokey metal objects [I really don't], but because dealing with the cacophonous chaos of their powers combined STILL doesn't hold a candle to dealing with Gaius on Shot Day. They scream and cry. Biscuit overturns exam tables. They sit and kick their feet. Little brother requires a full body tackle and bear hug from Daddy, and still manages to squirm free.  [Also, I'm pretty sure he has already started a hit list, and our doctors assistant is numero uno on that list.] On Shot Day for Gaius, the minute we walked into the room, it was like he had whitecoat flashbacks.  He started screaming his head off, scrambled up onto my shoulder like a cracked out chimp, and got a death grip on my eye sockets. I'm kinda surprised he wasn't flinging poo. I finally got him calmed down right about the time the doctor's assistant administered the shots. Ooooh...big mistake. He SCA-REAMED vehemently at the top of his lungs, jabbed at her with Angry Monkey finger, and gave her such a murderous glare that she got uncomfortable enough to mention it. "I REALLY don't like the way he just looked at me. It was very threatening." If it were any other toddler, I would have been like "He's just a baby" and laughed it off. But Gaius? I think he could execute a little of the old ultraviolence, were he of the mind. )
ANYWAY. Back to the story.  It comes Roman's turn, and he - being the most dramatic of the twins - starts wailing at the top of his lungs. I try very hard not to smirk, because this is SERIOUS BUSINESS. According to the needle person. She wipes him with the alcohol swab and he sets to SCREAMING like he's being mauled by a Bengal Tiger. And then she pokes him, and he freaking loses it, and shrieks "IT'S INNN THE BOOONNNE! IT'S INNN THE BOOONNNE!" At which point I can't hold back, and start roaring with laughter so hard I very nearly pee myself, while the doctors assistant stares at me, aghast. 2 seconds later, Boogie starts cracking up, and the next thing you know we're ALL laughing maniacally - including Roman - while Miss Pokey slowly backs out of the room, eyes wide in horror at the family possessed.
If laughter is the best medicine, I think we’re all stocked up. With an overflow of crazy.

Monday, October 31, 2011


Aaand my Halloween is now complete. Just scared the living SHIT out of about 20 middle school kids that all came to the door all at once. I opened the door with a big happy grin, and then suddenly lunged at them, shrieking, my best demonwitch scream straight from the bowels of hell. One little dude couldn't take it and bolted. Everyone else screamed and clutched each other in white-knuckled fear until they saw the giant bowl of candy and all was forgiven. *sigh* I ♥ scaring little kids. Oh, and I  Halloween.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

Saturday, October 29, 2011

The cleaner you are, the more a witch can smell you... Guess my boy is safe.

Okay, lady-with-a-giant-hairy-wart/mole-on-your-face. If you go shopping 2 days before Halloween, expect that children - namely, my son - will point at your wart and think you are dressed as a witch. A professionally dressed witch, but a warty evil witch nonetheless. ESPECIALLY if you get all screechy and offended because he pointed out your "beauty mark." Crazy ass.
As a side note, it probably doesn't help that he had recently finished watching "the Witches" based on the book by Roald Dahl, so he went completely MENTAL when I quietly assured him that you were, indeed, a witch. "DON'T LET HER GET ME, DAD!!! If she tries to give me candy, I will throw it at her! With a snake!"

Friday, October 21, 2011

I'm not like everyone else...

This morning I walked in on Boogie peeing while standing. She was proud of it. "Look Daddy! I can pee like a boy!" Never thought I would have to tell my girl child to put the toilet seat down AFTER she was done.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Speaking of why do you not shut up...

