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." 
"Yes." 
"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." 
"No." 
"No?" 
"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." 
"Yeeesss…" 
"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?" 
"Umm…Playmats?" 
"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…" 
"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.

YOU'RE out of order!

Whoops! There seems to be booooop

Bob had bitch-tits

I had a neat experience shopping recently that reminded me how awesome it is to live here. It was a simple thing, really. A super nice lady approached me and said - "Your kids are SO happy. You are doing an AWESOME job of being a dad." Very effective in making me all teary and choked up. The bitch. I'm a man. I'm not supposed to - oh, right. I'm me. It's okay then. It was super sweet of her, is what I was getting at. Not quite the experience I had where I used to live. 
 Before I get going on that, I think something needs to be understood. I wasn't forced into being an at-home dad. I chose it. I quit a lucrative stable job to be who and where I am. And I love it. That isn't to say I don't have trouble, problems, bad days, or a significant amount of emotional conflict within. That's all just standard parental fare. It comes with the territory. You have 2 five-year olds, a diaperless 2-year old, and a box of art supplies, something is bound to end up on the wall. 
Now. What gets me are the people who have something to say about what I do. They cover the ENTIRE spectrum of “shit that’s none of your business but you feel obligated to give your opinion on anyway.” Granted, most of it is good stuff. If you see “God, that’s just so much responsibility. I don’t see how you do it. It’s hard enough when you’re a MOM…” as good. Seriously. It’s not like I fucking fly and shoot lasers out my ass. “Duhn duhn duh DUHHHHH!!! MEGADAD taxi's his kids to school on his back. Comes complete with 5-point safety harnesses. In an emergency, his ass can be used as a flotation device.
Wait! Is that a fire? Megadad will put it out with his mutant fire-hose appendage! (Okay. That sounded dirtier than it was supposed to.) All this and more, whilst reducing his carbon footprint and completing his taxes! ” 
 Bullshit. I don’t do anything different than what any other at-home parents do, moms or dads. Well, I mean, I might do it differently, but the principle's the same. Get up, suckle at the life-saving teat full of the sweet nectar of life that is my giant blue enamel coffee mug. Hope to hell the kids don’t wake up while preparing breakfast and lunch for my honey. They do anyway, so feed kids. See wifey-wife off to work. Feed kids again. Entertain kids by telling them nightmarish stories of my twisted childhood so they appreciate how good they really have it. Feed kids. Clothe kids. Chase kids out of bathroom for the 14th gazillion time. Feed kids. Shop for kids. Separate kids from fighting over the ONE toy they all HAVE to have, despite the fucking truckload of toys in the immediate vicinity. Feed kids. Teach kids the lesson of “Why to say no to crack and other nefarious drugs” by taking them down to Hobo Row and letting them watch homeless guys street fight for a dime bag. Feed kids. Put kids down for nap. You know - the usual. But still, people feel a need to voice themselves, loudly, in my general direction, as to my "predicament". The opinions I LOVE to hear are the contradicting ones. And realize - they are generally not directed to me. They are usually either said as an aside or in an indirect manner, as if it's not going to offend me. Here are some actual quotes I have heard from the free thinking openly expressive people of the city in which I used to live : 
“Only a lazy man let’s his wife go to work while he stays home and plays with the kids. Taking care of the kids is the woman’s job.” 
Sooo - when I do it, it’s just playing, but the moment a woman steps in, it’s a job. Okay. Ignoramacunt. 


“It’s the man's duty to be the breadwinner. Any father whose wife HASN'T died and he is staying home with the kids needs to man up and get a job.” 
Riiight. Who the fuck are you again? Why are you talking? Imma junk-punch someone in a minute. 


“Men don’t have the nurturing instinct a mother does. It’s not natural. That’s why women have breasts. So they can hold their child close. Men can’t comfort like a mother. It’s not in their programming.” 
GaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAI! Judooo CHOP! Bitch, I’ve GOT tits. And I’m about to slap the shit out of you with them. I’ve got tits from the 70 lbs I put on after the twins birth because they slept in shifts and so I didn't sleep but maybe 2 or 3 hours every few days and because of the sleep dep and delirium I went NOWHERE because I didn’t trust myself driving and so I lay in the recliner at home with at least one child on my chest at any given time because that was the only place they would sleep. On me. How’s that for nurturing, ya loony?! 
My all time favorite, though?  “God gave you a charge to be the head of your household, and if you stay home with the children and they see your wife being the provider, your headship will be "upshured"(I'm pretty sure she meant usurped, but I let it slide. After all, she is my mother). Your kids will all be confused about who is in charge, and they won’t be able to school right, and they will grow up to be losers and drug addicts.” GAHHHHHHHHH! Fucking FUCK! This, from the woman with 2 kids in rehab, 1 in and out of prison, and only 2 of the 8 total have made anything of themselves. And 1 of those is an at-home dad. You know who I’m a big fan of right about now? Your Old Testament God. That motherfucker did some RIGHTEOUS smiting. Which, if he wants to uphold his record, will do me this one favor, right,  here, right now… No? Nothing? Oh well.  
Really, though, I don’t want to be recognized as a “mold-breaker” or a “rebel” or “that dad everyone talks about because he hangs out with all those women so there has to be something going on there” - wait. Yes I do. So keep it up, all you old biddies, with your ultra-old timey mentalities. You provide me with the fodder to pad my blog.

