I have the flu. My son has two ear canals that resemble a head of cauliflower and my daughter is coughing up more phlegm than Marlon Brando (before his death). I stayed home yesterday, feverish and feeling as if I got hit by a freight train, kids all happy that they were born, my cell phone ringing like crazy from people that want something, mostly a hose to put out financial firestorms and I had the AUDACITY to not put my son's clothes away. Shame on me.
This morning, I should have been able to guess where the conversation was going. The night previous, sweat beading from my forehead, my wife asked me what I did all day. It wasn't WHAT she said, but HOW she said it. As if two living children was not enough, a house that had not burned down to the ground, a clean kitchen, kids toys picked up off of the living room floor, etc. etc. I thought I did pretty well for being sick as a dog. Apparently not enough. My son was sitting on her lap. When you speak to an infant, they hear BLAH BLAH BLAH. My wife thinks they hear everything word for word. She says, "Jacob, Mommy has to clean the whole house before company comes Thursday, and finish the laundry that DID NOT GET DONE TODAY, but only after she works all day tomorrow" Of course, being the cynical bastard I am, say, "and when Mommy is done with that, she needs to paint the outside of the house, but you are too young to help, let alone understand the English language." I got up, and went upstairs to transfer the laundry from washer to dryer, grumbling the whole way.
So this morning, I am asleep. My wife had been up since 7:30, unable to sleep because she had "all this stuff to do" before Thursday. I don't know what the big deal was about Thursday anyway. It is dinner with her Dad, someone whom no one likes anyway. So what? We aren't aiming to impress anyone. Regardless, she was stressed. Fine. Why kill me about it? So this is when she said those terrible words...."you did not put Jacob's clothes away." She plops my son on my chest, him looking at me with a big smile, drool oozing onto my face like a miniature Saint Bernard. She reminds me how I failed to put away his wardrobe and I said, "I will do it tonight I guess. It isn't that much." She says, "but everytime I turn around there is one more thing for me to do." What? Still confused and slowly starting to wake up completely, I said "I will help you tonight, I promise." She rolls her eyes as if i wasn't getting the point. I got the point, OK? It wasn't done, but Jesus...move on. Oh no, she says, "You just wouldn't understand." Then I killed Kennedy all over again. "Are you on the rag?" She picked my son up and left. OOPS. I guess I didn't understand.
Never say that to your wife or girlfriend. The fact is, yes, she is on her hell week, PMS fully a blaze, but she didn't need reminding of that. She simply wanted me to say, I WILL BE YOUR DOMESTIC BITCH FOR THE NEXT 36 HOURS. But, I was half asleep. My brain was foggy. Sue me.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
When Kids are Sick
I learned a valuable lesson this weekend when it comes to sick kids. Never roll your eyes at your concerned wife. It has a tendency to ruin marital bliss. Now, I am not sleeping on the couch because of it, nor are we not speaking to each other. Mother's worry, father's roll eyes. Father's tell kids to "rub some dirt on it," when approached with a partially detached appendage. Mother's will rush to the E.R. It is the Venus/Mars scenario in real life. I just rolled my eyes. OOPS....
My son has a URI. Not to be mistaken for a distant drunken Russian relative, a URI is a Upper Respiratory Infection. Not infarction. Don't use that term around mothers either. It tends to lead to panic attacks. It is sort of like saying "bomb" in an airport, minus the FAA marshals tackling you. It could be a number of things. I say cold, she says tumor. I say congestion, she says Leukemia. I say drainage or an ear infection, she says Last Rights. Get my point? It is a travesty that my son is suffering through a cold....err, Bronchitis or pneumonia. Here is the kicker. He knows the minute he coughs when the sun is down, someone will come hold him. Now, in defense of my wife, his cough is bigger than he is. That says a lot since his dinner consisted of a water buffalo and a keg of beer. He really is miserable; cranky and somewhat lethargic. I do feel bad for him. I really do. But factor in my wife saying he just "threw up the Hudson River. He must be starving," and I lose a bit of sympathy for him. Thank God he didn't have a hangnail too, lest we would throw him into a plastic bubble.
Last night, after he rolled over and caused such a clatter, my mother-in-law and wife ran upstairs to see what was the matter. And what to their wondering eyes did appear? A kid in a crib. OH MY! Not that. Quick get him out of that thing before it implodes and takes him with it! So, he came downstairs and my wife made him a three ounce bottle. Three ounces? That small amount of food would aggravate a Rwandan. Go big or go home. He sucked that down and of course was pissed that he was short changed sixty-four ounces. So I got up to make more. With my back turned and only God as HER witness, he began to cough, gag and then I heard what was the "shot heard round the world." BRING A TOWEL! So I did. I brought a bedsheet...err....kitchen towel to mop up what I thought was vomit. I saw some drool. Nothing resembling formula or phlegm interlaced with formula. Just some drool. I said, "what happened?" BIG mistake. "He just threw up. He has to be starving." She doesn't watch many documentaries about the famine in Africa. Threw up? When I throw up, it is obvious. Hell, when anyone throws up, it is obvious. I did not see obvious. My eyes were starting to roll. I asked, "what did he throw up," to which my wife replied, "the 3 ounces he just ate." Now, remember...I saw the three ounces in the bottle. I remember its volume. I remember the color and the smell. Formula smells like sweaty gym socks left in a hot car on a summers....let's say...fortnight. It stinks, OK? Regurgitated formula smells a little worse. His burps resemble Acetone. Don't smell it. Don't see it anywhere, but it still happened, right? Wrong. Eyes roll in direct sight of the mother. OOPS again.
So then the hugs and rocking comes. He is crying, mostly to peel away from the Mommy velcro and just drink the bottle. That and he is tired. VERY tired. Mostly, if I was in his head, I would bet his words were, "I promise I won't cough anymore if you just lay me back in my bed." He had more drugs in him than Jimmy Hendrix. He was so delirious, he probably didn't know what he wanted. Eyes rolled again. Then I heard Britney, "OOPS I did it again...." He did eat...he did sleep and all is well. he will go see the doctor today. Before you stone me to death, I did apologize to my wife for rolling my eyes. Everyone has the right to worry. Just not all the time . =)
My son has a URI. Not to be mistaken for a distant drunken Russian relative, a URI is a Upper Respiratory Infection. Not infarction. Don't use that term around mothers either. It tends to lead to panic attacks. It is sort of like saying "bomb" in an airport, minus the FAA marshals tackling you. It could be a number of things. I say cold, she says tumor. I say congestion, she says Leukemia. I say drainage or an ear infection, she says Last Rights. Get my point? It is a travesty that my son is suffering through a cold....err, Bronchitis or pneumonia. Here is the kicker. He knows the minute he coughs when the sun is down, someone will come hold him. Now, in defense of my wife, his cough is bigger than he is. That says a lot since his dinner consisted of a water buffalo and a keg of beer. He really is miserable; cranky and somewhat lethargic. I do feel bad for him. I really do. But factor in my wife saying he just "threw up the Hudson River. He must be starving," and I lose a bit of sympathy for him. Thank God he didn't have a hangnail too, lest we would throw him into a plastic bubble.