I look at Brie’s family, and I am insanely jealous. Her dad and her brother have this awesome bond. They go on fishing trips, go camping, and hang out. The kids grandparents have us over about every other week or so for dinner and games, and they love to watch the children for us whenever we need it. Brie’s mom loves to have us up, loves to keep in contact with her children, encourage them, help them achieve their goals and relishes her role as grandmother. Her husband is always hiking, biking, and exploring with his sons, and often invites the kids to come along. Holidays with Brie’s family are extraordinary. There is so much love it hurts.
I wish my family was like that. The family on my side does not play well together. There is always drama, always someone butthurt about something. They are perpetually stuck in the "victim" mentality. It’s something of a paradox with them, really. I am an outcast with my parents because I don’t follow their religious beliefs (in fact, I intentionally had myself forcibly evicted or “disfellowshipped” from the religion so I wouldn’t have to deal with their shit) and because I don’t assume the accepted role of breadwinner and king of my own domicile, but they come to me to solve their problems or whine about their drama. I get fucking sick of it. I have actually moved 3 different times to get away from them, but they keep goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch following me. So far, they haven’t come to P-town. Knock on wood. Throw salt over my shoulder. Pray to Bob. (My Bob is different than your B.O.B. My Bob controls the weather) Pray to the gods I DON’T believe in. Sacrifice a goat. Sacrifice a virgin. Whatever it takes, man. Just keep them away.
So, instead of family, I try to make friends. I have found that I can be a bit of an outsider because of my outspoken nature, but I’m usually able to counter that with my charisma and the fact that I adhere to a simple rule - “If you’re going to tell people the truth, make them laugh. Otherwise, they’ll kill you.” Some guy said that, and it’s the truth. My wife has often marveled at how much shit I can say to someone and they’ll stand there and crack up because I’m saying it with a smile or laughing myself. 
I am an outgoing, boisterous, generally happy man, so that would normally endear me to quite a few.
But I am also an at-home dad. From my observation of others in this unique circle, I don't quite fit the part. I’m too large, robust, worldly, and outspoken. A large portion of the at-home dads I’ve met here are short, scrawny fuckers and whiny as shit. All they want to do is bitch about how they feel emasculated, or how their wife or partner doesn’t appreciate and thank them for the sacrifices they make, there’s no glory in what they do, their work is never finished…blah blah blah. Beer night with them is a fucking crybaby I-wish-she-would-listen-to-me-like-you-guys-do-we're-here-for-you-brother-she-says-my-dicks-to-small-we-didn't-need-to-know-that-mine-too fest. Guess what, motherfuckers? The plight of ALL at-home parents are these internal/external struggles. And I can understand venting about it when it comes to a point, but EVERY FUCKING TIME WE MEET?! GAHHH!!! Talk about something else. Fuck, man.
The mom’s group I am a part of is actually quite a bit more to my liking. First off, I have always gotten along with women. B: the women are, for the most part, much more level headed than the dad’s group. Sure they have their cliques, but what group doesn’t? The only problem I have with this group is that they’re clear on the other side of the goddamn river, and it’s a fuckin’ pain in the ass to commute there and back with 3 kids. (Lookit me bein’ whiny. God, this whole post is a bit of a whine fest, isn’t it. Oh well - don’t expect much more of that from now on) Anyway, I am just not getting the social interaction I crave.
And I AM a social person. I need to communicate. So guess who is the recipient of my expenditure of pent up emotion in the form of affection (Ambush snogging and attempts to roughhouse or engage in foreplay), constant contact (read ass-grabbing), and endless babble as I relate to her even the most miniscule detail of my day, told in such a way as to make it exciting and extraordinary, when the reality of it all is, it's boring as shit. That’s right - dear ol’ wifey poo. All she wanted to do was come home to a nice, quiet, clean house, dinner ready, go for a walk, play with the kids, and then watch Firefly or Torchwood until we go to sleep, secure in knowing that I will always be there beside her. She gets most of that, all except the quiet bit. She is bombarded by a constant stream of chatter, and, eventually, she just has to tune it out. So, then, of course, I get offended because she isn't listening. Now I'm grumpy, she's upset, the kids are screaming, and it just goes downhill from there.
I just need an outlet. And I’ve found an online group that is perfect for that. You should check them out. MWDAS. DON’T tell ‘em I sent you, though, or you’ll never get in.

Why do you not shut up?!?!?