I tried to think of the most harmless thing...something that could never, ever possibly destroy us...

What the fuck, fucking Hasbro?! Why do you show all those Play-Doh commercials where the hamburgers come out looking all perfect, separated into each individual vibrantly colored piece, and the noodles look just like real noodles, and kids are constructing multi-hued fairy-scented skyscrapers of the stuff, all the while dancing around and singing "Tra-la-la, Play-Doh is happy good fun times, tra-la-la!"

That is some grade-A bull pucky. First of all, there is only ONE inevitable color of Play-Doh - gall bladder grey. Somewhere in the time frame of 2 seconds between being neatly separated into each pristine sunshine yellow container and internal organdom, the Play-Doh becomes this whirly psychedelic amalgamation, something that bears resemblance to what would result from giving a pot brownie laced with LSD to a caffeinated, sleep deprived nicced-out rhesus monkey, and then telling it to write the sonnets of the Bard. 
Shortly after unleashing my children on a pack of Play-Doh with so many colors some were outside the visible spectrum of light, I was assaulted by one such heaving gelatinous mass that was eerily reminiscent of Ken Kesey’s Magic School Bus. Eerily, because I have no idea why I know who the hell or WHAT the hell that is. 
“Look Daddy - it’s a horsey!” 
"GEEEEEAHHH! GAHHHH! GET IT AWAYYY!!!- oh, hey Boogie. A horsey. Horrrrseeeyyy…yeah, okayyy... go bug your mother.” 2 seconds later, it was an amorphous blob of pinkish gray goo. I’m almost POSITIVE it winked at me. This makes me pretty sure that Play-Doh is sentient. I mean, aside from the bits the kids eat, where does it go? I’ve never thrown away any Play-Doh, but no matter how much is bought or gifted to us, it never seems to accumulate. If it did, we’d have a futon-sized stomach-lining colored blob that WASN’T me hanging around our house somewhere. That would make a cool Doctor Who episode… Hasbro takes this creature, this happy little skooshy thing -called a pladoh, I’m sure - and RIPS it apart in a prismic extractor, separating it into all the colors of the rainbow and sells it. The loving hands of children knead it back together into its singular gooey form, at which point it makes its escape, where it is hunted by special pladoh hunters in the employ of Hasbro, who capture it and start the vicious cycle all over again.

Once again, it goes to show you - you can never trust a man in dark sunglasses and a Hasbro jumpsuit sporting a gaily-colored tranquilizer gun.

Bring me ANOTHER ONNNE!

Okay, so I wish I had a story, like how it turned out my appendix was what was left of my evil twin, or they messed up and performed a routine liposuction, leaving me a svelte - albeit bruised - 200 lb love machine, but I got nuttin'. I am recovering well from an emergency appendectomy. That's about it. In other news, my girl Jessie is recovering from an evisceration and as such, has the cooler drugs. Speedy recovery, girl! I, on the other hand, have three tinyyy holes that will heal and no one will be the wiser, other than my missing organ. I imagine him - Herbert is his name - I imagine Herbert in a rain soaked fedora, sitting on a lonely street corner, sad jazz playing in the background. "Chin up, kid. The world is yours now." Herbert just looks at me in that sad, appendix-ey way, ruptured spirit washing down the gutter with the dirty gray rain.

Never feed them after midnight...

Sooo...Cocoa Puffs? Yeah - sweet balls of Satan. That is what they are. As a treat, I thought, "Hey - I bet the kids would love those!" And so I gave them a bowl as a pre-bedtime snack. Biggest. Fucking. Mistake. Ofmylife. They fucking LOST it. Batshit, off the walls, insane monkey brain CRAZY. I have NEVER seen my children behave like this. They were completely fucking wired. Jumping off shit, throwing things, deaf as a goddamn post, screaming their baboon heads off... It was HORRIFIC. Seriously. W.T.F?!?! Never again.

Also, I can kill you with my brain

Roman: (watching me mix a few spices into a pot on the stove)"Whatcha maaakin'?"

Boogie:(Without looking up from playing, in a gravelly voice)"He's makin' chicken bross..."

Me:"Uhhh...how do you know that, Boogs?"

Boogie:"I can see into your brain."

Me:"You shut the hell up."