Last night, after he rolled over and caused such a clatter, my mother-in-law and wife ran upstairs to see what was the matter. And what to their wondering eyes did appear? A kid in a crib. OH MY! Not that. Quick get him out of that thing before it implodes and takes him with it! So, he came downstairs and my wife made him a three ounce bottle. Three ounces? That small amount of food would aggravate a Rwandan. Go big or go home. He sucked that down and of course was pissed that he was short changed sixty-four ounces. So I got up to make more. With my back turned and only God as HER witness, he began to cough, gag and then I heard what was the "shot heard round the world." BRING A TOWEL! So I did. I brought a bedsheet...err....kitchen towel to mop up what I thought was vomit. I saw some drool. Nothing resembling formula or phlegm interlaced with formula. Just some drool. I said, "what happened?" BIG mistake. "He just threw up. He has to be starving." She doesn't watch many documentaries about the famine in Africa. Threw up? When I throw up, it is obvious. Hell, when anyone throws up, it is obvious. I did not see obvious. My eyes were starting to roll. I asked, "what did he throw up," to which my wife replied, "the 3 ounces he just ate." Now, remember...I saw the three ounces in the bottle. I remember its volume. I remember the color and the smell. Formula smells like sweaty gym socks left in a hot car on a summers....let's say...fortnight. It stinks, OK? Regurgitated formula smells a little worse. His burps resemble Acetone. Don't smell it. Don't see it anywhere, but it still happened, right? Wrong. Eyes roll in direct sight of the mother. OOPS again.
So then the hugs and rocking comes. He is crying, mostly to peel away from the Mommy velcro and just drink the bottle. That and he is tired. VERY tired. Mostly, if I was in his head, I would bet his words were, "I promise I won't cough anymore if you just lay me back in my bed." He had more drugs in him than Jimmy Hendrix. He was so delirious, he probably didn't know what he wanted. Eyes rolled again. Then I heard Britney, "OOPS I did it again...." He did eat...he did sleep and all is well. he will go see the doctor today. Before you stone me to death, I did apologize to my wife for rolling my eyes. Everyone has the right to worry. Just not all the time . =)
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Least Favorite Thing to hear from your Day-Care Provider
There is one thing you DO NOT want to hear from your child's day-care provider when you pick up your child. Your daughter was in time out for pushing a boy down. So? Good for you, Peyton . Your child did not want to use the potty chair. So? You child did not eat her lunch today. So? She doesn't eat at my house . You child got into the cabinet under the sink and drank bleach, got sick but seems to be OK now. RIGHT ON! . Your child did not take a nap today. Excuse me?
This might be backwards to some, but you have not lived under the roof of my house when said child has decided to NOT like the food she has eaten in the past and has opened the flood gates, here-to-fore known as tear ducts. You also have not been around when, upon the parent's resistance to her request that she not be made to eat such vile food, a coughing fit begins, where the child's mother actually BELIEVES that the child is too sick to nourish herself. You also have not driven 17 miles with the napless wonder, fielding such absurd requests like, "I need my juice/milk/snack/shoes off/puppy in my lap/coat off/hair brushed out of my face..etc. etc. all the while trying to stay alive in the fog. Each 'no' is followed by a screech and fake tears, some disdain for being born, and a request for her own phone line.
So how do you handle this type of child? Move closer to the airport, for starters. Jet wash has a tendency to drown out that pitch of whiny noise. Ignoring it is near impossible. Last night, my daughter wanted chips, a peanut butter sandwich and pudding for dinner. KNOWING she had taken a nap, I thought it best to ask her what she WANTED to eat, thinking doing so would avoid what happened next.
This might be backwards to some, but you have not lived under the roof of my house when said child has decided to NOT like the food she has eaten in the past and has opened the flood gates, here-to-fore known as tear ducts. You also have not been around when, upon the parent's resistance to her request that she not be made to eat such vile food, a coughing fit begins, where the child's mother actually BELIEVES that the child is too sick to nourish herself. You also have not driven 17 miles with the napless wonder, fielding such absurd requests like, "I need my juice/milk/snack/shoes off/puppy in my lap/coat off/hair brushed out of my face..etc. etc. all the while trying to stay alive in the fog. Each 'no' is followed by a screech and fake tears, some disdain for being born, and a request for her own phone line.
So how do you handle this type of child? Move closer to the airport, for starters. Jet wash has a tendency to drown out that pitch of whiny noise. Ignoring it is near impossible. Last night, my daughter wanted chips, a peanut butter sandwich and pudding for dinner. KNOWING she had taken a nap, I thought it best to ask her what she WANTED to eat, thinking doing so would avoid what happened next.
- Hand pudding to child - child says, "I DON'T LIKE IT!" You eat it all the time, frickin liar. EAT IT!
- Hand sandwich to child - child says, "I DON'T LIKE THE BREAD" (we have purchased and used the same bread forever. She had it in the womb every time my wife had toast. LIAR! EAT IT!
- Hand chips to child - child takes chip, takes bite, bites her lip, now associating the excruciating pain to that damn chip. I DON'T LIKE IT! - yes you do, you just don't like biting your own flesh. Most people don't. EAT IT!
Mom, in her loving way and desiring to make the insanity disappear, asks her, "Are you done?" Peyton says yes. I thought to myself, knowing verbalizing this thought would only make things worse. You would have to begin, I would think, in order to be 'done,' do you not? "Can you finish feeding Jacob while I go give her a bath?" GOD yes...another male. Yes, I will satisfy the male. That doesn't take much. Being goofy usually works. I can be goofy. Yes, I will feed the boy child. You take the broken one. Here, son, play with the remote. Want a beer?
So, as I sat feeding my son, I listened to the disaster going on upstairs. Since I was unable to SEE what was actually happening, it sounded like my wife poured shampoo directly into the eyes of my daughter, Peyton. Crying, crying, crying....some splashing. I think her bath was about 8 seconds long, ironically, the same time it takes to ride a champion bull for a score. I hear my wife say, "Off to bed since you won't stop crying," then I hear an audible *THUD*, followed by a lot of crying. This is where my daughter says, "I am going to lay here, forcing you to pick up all 26 pounds of me, and take me to bed if you want me there so bad." My wife's limit is 30 pounds, so we were safe there. All of this, simply because...she did not...take...a nap.
She does not really cry when she gets her shots. Something stabs her and she is just inconvenienced. She gets inconvenienced and it sounds like she got stabbed. I know, say it twice and it will make sense. It is bass ackwards. It almost makes you get your mords wixed. Insanity I tell you. You would think birth control would be more popular.
Monday, December 12, 2005
KIDS SUCK
There is a kid in my neighborhood that has befriended me. Why?!?!?!?! I did not ask for it. I was simply kind to him...and was cordial. People wonder why I am an anti-social bastard. Daniel is why. I am not even go to change the prick's name. He does not need protection "for the innocent." He needs a shower, and his coat needs a date with a Kenmore and some Tide laundry detergent...and maybe a trip to the Orthodontist. Him, not the coat. I am sure my wife can recommend someone....for the teeth. Hell, just keep reading.