You know why I don't have a Twitter account? Because I already get inane updates every 15 seconds from my children.
"Daddy, when I said 'hi', you closed your mouth, so I thought you was not listening."
"Daddy, this is my tea cup."
"Daddy, this is my bear."
"Daddy, I'm playing with this alligator. It makes music."
"That's cool, love. Go play with it in the playroom, please. Daddy's trying to work."
30 seconds later...
"Daddy, I'm playing with this alligator. It makes music."
"Really? No fucking way. You mean the SAME alligator you were playing with half a minute ago when you gave me this very same status update, or is this a DIFFERENT goddamn alligator? Because if it IS different, I want to know where the hell you got it. Do we have a magical freaking xylophone alligator duplicator hidden somewhere in the playroom? Because I want to capitalize on that shit. Otherwise, GO FUCKING PLAY!!! GAHHH!!!"
She giggles mischievously with a just a hint of demonic influence and scampers away, secure in the knowledge that she is driving me batshit loco.

The worst part, for me, is that with the twins, I hear everything twice. Seriously. 
"Daddy, can I have your hammer to fix my baby?" 
"No, Boogie. Go play." 
A few SECONDS later - "Daddy, Boogie needs your hammer to fix her baby..." 
"GAHHHH! Go AWAY! You don't use a hammer for baby repair!"

Apart from feeding them constantly - with the feeble hope that having food in their mouths will prevent them from talking, or at the very least, muffle the sound - there are a few methods I use to distract my children from assaulting me with an incessant barrage of inane chatter.

I have a GINORMOUS table, and that table is sitting on my decent sized lawn, and I cover that table with about 10 yards of banner paper, and give the kids every marker, tub of paint, tube of glue, crayon, and snapcase of glitter that I can find and let them go to town. I then pull up a lawn chair, pour my sangria, and read. In a couple of hours, I hose them off or have them wash off in the pool, and, when the paint has dried on the paper, I wallpaper their fort with it. I do this once or twice a week.
Outside playtime is our favorite activity. We have a nice big beautiful yard, complete with trees and a clubhouse, and the kids spend hours out there letting themselves and their imaginations run wild.
As always, there is the "Super Ninja Turtle Monkey Princess Dance Time Power Hour" or "Dance Time" for short.
Also TV. TV is a good distraction. Wait, what's that? Experts say TV is BAD for kids? "Experts" can fuck off. I know when too much TV is too much. 
Reading time. My kids LOVE to read, so I encourage "reading time" at every opportunity.
And naps. I love that my kids still go down for 3 hour naps right in the middle of the day. And if they aren't napping, they are at least having some personal quiet time. Which means so am I. Yay!

I'll be what I wanna do

The word for today is “ignorance”.
So, anybody that knows me well knows these 4 things - I have been struck by lightning, I have that “Hulk” thing that happens, I am (not that it should fucking matter to YOU) a pansexual male in a monogamous heterosexual relationship with my lifemate Brie, and…oh yes - I cannot abide stupidity. The definition I use for stupidity has broadened over the years, to the point that I have become an outrageous cynic when it comes down to my perception of humanity. I want to change that, but holy fucking shit, man. It seems every time I start making headway, start seeing beauty in people the way I once did, some fucking troglodyte pops his thick ignorant head up and says something so intolerable that it brings my whole house of cards crashing down.
Case in point:
I was having a conversation with a friend of a friend. He is of the opinion that gay people check themselves in to counseling centers to be cured of their homosexuality, not because of the stigma surrounding being gay, or the stress and intense guilt they feel from their religion, family, and community telling them that it is wrong, but simply because they want to. He further went on to inform me that “no one discriminates against gays anymore. They are an accepted part of society for the most part.” When I pointed out to him that, in fact, in our town, in the last year alone, there had been several acts of violence targeting gays, he said something along the lines of “Well, statistically, it’s so much better for them now than it used to be, so there’s really not any reason for them to feel discriminated against anymore.”
…What. The. Fuck. Motherfucker.
This is it though, right? This right here is going to be my point -the rights of the individual. In order to respect his individuality, do I have to accept his ignorance as well? Because I don’t wanna. I want to get in his face (and would have, if not for the intervention of a number of friends and my wife, being that we were at a mutual friends house, and I am influenced by the Way of the Circle when it comes to domocilicus domesticus) get him in a motherfucking headlock, and scream in his ear:

That’s what I wanted to do. Because we, as a society, have abso-fucking-lutely no clue.
A perfect example - “gay marriage”. What is the purpose of distinguishing “gay” marriage from “traditional” marriage? Or any other type of marriage, for that matter? Nothing says “I love you” like a shotgun wedding. Right?! I’m being told that marrying someone for no other reason than you don’t want to conceive your fucking bastard spawn out of wedlock is a better reason to form a life union than, oh, I don’t know - LOVE? You fucking twatwaddle. That’s an AWESOME environment for a child to be raised in. One of self-perpetuating ignorance. Unless that child has the intelligence to see it for what it is and the strength to rise above it, here we go AGAIN. Doot doot doodle doodle doot doot doo doo… mother fucking circus of life.

Oh, we would like to think that we have come into an age of acceptance. We delude ourselves into thinking that prejudice is passing away, because we now use words like "acceptance" and "tolerance" on a regular basis. Like any one part of humanity need go to the other part for their approval. Fuck you, you egomaniacal bastards. As if my religious beliefs, or race, or gender, or orientation, or my sexuality has ANYTHING to do with you. “GAH! Don’t go near him! You might catch Gay!” Imbeciles.

Bigotry is the product of the ignorant wallowing in self-loathing and stupidity, too self-centered and focused on their own presumed superiority to understand that in the end, we are all human. Every last fucking one of us. All constructed of the same starshit, all on equal footing, in the face of that bitch Mother Nature, in the goddamn trenches, we are all of us stuck to this fucking rock, being tossed willy-nilly about the infinite chaotic motherfucking cosmos, subject to the crazy ass whims of the universe. And I haven’t met a person yet who has made it out alive. Of course, I haven’t met a person who has made it out dead, either. What I’m saying is, we are equal. We all know this. On the surface we know this. Deep down we know it. So why can’t we all just motherfucking GET ALONG?!
And I do want to respect others rights, sexuality, religion… but where do I draw the line? Do I respect the other person’s "right" to discriminate, or do I ”educate” them in the shallowness of their intellect?
It’s not really a “line”, though, this principle of respect. It’s more of an intangible…thing, an amorphous cloud, a bubble, a projection of the individual. The Respect-a-bubble!
Because I think, simply, it comes down to respect. Respect the rights of the individual to choose to be or do or say what they want, as long as those decisions don’t disrespect others' rights as individuals. Seems simple enough, right? *sigh* Guess I just have to keep up with my plan of world domination. Then ALL you cockmunches will HAVE to see it my way.

You'll shoot yer eye out, kid.

Ohhhh…I smelled a waft of Christmas this morning. It’s not even autumn yet. A little frosty nip in the air drifting through the open window, stimulating all my holiday-cheer-sensing nerve endings, awakening the seasonal nostalgia.
I love the holidays. No matter the reason for celebrating, for me it’s about the gathering. Friends, family, all together, celebrating autumn and staving off winter’s sharp bite with feasting and celebration.
Christmas to me is the most nostalgic. The sights and smells weave a frosted tapestry of snow-covered memories backlit by the rainbow radiance of a million twinkling multi-colored lights. The gifts, the cheer, the caroling, the warmth of a fire to hold off the chill. Ah, wonderful reminiscence...

The crystalline tinkle of lights being strung, and that first nutmeggy soft sip of eggnog, with just a hint of rum, because grandma had to have her tipple.
The on-key, off-key drunken singing of all those classic winter/christmas songs…oh, Frank Sinatra, how we’ll miss you.
The ecstatic squeals of glee as the house erupts in a confetti blizzard of torn wrapping paper. I can only imagine what the kids will sound like when they get up to open THEIR presents…
That crunchy burny sweet feeling of peppermint stinging your sinuses while chomping on a candy cane that was recently perched on the rim of a giant steaming mug of hot cocoa topped with what was once a mountain of tiny marshmallow pillows, now a gooey mass of chocolatey deliciousness.
The warm, spicy humidity that permeates throughout, of cookies and cakes and pies and meats and root vegetables and gingerbread being baked or roasted or broiled or cooked in any of a thousand ways…
And decorating the tree.
That glorious piece of pine, fresh cut, smelling of piney pineness, set firmly into its stand, at its base a beautiful red and green plaid skirt on which all the presents sit piled high, shiny and ribbony in their perfectness.
Sigh. I cannot wait for Christmas to get here. 

