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. 

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.

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

Boogie(upon waking): "I FARTED!" *giggles*

Me:"yayyyy..."

Boogie:"I think a fart is my poop breathing out my butt."

Me:"That's...great."

Get all up in that...

RECIPE TIME!
Autumn Squash Muffins

Ingredients
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. 

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.

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."

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.