It is nice and quiet in my house on Saturday afternoon. The kids are with Grandma, my wife was asleep.....DINGG DONG...DINGGGG DONG. Dog barks...and then barks again....and again. Who the hell can that be? I KNOW...I'll look in my newly installed peep hole in my door. AH SHIT...Christmas wreath is there. Gotta love the holidays. I open the door, and there is Snaggletooth...err...Daniel, and some other kid. Daniel looking as if he just stole second base, sliding head first in the pouring rain at Fenway and the other kid just looking like a retard on a leash next to Daniel. "HI....do you have any work for us?" What the fuck? Do I have any work for you? Yes. Yes I do. It doesn't pay well but my first task for you is to piss off. Second, get off of my porch. Third, walk back home and work on your homework, trash boy. I wish I could have said that. Battling my canine for position at the door with one leg, I simply said no. Oblivious to my answer, here is Daniel, aka PigPen, talking to my dog. "Cmon boy...come on!" Fuck off Danny. Are you blind to the fact I am trying to keep him from attacking you? "Weren't you going to put up Christmas lights?" AHH shit....yes I did say that didn't I? No, Danny, not today. "Why not? Are you a scrooge?" My left calf was cramping at this point, trying my damnedest to hold back a 65 pound Tasmanian Devil with my right leg. Scrooge? You little asshole...I don't see lights are on your place, and there obviously is no running water seeing your appearance. I felt like giving him a couple bucks to go get some Apple shampoo. I even thought about getting him a bar of soap from upstairs. No, Danny, I am not a Scrooge, just have not done the light thing. "You said this weekend you were going to do it." I also said I was going to bang Charlize Theron, but I believe I was drunk when I said it, that, and I decided to move to Nampa, Idaho instead. "Come on, there must be something around here we can do." I then contemplated hiring them to spike the neighbors drinking water with arsenic, but decided against it for the moment. No, Danny, we are all ship-shape here for the moment (sweat now beading on my forehead as I have balanced for 10 minutes on my toes holding the dog back with one leg). "Are you sure?" Let me think some more about it, Danny.....yup, I am sure. Go bug your Dad, or the "man-figure" in your home. "I can't. He is drunk and passed out in the laundry room on top of the washer. Been that way for months. Haven't been able to wash my coat. See? It's all dirty." Wait...he didn't say that. He simply said OK and walked away. I really wish he would have said the first thing, however. It would put my mind at ease.
Yes, I have a date with Danny next Saturday as I am sure he will come by and ask me...again....if I have any work for him. I think I may ask him to dig a hole 6 feet deep, 6 feet long and 3 feet wide....and then lay in it.
It is nice and quiet in my house on Saturday afternoon. The kids are with Grandma, my wife was asleep.....DINGG DONG...DINGGGG DONG. Dog barks...and then barks again....and again. Who the hell can that be? I KNOW...I'll look in my newly installed peep hole in my door. AH SHIT...Christmas wreath is there. Gotta love the holidays. I open the door, and there is Snaggletooth...err...Daniel, and some other kid. Daniel looking as if he just stole second base, sliding head first in the pouring rain at Fenway and the other kid just looking like a retard on a leash next to Daniel. "HI....do you have any work for us?" What the fuck? Do I have any work for you? Yes. Yes I do. It doesn't pay well but my first task for you is to piss off. Second, get off of my porch. Third, walk back home and work on your homework, trash boy. I wish I could have said that. Battling my canine for position at the door with one leg, I simply said no. Oblivious to my answer, here is Daniel, aka PigPen, talking to my dog. "Cmon boy...come on!" Fuck off Danny. Are you blind to the fact I am trying to keep him from attacking you? "Weren't you going to put up Christmas lights?" AHH shit....yes I did say that didn't I? No, Danny, not today. "Why not? Are you a scrooge?" My left calf was cramping at this point, trying my damnedest to hold back a 65 pound Tasmanian Devil with my right leg. Scrooge? You little asshole...I don't see lights are on your place, and there obviously is no running water seeing your appearance. I felt like giving him a couple bucks to go get some Apple shampoo. I even thought about getting him a bar of soap from upstairs. No, Danny, I am not a Scrooge, just have not done the light thing. "You said this weekend you were going to do it." I also said I was going to bang Charlize Theron, but I believe I was drunk when I said it, that, and I decided to move to Nampa, Idaho instead. "Come on, there must be something around here we can do." I then contemplated hiring them to spike the neighbors drinking water with arsenic, but decided against it for the moment. No, Danny, we are all ship-shape here for the moment (sweat now beading on my forehead as I have balanced for 10 minutes on my toes holding the dog back with one leg). "Are you sure?" Let me think some more about it, Danny.....yup, I am sure. Go bug your Dad, or the "man-figure" in your home. "I can't. He is drunk and passed out in the laundry room on top of the washer. Been that way for months. Haven't been able to wash my coat. See? It's all dirty." Wait...he didn't say that. He simply said OK and walked away. I really wish he would have said the first thing, however. It would put my mind at ease.
Yes, I have a date with Danny next Saturday as I am sure he will come by and ask me...again....if I have any work for him. I think I may ask him to dig a hole 6 feet deep, 6 feet long and 3 feet wide....and then lay in it.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
XBOX 360 for SALE
For those who are looking to purchase an XBOX 360 game system for your home, I have one for sale. It will only cost you $250,000. I know, I know. I am taking advantage of people around the holidays, and using a capitalist nature in doing so. Hell, why should I care? If people are dumb enough to pay 600% over retail price to keep their kids quiet, then I am going to milk it for all it is worth.
I remember my parents used to hand the Sears catalog to me and my brother as a kid, with two different colored pens and told us to circle what we wanted. You remember the Sears Catalog, don't you? Before Al Gore invented the Internet in the 80's, it was the phone book sized book that had everything Sears and Roebuck had to offer. While flipping through it, my brother and I would skip through the scantily clad women in bras and granny panties and go right to the toy section. We circled everything, knowing that somehow, Santa was going to get his hands on our little wishbook and we were going to make off like bandits. We couldn't wait until Christmas.
When the day finally arrived, we saw....two things we circled, followed by several things that, albeit were nice, were nowhere NEAR what we "wished" for. SANTA WAS A FRAUD! I was good. As good as an 8-year old can be anyway. I left stray cats alone for 364 days to get.....? AHHHHHHHHHH! Why didn't I get X? Because my parents said NO. Oh MY GOD! They said NO? That's right. No used to be a popular word. Now if you say no as a parent, you might get shot by your kids, alienated by your congressman (which in all reality is a blessing), get hate mail from friends, your house toilet-papered, tires slashed and many other numerous consequences. When did parenting become so dangerous? I would guess right about the time MTV rolled out. Wait, that is too politically motivated. It is about the time fathers lost their balls and mothers became yes women.
So, for kids that want an XBOX 360, and for the parents that pay $1000 or more for one, I have some advice. Take that $1000 and buy your kid a nice commercial lawn mower and a utility trailer to latch onto that Ford Gargantuan you bought last spring. Help them create some flyers offering a lawn mowing service. Make the prices competitive so they are guaranteed some work. have them earn the XBOX. An occasional dusting and vacuuming are not chores, they are required activities for living under the same roof. They should not be rewarded. For every hour that they do not watch t.v., text message, chat or surf the Internet, they get $1. Pretty soon, they will begin to value the things they have and not whine so much. If my kids whine about what the Jones' have, I will walk them over to the Jones' house and offer him to them as a sacrifice. Be happy for what you have, not what you have not.
But that XBOX is still available for $250,000.
I remember my parents used to hand the Sears catalog to me and my brother as a kid, with two different colored pens and told us to circle what we wanted. You remember the Sears Catalog, don't you? Before Al Gore invented the Internet in the 80's, it was the phone book sized book that had everything Sears and Roebuck had to offer. While flipping through it, my brother and I would skip through the scantily clad women in bras and granny panties and go right to the toy section. We circled everything, knowing that somehow, Santa was going to get his hands on our little wishbook and we were going to make off like bandits. We couldn't wait until Christmas.