We put the "dis" in "dysfunctional".

Doesn’t it just fucking torch your poopchute when you’re making that obligatory (funny how that word rhymes with “purgatory”) that obligatory yearly trip to visit the family or in-laws that you never see except for that one time a year, because, let’s be honest here, you fucking hate them and the only reasons you show up are 1- to let them know you are alive and not writing from a padded 6X9 cell, and, 2 - to show off how much better/worse/non-existent your kids are than theirs - even though yours aren't there, because mommy doesn't want the spawn hanging out with "those people", and you can't really blame her for that- and you show up and some jerkoff who is possibly the 4th or 5th idiot to have been all up in your stupid tramp ever-knocked-up sister has volunteered you as chef because “hey - din’t he usta flip burgers er sumtin’?” (nevermind your 13 years ass-breaking professional restaurant experience - you “usta" flip motherfucking BURGERS), and so now you find yourself sweating your balls off in the world’s hottest, smallest, most inconvenient fucking kitchen where the only power source is an extension cord attached to a tiny generator and all water has to be hand-pumped at a pump located half a mile away, and where every fucktard you are related to and their idiot mother - who also happens to be yours - fucking drunken conga line through it, making stupid shit demands like “Timmy doesn’t eat meat that used to have hair” or “Suzy only eats ORGANIC Twinkies” or “this beer tastes like piss” (you don’t even care to fucking tell him he’s drinking out of your piss bottle, because there’s no fucking toilet in this godforsaken hovel) and so now you’re fucking twitching like a spastic colon every time someone comes through the door, 2 seconds away from making it a Donner Party fiesta, so you chop/stab a fucking butchers knife into the floor in front of the door as an emergency doorstop - and the next assdick who tries to come through the door breaks his fucking nose slamming into it, giving you a brief glowing moment of happy - and turn back to the shitstorm of slop you are preparing, and, on tasting it, immediately sense there’s something missing, and you realize the missing ingredient is love, because you fucking HATE every last one of the smeg-dripping twat-waddles that you are cooking for and so you add a shit-ton of alcohol to everything, including yourself, and, miraculously, it fucking fixes the problem? Yeahhh…I’m so glad I don’t do THAT anymore.

Anybody want a peanut?

Has anyone ever assessed the practical application of children’s bedtime stories and nursery rhymes? That shit needs rewritten from a parents viewpoint. I guarantee you the outcome would be different.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty’s dad came out the house and was like
“What the fuck are you doing up there, boy? Get down before you fall and crack your head open!...see? Didn’t I tell you? Now your brains all leakin’ out and shit… I fuckin’ told you, but would you listen? Nooo…c’mere, let me take a look. Yep, cut your head pretty bad there…quiet down, you’re going to wake the neighbors.  Let’s go wash it up, see how bad it is. I’ll get you a popsicle. And from now on - STAY OFF THE GODDAMN WALL!!!”

On the subject of good parenting - Where was Snow White’s dad while all that shit with her stepmother was going on? Running his fucking kingdom. Well,sit up and take notice, you unobservant son of a bitch. That insane drama queen you call a second wife is TRYING TO EAT YOUR DAUGHTERS HEART. I’m Snow White’s dad, I’m like “That’s the seed of my fucking loins, bitch! You think you have to kill her because she looks better than you? When I'm through with you, you will be nothing but a snaggle-toothed whore! My HOUNDS will be fucking prettier than you. Crazy jealous-ass wench. Hey! Huntsman! All that shit she was gonna have you do to my daughter? Yeah. Do that to her. Right here. Right now. None of this running off into the woods shit. Fuck this bitch up.”

About those magical woods, too - if you’re walking through the woods, and some animal - ANY animal - starts talking to you, be it duck, rabbit, wolf or a motherfucking toad, you do one of two things - stop eating those particular fucking mushrooms and run like fuck to the nearest ranger station/ poison control center, or, if you feel confident in your sanity - because, lets’s face it, at this point, I would seriously be doubting myself - you find a way to trap that shit. That’s money in the bank right there. “Step right up! Be the first to see a real live talking toad! What’s that? He say’s if you’ll kiss him he’ll turn into a prince? Taking bids on who wants to kiss a frog to see if he’ll actually turn into a prince!” Money in the bank.

What about the viewpoint of the victims in the story? Why are all the princesses such simpering prisses? Oh, I’m just going to lay here and wait for my prince to come… fuck that noise. Get your fat ass off the bed, put down the cheetos, and go find yourself, ya daffy broad. Trapped in a tower? Light that shit on fire! Seduce the fucking guard! Noose him and use his flailing body as a counterweight when you slide down the rope to freedom! Do SOMETHING, rather than just lie there and wait for "fate" to happen. Fuck fate in it's fucking ass. Fate is the scapegoat of the ignorant. Get your ass out of Dodge. And, when they least expect it, come back with a vengeance. Take a lesson from the Count of Monte Christo, and fuck their shit UP!
You want to cast a spell on me? Here’s a spell for your ass - a fucking mortar and masonry enema. So every time you take a dump, you literally shit a brick, and you will motherfucking remember WHO you locked in a goddamn tower.
You want to turn me into a swan, or some other puppet to be your plaything? ABRACADABRA twat-whistle! My man Merlin is about to go CRAZY up in this shit. He will transform you into a goddamn CHUPACABRA, bitch! You’ll never forget the person that turns you into a- get this - literal translation - “goatsucker.” Right?! What the fuck does that mean?! I don’t have a clue, but whatever it is, you’re IT! Then we will turn you over to distinguished men of science (read: mad fucking scientists who don't really give a good goddamn about ethics) who will immediately vivisect you in a most excruciating manner, by special request, going through the rectum first. Moral - If you want to use others as your playthings, you may one day find yourself with someone else's hand lodged deep in your ass.
You want to send me out into the woods to get lost and eaten by wild animals because I’m “too much responsibilty”, so now I and my sister have to suffer? Ha HA! I get the last laugh, because we will survive this shit, and then we will come for you in broad daylight, because by this point we don't give a flying fuck who sees us, and we will bind and gag your ass, and suspend you from a helicopter or hang glider or fucking pterodactyl, and when reach our destination, you are going to know EXACTLY where you are. “WELCOME TO THE PIRANHA INFESTED WATERS OF THE AMAZON, MOTHERFUCKER! DID YOU KNOW THEY CAN SMELL BLOOD FROM OVER A MILE AWAY? TO BAD YOU'RE  ALL CUT TO SHIT FROM BEING DRAGGED THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH ON YOUR WAY HERE, RIGHT?!?!” And then we will lower you, slowly, into the teeming river. Moral - accepting responsibility is a bitch, but not accepting responsibility will fuck you up worse than you could ever imagine.
Update that shit, motherfuckers. 

Stupid is as stupid does...