When the day finally arrived, we saw....two things we circled, followed by several things that, albeit were nice, were nowhere NEAR what we "wished" for. SANTA WAS A FRAUD! I was good. As good as an 8-year old can be anyway. I left stray cats alone for 364 days to get.....? AHHHHHHHHHH! Why didn't I get X? Because my parents said NO. Oh MY GOD! They said NO? That's right. No used to be a popular word. Now if you say no as a parent, you might get shot by your kids, alienated by your congressman (which in all reality is a blessing), get hate mail from friends, your house toilet-papered, tires slashed and many other numerous consequences. When did parenting become so dangerous? I would guess right about the time MTV rolled out. Wait, that is too politically motivated. It is about the time fathers lost their balls and mothers became yes women.
So, for kids that want an XBOX 360, and for the parents that pay $1000 or more for one, I have some advice. Take that $1000 and buy your kid a nice commercial lawn mower and a utility trailer to latch onto that Ford Gargantuan you bought last spring. Help them create some flyers offering a lawn mowing service. Make the prices competitive so they are guaranteed some work. have them earn the XBOX. An occasional dusting and vacuuming are not chores, they are required activities for living under the same roof. They should not be rewarded. For every hour that they do not watch t.v., text message, chat or surf the Internet, they get $1. Pretty soon, they will begin to value the things they have and not whine so much. If my kids whine about what the Jones' have, I will walk them over to the Jones' house and offer him to them as a sacrifice. Be happy for what you have, not what you have not.
But that XBOX is still available for $250,000.
WHEN DAUGHTER'S RULED THE WORLD!
For the second day in a row, my 2 year old daughter has convinced my wife she is choking. I think I am going to teach her how to say "WOLF," simply to make my wife sit back down in the front seat of the car.
My son, who is going to be turning 8 months old tomorrow, grunts, like all male primates. For no particular reason, he will change from talking to grunting. My daughter picks up on this and will grunt back, but her grunts sound more like she has a chicken bone in her throat. Of course, she won't eat chicken. Nor will she eat beef, vegetables, cheese, milk, fish, potatoes or any other nutritious food item. My daughter eats the hell out of candy, though. Before I go off on a completely different pet peeve, I will go back to the choking sound emanating from the back seat.
Yesterday, she fooled me for about .8 seconds, when she began to "shadow" what her brother was doing. Of course, since my wife was still concerned about the pending sunrise, or more specifically, if the sun was even GOING to rise, she was instantly concerned about my daughter eating a Michelin. The Michelin was, as all kids will occasionally eat these, a Fruit Loop. I do not mean a Richard Simmons exercise item, I mean the General Mills cereal. So my wife asks my daughter....all hell, it went something like this.
Peyton, are you OK?
(hack)
Peyton? Is there something wrong?
(cough, cough...follwed by Jake grunting)
HONEY??!?!? ARE YOU OOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKKK?!?!?!?!!? (starts climbing into back seat)
(hack...followed by laughter)
DON'T SCARE MOMMY!
It is said the daughters keep their dad's wrapped around their little fingers. I disagree. In this case, my wife has proven that theory obsolete. It is quite entertaining to watch my daughter parent my wife.
My son, who is going to be turning 8 months old tomorrow, grunts, like all male primates. For no particular reason, he will change from talking to grunting. My daughter picks up on this and will grunt back, but her grunts sound more like she has a chicken bone in her throat. Of course, she won't eat chicken. Nor will she eat beef, vegetables, cheese, milk, fish, potatoes or any other nutritious food item. My daughter eats the hell out of candy, though. Before I go off on a completely different pet peeve, I will go back to the choking sound emanating from the back seat.
Yesterday, she fooled me for about .8 seconds, when she began to "shadow" what her brother was doing. Of course, since my wife was still concerned about the pending sunrise, or more specifically, if the sun was even GOING to rise, she was instantly concerned about my daughter eating a Michelin. The Michelin was, as all kids will occasionally eat these, a Fruit Loop. I do not mean a Richard Simmons exercise item, I mean the General Mills cereal. So my wife asks my daughter....all hell, it went something like this.
Peyton, are you OK?
Peyton? Is there something wrong?
HONEY??!?!? ARE YOU OOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKKK?!?!?!?!!? (starts climbing into back seat)
DON'T SCARE MOMMY!
It is said the daughters keep their dad's wrapped around their little fingers. I disagree. In this case, my wife has proven that theory obsolete. It is quite entertaining to watch my daughter parent my wife.
Two Minutes
I seem to write a lot about my family. I want to say that I love my family. I love all my kids equally and I adore my wife. That being said, 95% of the time, I wish I was on a business trip. Not because I despise being around them, but there are certain times where being alone sounds pretty good.
I don't need to go "hang with the guys," or retreat to a bar somewhere to find peace. Wives wonder why there is reading material in the bathroom. It is to make hiding from them and/or the little monsters that they wanted to create easier. Bachelors don't have stacks of magazines in their bathrooms. I think I had a Time magazine in my apartment once, brought by my visiting parents one time and left behind in hopes it would sprout friends. Now, I have 3 kids and 80% of my Presidential library is stocked with reading material, all to be read mid-fit by. My wife must think I have irritable bowel syndrome or a bladder infection as often as I go into the bathroom.
Two minutes to most is 120 seconds. To my daughter it is a lifetime. Whatever is requested of her, the response is "two minutes," followed by two fingers being held up. Time for dinner, two minutes. Have to go potty? Two minutes. Go get your shoes...two minutes! Ask her favorite color, and I would bet my life "two minutes" would come out of her mouth. This morning, watching two minutes of Barney turned into a spike in blood pressure. I am beginning to hate hearing "two" and "minutes," either separately or together. Understand, it is easier to turn on entertainment for a child that comprehends animation and mindless musical puppets while taking care of an infant. If some are appalled by the fact my daughter watches 18 minutes of Barney while the other child is being taken care of then PLEASE do me a favor and go for a walk, blindfolded, in the middle of I-84. How dare I allow my child to watch television in the morning? You are probably the proud parents of a 11-year old gamer with arthritis in his thumbs. Feel free to jump off your pedestal....followed by a tall structure with nothing but pavement below.
To a bombardier, two minutes before dropping a payload on, let's say, Hiroshima, means there is an end result. A two minute pit stop in Nascar will get you fired from the pits. Two minute warnings in the NFL are quickly followed by....a commercial, most likely for Enfamil, but then programming will begin again. 800-yard runs have a two minute time frame. What is the point? Two minutes is still 120 seconds, except to a 2-year old, and even then, it still resembles an atomic explosion when two minutes expires.
120 seconds from now, I won't have a migraine, until I get home, and have to count to 120 again!