This flashback is the reason I will never again shop at Wal-Mart. Apart from the soul-sucking. It happened a while ago, but the shadow of the stupid still looms dark over all things "Wally World". 
I wanted a foam floor mat for the babies to play on. I went to Wal-Mart on the recommendation of our former daycare provider, who had purchased just such a mat there. 
Now, This Wal-Mart is a monolith. It is roughly the size of the Coliseum, with probably as much blood spilt to keep it in operation. It is an affront to god. If there is a god. If there is, whoever they are, they are very affronted. I would say on-the-verge-of-smiting affronted. Hell, god may very well have done some smiting. Probably on aisle six, but nobody knows, because no one has found the end of aisle six. It's that big. And the employees, down to the stockboy and up to management, are all stupid. Every last one of them. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. Read on. 
I go back to the children-y section of the mall of satan, which I think is a good place to start looking if you are trying to find kids playmats. I encounter a young female employee, and ask - "Do you know where I can find foam playmats? You know, like the ones they have in daycare? The alphabet on them and stuff?" 
"Oh, we don't carry those." 
"You're sure." 
"Because my daycare provider picked hers up here." "Wellll…we might, but I haven't seen any." 
"So you don't know." 
"I haven't seen any." 
"Please tell me you are the ONE PERSON on this planet who has seen everything in this store, and so, because you have seen everything, you know, for a fact that there are NO playmats. Anywhere. In this store." 
"You don't have to be rude." Thank you, Ann Landers. 
" I want to speak to your supervisor, your manager, the person in charge of you." Gotta cover my bases. She's slippery. She calls her supervisor, who could be her twin. "What are you looking for?" 
"Foam playmats. Letters on them. For the FLOOR." 
"Well, we used to carry them, but we don't anymore." I notice she doesn't have a name badge that identifies her position. On a whim, I ask - "Are you a supervisor?" Scowl. 
"Well, no, but I have seniority because I've been here longer." 
"Is that what seniority means? So when did Walmart go union?" 
I get another scowl. 
 "Look. I asked to speak to a supervisor. Can I PLEASE speak with your supervisor!" 
Stony silence. She just stands there and stares at me. 
"You're not going to go get your supervisor, are you." 
"I'll get him!" she snaps. 
She calls her supervisor, and storms off. A few minutes later, a very harried, bald little man approaches. "What can I help you find?" 
"Are you a supervisor?" 
"I am." 
"You're sure? Because the last person I talked to seemed to have a problem understanding that." 
"I'm looking for foam mats for my baby to play on." 
"For the floor?" 
Uh-hem. "Preferably." 
"Well, we had some in stock, but then we quit carrying those, and then we got a new brand…" And he launches into the colorful, albeit brief, history of the local WalMart. "Back in aught 6…" I half expected him to ring a bell and ask to keep the line moving. But, he looked happy reminiscing, so I let him finish. "…And so we expanded into fresh produce, hoping to take over, I mean, grow in that market as well." Snaps back to focus. "I'm sorry. Mats. Right. Nope, we don't carry those." 
"Thanks anyway. Thanks for the apology too." I'll take what I can get. With a crabby look, he scuttled away. It didn't look like I was going to find those mats here, so I finished picking up a few things (can't beat a five pack of deodorant for ten bucks, right?) and went to checkout.  On my way, I noticed a Subway at the front of the store, thought "Mmm…sammmich…" and headed over to pick one up. But as I made a beeline for sammmich, something caught my eye. And, as I turned to look at it, I realized exactly HOW stupid these people were. There, in the front of the store, in a GIANT FUCKING DISPLAY THE SIZE OF FUCKING VESUVIUS, ADVERTISED BY A FUCKING SIGN THAT MIGHT AS WELL HAVE SAID "HOLLYWOOD", WERE THE FUCKING PLAYMATS. FUUUUUCK! 
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?!" I screeched at the representative standing closest to me. She jumped back, looking around wildly, probably expecting a tyrannosaurus or a giant cockroach to come barreling down on her. "What?!? What?!?" 
"That! Right there! That display. What is that?" 
"That's what it says on the sign! But are you sure? Because I've had three – you know what? Not your problem. Can you get me the supervisor from back in the children's toy section please?" She calls him up. As he walks up, he sees me standing there, and rolls his eyes. I guarantee you, that was last time he EVER did that. I plucked his eyeballs out. Not really. "WHAT. THE HELL. IS THAT?!?!" I shouted in my most commanding baritone, pointing over his shoulder. I watched a stain slowly spread across the front of his pants. He looked, and immediately turned a brilliant crimson, amplified by his bald little head. "Those look like playmats, sir." 
"And what, sir?" Suddenly he has become a polite amnesiac. 
"And why, for the love of all that is holy, did you not know that they were here?" 
"I don't know what you mean…" 
It's like I'm in an alternate reality, where everything is stupid and nothing makes sense because it's stupid. 
"Are you fucking kidding? I swear to god… Fuck you! I'm going to Target." I went up front, picked up my sammmich, and walked out. Still don't have the mats, though.