I don't need to go "hang with the guys," or retreat to a bar somewhere to find peace. Wives wonder why there is reading material in the bathroom. It is to make hiding from them and/or the little monsters that they wanted to create easier. Bachelors don't have stacks of magazines in their bathrooms. I think I had a Time magazine in my apartment once, brought by my visiting parents one time and left behind in hopes it would sprout friends. Now, I have 3 kids and 80% of my Presidential library is stocked with reading material, all to be read mid-fit by
Two minutes to most is 120 seconds. To my daughter it is a lifetime. Whatever is requested of her, the response is "two minutes," followed by two fingers being held up. Time for dinner, two minutes. Have to go potty? Two minutes. Go get your shoes...two minutes! Ask her favorite color, and I would bet my life "two minutes" would come out of her mouth. This morning, watching two minutes of Barney turned into a spike in blood pressure. I am beginning to hate hearing "two" and "minutes," either separately or together. Understand, it is easier to turn on entertainment for a child that comprehends animation and mindless musical puppets while taking care of an infant. If some are appalled by the fact my daughter watches 18 minutes of Barney while the other child is being taken care of then PLEASE do me a favor and go for a walk, blindfolded, in the middle of I-84. How dare I allow my child to watch television in the morning? You are probably the proud parents of a 11-year old gamer with arthritis in his thumbs. Feel free to jump off your pedestal....followed by a tall structure with nothing but pavement below.
To a bombardier, two minutes before dropping a payload on, let's say, Hiroshima, means there is an end result. A two minute pit stop in Nascar will get you fired from the pits. Two minute warnings in the NFL are quickly followed by....a commercial, most likely for Enfamil, but then programming will begin again. 800-yard runs have a two minute time frame. What is the point? Two minutes is still 120 seconds, except to a 2-year old, and even then, it still resembles an atomic explosion when two minutes expires.
120 seconds from now, I won't have a migraine, until I get home, and have to count to 120 again!
Monday, December 05, 2005
Kid's Pepto Bismol
First off, let me preface this email by saying, when I was a kid and had an upset stomach, I dealt with it. I am sure I went to my Mom and said, "my tummy hurts," to which my Mom said, "I'm sorry," gave me a hug and sent me back to where I came from. Shit happens, and it usually happens following an upset stomach.
My wife thinks Pepto Bismol is actually medicinal. My teachers had Pepto in their classes, but they used it to write on the chalk board. It wasn't pink. It was white. It is the most worthless drug ever. If people do not agree with me because they have had success with it alleviating some sort of gastrointestinal distress, then you have some sort of mental ailment that doctor's have called HYPOCHONDRIA and should seek more bullshit help to cure that as well.
Now, they have kids Pepto and my wife is happy. So when our daughter whines.....again.....about something that ails her, there will be a remedy. My daughter comes to me the other night and says, "Dad, my tummy hurts." So? Get over it. Of course, this response was triggered by something that has happened in the past, say, 10 minutes ago, when she complained that her socks hurt her feet. Now, I didn't say a word when she told me this, other than, "I'm sorry."
What else is there to say? I am thinking of removing all of her secondary organs NOW so that she does not have to think that a random pain in her side is appendicitis. Kids Pepto would limit all of her GI issues, according to my wife. I,, on the other hand, have a different remedy for what ails her.
Complaint - "My butt hurts."
Remedy - Stop shitting your pants. Poop is acidic and eats the flesh of your anus. Use the toilet. Don't be so damn lazy.
Complaint - "My feet hurt"
Remedy - Then run really fast into the front door. That way, the pain in your head will distract you from the pseudo-pain in your feet.
Complaint - "I am hungry. I want a snack."
Remedy - Then eat your damn food when it is in front of you. It's called breakfast/lunch/dinner.
Complaint - "The puppy scratched me."
Remedy - It was a defense mechanism for you pulling on his ears. Don't do that.
Complaint - "My tummy hurts."
Remedy - I DON'T CARE!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, the last one is somewhat callous and cold, but understand, the other complaints have all happened just prior to the final tummy statement. I think I heard a boy cry wolf. Not sure. One thing I AM sure of. If the kids had Pepto Bismol, according to my wife, my daughter would become immortal.
My wife thinks Pepto Bismol is actually medicinal. My teachers had Pepto in their classes, but they used it to write on the chalk board. It wasn't pink. It was white. It is the most worthless drug ever. If people do not agree with me because they have had success with it alleviating some sort of gastrointestinal distress, then you have some sort of mental ailment that doctor's have called HYPOCHONDRIA and should seek more bullshit help to cure that as well.
Now, they have kids Pepto and my wife is happy. So when our daughter whines.....again.....about something that ails her, there will be a remedy. My daughter comes to me the other night and says, "Dad, my tummy hurts." So? Get over it. Of course, this response was triggered by something that has happened in the past, say, 10 minutes ago, when she complained that her socks hurt her feet. Now, I didn't say a word when she told me this, other than, "I'm sorry."
What else is there to say? I am thinking of removing all of her secondary organs NOW so that she does not have to think that a random pain in her side is appendicitis. Kids Pepto would limit all of her GI issues, according to my wife. I,, on the other hand, have a different remedy for what ails her.
Complaint - "My butt hurts."
Remedy - Stop shitting your pants. Poop is acidic and eats the flesh of your anus. Use the toilet. Don't be so damn lazy.
Complaint - "My feet hurt"
Remedy - Then run really fast into the front door. That way, the pain in your head will distract you from the pseudo-pain in your feet.
Complaint - "I am hungry. I want a snack."
Remedy - Then eat your damn food when it is in front of you. It's called breakfast/lunch/dinner.
Complaint - "The puppy scratched me."
Remedy - It was a defense mechanism for you pulling on his ears. Don't do that.
Complaint - "My tummy hurts."
Remedy - I DON'T CARE!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, the last one is somewhat callous and cold, but understand, the other complaints have all happened just prior to the final tummy statement. I think I heard a boy cry wolf. Not sure. One thing I AM sure of. If the kids had Pepto Bismol, according to my wife, my daughter would become immortal.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Nothing aggravates me more than people who leave their shopping carts out in the parking lot, simply because.....they are LAZY! It happens all of the time. We really wonder why other countries hate us? It has nothing to do with our political beliefs, our desire to have worldwide democracy....it is because people in Mosul want a shopping cart so bad, yet us Americans simply do not VALUE our carts enough to send them home. OK, maybe not THAT, but still, it PISSES ME OFF!
This morning, I dropped my wife off at Albertson's at 7AM to run in and get diapers. I pulled around and parked in a stall next to a cart drop place. You know those places. There are other carts there and there is usually a big sign that says "PLEASE USE SOME DAMN COURTESY AND DROP YOUR CARTS OFF HERE YOU LAZY SHITS!" Huge giveaway. Oh no. That makes too much sense. I saw a lady rushing out of the store with a shopping cart, filled to the brim with mostly AIR and ONE plastic bag, filled no doubt with vinegar/water douche. Holy shit. I could see the strain in her face when she was pushing such a load through the parking lot. God bless her.
Upon further investigation, I noticed that she did, in fact, have both arms and they were not prosthetics. No hooks, just hands. The kind that can easily grasp a couple of plastic bag handles, therefore leaving the CART in the store! Nope, again, this made too much sense. What does she do? She grabs the bag, unlocks her door, pushes the cart just in front of and to the left of her car, gets in, starts her car and drives away. The return cart bin was 10 feet away! She parked next to the damn thing. Let me tell you something else. There were no cars in between her and the bin as Albertson's is bare at 7AM. She was way too busy to be bothered to return her cart to it's proper place. I looked up lazy in the dictionary. It had no words, just a picture of this dumb bitch leaving her cart next to her car. I thought it was rather fitting.
It gets worse when going to WalMart. Which is sad, since elderly employees have to go through the parking lot and collect freezing cold, metal carts. Nothing like making your 401K work for you. Not only do the handicapped have it MADE at WalMart (they have 100 spaces to every 1 regular parking stall), they also are the largest employee base that WalMart has. I thought Title IX was restrictive. It's almost like Sam Walton's dying wish was to employ only those either needing adult diapers or missing a chromosome. I sort of got off track there, but I had to make a point that I get scared when I walk through the doors, mindless zombies pushing carts at me before I even get into the store.
DO YOU NEED A CART! HELLO! DO YOU NEED A CART!
No...thank you
WOULD YOU LIKE A STICKER FOR YOUR CHILD!?!?!?!?!?!
Child? I am by myself
DO YOU WANT A RETURN STICKER FOR YOUR PANTS???!?!
What?
ARE YOU RETURNING YOUR PANTS??!?!?!
No....I am wearing them
YOU NEED THIS TO RETURN YOUR PANTS!!!!
It happens far too often. Not the punching but the harassment going into that place. The commercials are bullshit. "We love working at WalMart," says the 80-year old man. Yeah, well, it must not be corporate policy to screen for abnormal behavior because I have never seen a smiling old man working there. It is more like a drooling shell of a human being standing in a puddle of urine.
Just rambling....have a good day! =)
This morning, I dropped my wife off at Albertson's at 7AM to run in and get diapers. I pulled around and parked in a stall next to a cart drop place. You know those places. There are other carts there and there is usually a big sign that says "PLEASE USE SOME DAMN COURTESY AND DROP YOUR CARTS OFF HERE YOU LAZY SHITS!" Huge giveaway. Oh no. That makes too much sense. I saw a lady rushing out of the store with a shopping cart, filled to the brim with mostly AIR and ONE plastic bag, filled no doubt with vinegar/water douche. Holy shit. I could see the strain in her face when she was pushing such a load through the parking lot. God bless her.
Upon further investigation, I noticed that she did, in fact, have both arms and they were not prosthetics. No hooks, just hands. The kind that can easily grasp a couple of plastic bag handles, therefore leaving the CART in the store! Nope, again, this made too much sense. What does she do? She grabs the bag, unlocks her door, pushes the cart just in front of and to the left of her car, gets in, starts her car and drives away. The return cart bin was 10 feet away! She parked next to the damn thing. Let me tell you something else. There were no cars in between her and the bin as Albertson's is bare at 7AM. She was way too busy to be bothered to return her cart to it's proper place. I looked up lazy in the dictionary. It had no words, just a picture of this dumb bitch leaving her cart next to her car. I thought it was rather fitting.
It gets worse when going to WalMart. Which is sad, since elderly employees have to go through the parking lot and collect freezing cold, metal carts. Nothing like making your 401K work for you. Not only do the handicapped have it MADE at WalMart (they have 100 spaces to every 1 regular parking stall), they also are the largest employee base that WalMart has. I thought Title IX was restrictive. It's almost like Sam Walton's dying wish was to employ only those either needing adult diapers or missing a chromosome. I sort of got off track there, but I had to make a point that I get scared when I walk through the doors, mindless zombies pushing carts at me before I even get into the store.
DO YOU NEED A CART! HELLO! DO YOU NEED A CART!
No...thank you
WOULD YOU LIKE A STICKER FOR YOUR CHILD!?!?!?!?!?!
DO YOU WANT A RETURN STICKER FOR YOUR PANTS???!?!
What?
ARE YOU RETURNING YOUR PANTS??!?!?!
No....I am wearing them
It happens far too often. Not the punching but the harassment going into that place. The commercials are bullshit. "We love working at WalMart," says the 80-year old man. Yeah, well, it must not be corporate policy to screen for abnormal behavior because I have never seen a smiling old man working there. It is more like a drooling shell of a human being standing in a puddle of urine.
Just rambling....have a good day! =)
Monday, November 07, 2005
NEW WARNING ON APPLE JUICE
I think there should be a surgeon general's warning on all apple juice containers that states consumption of this beverage can cause serious diarrhea in adults. My daughter, who is fast approaching 3-years old, drinks this stuff like it is going out of style. I try to avoid it for two reasons. One, if there is none left when she wants some, she gets all bent out of shape and will not accept any other liquid refreshment without some serious selling on my part. Two, it is just a bunch of empty calories that I would like to avoid. This weekend, however, I thought it sounded good, so I had a glass. It tasted so good, being I have not had it in a while, so I had another. This was not a large glass mind you. Maybe twelve ounces per. I drank these Saturday morning.
By Saturday evening, I began to feel as if I had an army of tapeworms planning an invasion of the neighborhood and my rectum was the gathering point. Hollywood finds serious diarrhea attacks humorous. I have to admit, on film, they are funny. Guy pisses off girl. Girls makes him a protein shake pouring in "SUPER COLON BLOW" and mixing it in. Guy drinks it because it is yummy. Forty five minutes later, guy is blasting farts and sweating, attempting to hold back his watery doom. Five minutes after that, he is chasing down a waste basket to crap in. Yes, very funny...until you are in a check out line at WalMart, and wondering what brown salsa looks like spewn all over the beige tile. Not pretty, and I can assure you that there was no order in the court of tapeworms in my bowel. They were oppressed, and they were not going to miss out on the coup de tat about ready to take place. The problem was, I WAS at Wally World, and my check out clerk was a frickin mental giant that would give the Elephant Man a run for his money in the intelligence department. Slow speech, slow to act, sweat beading on my forehead. "Are you Ok, fella?" No....fella...I'm not OK. I am crowning over here. The tapeworms have the numbers, and I am weak in the Keegle area, so can we push this along? I haven't received my SPHINCTER OF STEEL video in the mail yet and am about ready to have a fiesta in my shorts and everyone in this line is invited, whether or not they want to attend, so SCAN, HIPPIE!
I have issues in leaving $168 in groceries, already paid for hanging out, unattended in front of the restroom, so I planned on waiting until I got home to relieve myself. I figured that it was a 10 minute trip back to my front door and I was young enough to hold this back. Oh yes, I forgot to mention, there is a train crossing on the way home. I never run into problems with the way I came, so I thought I would not on the way home. WRONG! I missed that rule in Murphy's Law book. Rule #350 - when you have apple juice induced diarrhea, you will always find a train traveling at 4 miles per hour to hold you back. Now I was really sweating. I felt like Starr Jones in a buffet line after her stomach reduction surgery. After an additional 17 minutes, I was on my way.
I pulled into the garage like I was hurrying to save my family from a burning building and ran into the bathroom. Dumb and Dumber, the movie, came to mind. Super Colon Blow? I might have well mistaken a block of chocolate Ex-lax for a Hershey Bar. Remember that, too, because there is no warning on the label telling you that, if more than 8 ounces of apple juice is consumed in any given 24 hour period, you may feel like you are dying.
I have written my incontinent senator to complain. We'll see what happens....
By Saturday evening, I began to feel as if I had an army of tapeworms planning an invasion of the neighborhood and my rectum was the gathering point. Hollywood finds serious diarrhea attacks humorous. I have to admit, on film, they are funny. Guy pisses off girl. Girls makes him a protein shake pouring in "SUPER COLON BLOW" and mixing it in. Guy drinks it because it is yummy. Forty five minutes later, guy is blasting farts and sweating, attempting to hold back his watery doom. Five minutes after that, he is chasing down a waste basket to crap in. Yes, very funny...until you are in a check out line at WalMart, and wondering what brown salsa looks like spewn all over the beige tile. Not pretty, and I can assure you that there was no order in the court of tapeworms in my bowel. They were oppressed, and they were not going to miss out on the coup de tat about ready to take place. The problem was, I WAS at Wally World, and my check out clerk was a frickin mental giant that would give the Elephant Man a run for his money in the intelligence department. Slow speech, slow to act, sweat beading on my forehead. "Are you Ok, fella?" No....fella...I'm not OK. I am crowning over here. The tapeworms have the numbers, and I am weak in the Keegle area, so can we push this along? I haven't received my SPHINCTER OF STEEL video in the mail yet and am about ready to have a fiesta in my shorts and everyone in this line is invited, whether or not they want to attend, so SCAN, HIPPIE!
I have issues in leaving $168 in groceries, already paid for hanging out, unattended in front of the restroom, so I planned on waiting until I got home to relieve myself. I figured that it was a 10 minute trip back to my front door and I was young enough to hold this back. Oh yes, I forgot to mention, there is a train crossing on the way home. I never run into problems with the way I came, so I thought I would not on the way home. WRONG! I missed that rule in Murphy's Law book. Rule #350 - when you have apple juice induced diarrhea, you will always find a train traveling at 4 miles per hour to hold you back. Now I was really sweating. I felt like Starr Jones in a buffet line after her stomach reduction surgery. After an additional 17 minutes, I was on my way.
I pulled into the garage like I was hurrying to save my family from a burning building and ran into the bathroom. Dumb and Dumber, the movie, came to mind. Super Colon Blow? I might have well mistaken a block of chocolate Ex-lax for a Hershey Bar. Remember that, too, because there is no warning on the label telling you that, if more than 8 ounces of apple juice is consumed in any given 24 hour period, you may feel like you are dying.
I have written my incontinent senator to complain. We'll see what happens....
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The Nation's Largest Rapist
It isn't even human but it should still be a crime. Exxon Mobile, the Nation's largest publicly traded oil company, announced a quarterly profit of $9.9 billion. This is $1.58 per share, up from $.88 per share from last year. It is amazing that this company is posting such a large profit while people are paying what they are paying at the pumps. You would think that they easily could have lowered the prices a tad more to alleviate distress on the consumer. I LOVE CORPORATE AMERICA!
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Size Doesn't Matter
Yes, this post has everything to do with the size of the male organ. I'll get there, just bear with me.
Have you ever gone to a circus and watched an elephant take a crap? It is like watching mud getting dumped from a dump truck. Carnivals/circuses have people that walk around with snow shovels and 50 gallon trash cans specifically to clean up pacoderm feces. I couldn't figure out why people were walking under a tent with snow shovels until I put my daughter on the back of an elephant for an elephant ride. Good Lord. Willa Wonka has nothing on this "chocolate factory." If an elephant ate corn, would the pieces adapt to their large environment and come out looking like yellow VW bugs? If a goldfish can grow in a big tank, just imagine. Ok, so same thing goes with urine. I would imagine you could attach a hose to the elephant and wander up the mountains extinguishing every forest fire that has devastated acres and acres of forest land. Its almost as if a water tower fell over, and the splash radius of the piss hitting the ground is large enough to compare to Gallagher smashing a watermelon from 100 yards away. if you do not know who Gallagher is, then maybe you should get out more.
So, sitting in the stall in the men's bathroom at work this morning, I was alone and going about my business when I heard the door open. In walks...an elephant. Pretend you are blind, OK? Close your eyes, hear the door opening, feet shuffling, zipper....and then a gush of fluid that dwarfs Niagara Falls going into the toilet. I was taken aback by the noise level. Its like there was a 5-gallon plastic bucket full of water being poured into a swimming pool. I was scared. I mean, the only thing close, in my eyes, to that volume was watching an elephant piss out of a third leg. I imagined a Sequoia pissing next to me. This guy just went about his business, oblivious to the fact he pissed like Paul Bunyan. I honestly feared for my life. I have heard that every 60 seconds, the standard shower head puts out 7 gallons of water. Ok, well the bin in a urinal holds, what? A quart of water, displaced by a waxy hockey puck made to smell like the Redwoods Retirement Facility? Yes, grandma pissed herself and then bathed in rose oil....get over it. Not sure how there was no over flow, but he was in and out in about a minute.
I thought that it was too bad I didn't have a barrel to over the falls in, but I decided that work was more important. Let that be a lesson to you...size doesn't matter. Unless you want to become the 8th wonder of the world. Ladies, I can get the guys phone number if you want.
Have you ever gone to a circus and watched an elephant take a crap? It is like watching mud getting dumped from a dump truck. Carnivals/circuses have people that walk around with snow shovels and 50 gallon trash cans specifically to clean up pacoderm feces. I couldn't figure out why people were walking under a tent with snow shovels until I put my daughter on the back of an elephant for an elephant ride. Good Lord. Willa Wonka has nothing on this "chocolate factory." If an elephant ate corn, would the pieces adapt to their large environment and come out looking like yellow VW bugs? If a goldfish can grow in a big tank, just imagine. Ok, so same thing goes with urine. I would imagine you could attach a hose to the elephant and wander up the mountains extinguishing every forest fire that has devastated acres and acres of forest land. Its almost as if a water tower fell over, and the splash radius of the piss hitting the ground is large enough to compare to Gallagher smashing a watermelon from 100 yards away. if you do not know who Gallagher is, then maybe you should get out more.
So, sitting in the stall in the men's bathroom at work this morning, I was alone and going about my business when I heard the door open. In walks...an elephant. Pretend you are blind, OK? Close your eyes, hear the door opening, feet shuffling, zipper....and then a gush of fluid that dwarfs Niagara Falls going into the toilet. I was taken aback by the noise level. Its like there was a 5-gallon plastic bucket full of water being poured into a swimming pool. I was scared. I mean, the only thing close, in my eyes, to that volume was watching an elephant piss out of a third leg. I imagined a Sequoia pissing next to me. This guy just went about his business, oblivious to the fact he pissed like Paul Bunyan. I honestly feared for my life. I have heard that every 60 seconds, the standard shower head puts out 7 gallons of water. Ok, well the bin in a urinal holds, what? A quart of water, displaced by a waxy hockey puck made to smell like the Redwoods Retirement Facility? Yes, grandma pissed herself and then bathed in rose oil....get over it. Not sure how there was no over flow, but he was in and out in about a minute.
I thought that it was too bad I didn't have a barrel to over the falls in, but I decided that work was more important. Let that be a lesson to you...size doesn't matter. Unless you want to become the 8th wonder of the world. Ladies, I can get the guys phone number if you want.
Monday, October 24, 2005
My Dog is Human
If you don't know what a Weimaraner is, go to www.nevergetthisbreedifyouthinktheyaredumblapdogs.com. I always seem to be adding my wife in these blogs and picking on her about this or that. I do this, well, mostly because it helps me come to terms with things. I love my dog, OK. I think the fact that he has a penis definitely helps us click. I don't have to bark out commands, I just give a little look in his direction. Typically, that would be enough to make him stop doing whatever it is that is making my wife go into labor. For example, dog takes something out of daughter's hand that was just given to said daughter. My wife yells his name, "TAUPE!!" I laugh, mostly because her yelling his name regardless of the volume is accentuating the fact that, yes, the dog knows its name. I, frankly, would not drop it either. He just walks away from the noise because, no doubt, it is hurting his ears.
So then my wife, huffing and puffing, gets off the couch and chases him around the kitchen table trying to get this chewed up piece of fabric (called a 'doll' I believe) out of his mouth. I laugh. Yes, I am laughing at this point because he is toying with her. He is saying, "Oh, you want this here in my mouth? Come over and take it....but do it on THIS side of the table because I am the boss of you and I DECIDE where my punishment will or will not take place." Then he changes is mind, mostly due to the fact he hears heavier breathing. "Over here instead," as he non-chalantly goes under the table and through the woods.
At this point, I have to peak up over the half-wall to see this comedy unravel. I know it is sad, but I am the Alpha male. My wife knows this, and the dog SURE AS HELL knows it. As soon as he came home at 7 weeks, he knew that I ran things. I told my wife that she had better tell him that he is 3rd in charge or else she was in trouble. That didn't happen, and now she is paying the penalty. He doesn't listen because he knows that she will just say whatever it is he is doing wrong again.
"TAUPE, PUT DOWN THAT DOLL.
(No)..
GOD DAMMIT TAUPE PUT IT DOWN...
(ummmmmmmmm...still no)
I SWEAR TO GOD TAUPE IF YOU DON'T PUT THAT DOWN I AM GOING TO...
(What, exactly?)
TAUPE, LEAVE IT!!
(make me)
LEAVEEEEE ITTTTT!!!!!
(maybe tomorrow, but now this is more fun)
HONEY, CAN YOU MAKE YOUR DOG LEAVE THIS DOLL ALONE?!?!?!
**BLOP** (out comes the item not allowed to be teething fodder. Wife looks at me as I sit down behind the half wall.)
I SWEAR, I DON'T KNOW WHY HE LISTENS TO YOU AND NOT ME.
Well, lovey, for the same reason Peyton (almost 3-years old) does, because I don't give her the choice. I am not perfect, I know. My dog will not sit on command for everyone, just for the people he respects....or know how to treat a dog. No matter who comes in the house, he is #2 in charge. If he is around me, he knows that the minute he is out of line, **WHACK**. I belive it is called the FEAR OF GOD. As kids, we only really feared our father's. Peyton doesn't fear me, but she knows I mean business. Same thing goes for the dog. I knew all about Weims before we got him. Therefore, I established the ground rules. It may be too late for the wife, though. She says Taupe needs puppy school. I told her that she should be the one to take him.
So then my wife, huffing and puffing, gets off the couch and chases him around the kitchen table trying to get this chewed up piece of fabric (called a 'doll' I believe) out of his mouth. I laugh. Yes, I am laughing at this point because he is toying with her. He is saying, "Oh, you want this here in my mouth? Come over and take it....but do it on THIS side of the table because I am the boss of you and I DECIDE where my punishment will or will not take place." Then he changes is mind, mostly due to the fact he hears heavier breathing. "Over here instead," as he non-chalantly goes under the table and through the woods.
At this point, I have to peak up over the half-wall to see this comedy unravel. I know it is sad, but I am the Alpha male. My wife knows this, and the dog SURE AS HELL knows it. As soon as he came home at 7 weeks, he knew that I ran things. I told my wife that she had better tell him that he is 3rd in charge or else she was in trouble. That didn't happen, and now she is paying the penalty. He doesn't listen because he knows that she will just say whatever it is he is doing wrong again.
"TAUPE, PUT DOWN THAT DOLL.
(No)..
GOD DAMMIT TAUPE PUT IT DOWN...
(ummmmmmmmm...still no)
I SWEAR TO GOD TAUPE IF YOU DON'T PUT THAT DOWN I AM GOING TO...
(What, exactly?)
TAUPE, LEAVE IT!!
(make me)
LEAVEEEEE ITTTTT!!!!!
(maybe tomorrow, but now this is more fun)
HONEY, CAN YOU MAKE YOUR DOG LEAVE THIS DOLL ALONE?!?!?!
**BLOP** (out comes the item not allowed to be teething fodder. Wife looks at me as I sit down behind the half wall.)
I SWEAR, I DON'T KNOW WHY HE LISTENS TO YOU AND NOT ME.
Well, lovey, for the same reason Peyton (almost 3-years old) does, because I don't give her the choice. I am not perfect, I know. My dog will not sit on command for everyone, just for the people he respects....or know how to treat a dog. No matter who comes in the house, he is #2 in charge. If he is around me, he knows that the minute he is out of line, **WHACK**. I belive it is called the FEAR OF GOD. As kids, we only really feared our father's. Peyton doesn't fear me, but she knows I mean business. Same thing goes for the dog. I knew all about Weims before we got him. Therefore, I established the ground rules. It may be too late for the wife, though. She says Taupe needs puppy school. I told her that she should be the one to take him.
I Wish People Were More Like Me
Public rest-rooms are just that....public. Everyone can use them, not just certain individuals. That being said, when an individual shits in the toilet, uses 6 rolls of toilet paper to clean their ass, and then LEAVES without flushing in fear it will over flow....FUCK YOU! Next to the toilet, there is this item, with a funny looking rubber thing attached to a stick. That is a plunger, used to stop overflowing toilets. Use it. Also, maybe you should go home and nurse the tapeworm in your own space and stop polluting the rest-room with your Hepatitis laden shit. We will greatly appreciate it, you assbag.
I understand the concept of the "little metal box" attached to the bathroom wall, used for disposing used feminine pads and tampons. I get it, OK. Fine. Have your tin box. I remember seeing them back in the day when, if it was not in the stall, a woman would have to walk out of the stall, into VIEW, hauling a bloody wad of toilet paper (also referred to as the "rumor blob") and throw it away in the trash can. However, in an asexual bathroom, one that is both suitable for/used by both men AND women....throw your period in the trash can that is IN that bathroom. Don't use the box. In fact, I might remove that box so that people will use common sense. Face it, men are not the smartest animals in the world. We want to know what everything is, and where it is stored. We see a box, we open the box, and when we see a bloody mess in the box, we are liable to vomit. Men don't like vomiting, unless we have had alcohol. Use the can, don't peak our curiosity.
If you, male or female, wipe your ass and get crap on your hand....and then go BACK to the roll and get crap on it, LEAVE IT for the next person to see or touch...please, go jump off a fucking bridge. Courtesy. I don't come shit on your chest while you sleep. So, don't leave me to find your feces on the next sheet of paper on the roll. It's rude.
Compact cars go in parking spaces labeled "COMPACT." Other vehicles go...well, somewhere else. Frankly, not next to two compact cars. When you get out of your GMC Gargantuan, and ding my car, I will kill you because you are a retard and should be dead anyway. The note that says, "Thanks for leaving all this space for me to get in my car. I love you. Oh, and LEAVE A FUCKING CAN OPENER NEXT TIME, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS," I left that. **kisses** Come find me, and I will gladly kill your remaining brain cells.
For the piece of shit asshole that is in my office, digging in the breakroom fridge, sifting through hundreds of Albertson's bags, finding MINE (which I strategically placed under Jimmy Hoffa's body for safety) and eating my food.....
That's it for now....but the afternoon is young.....
I understand the concept of the "little metal box" attached to the bathroom wall, used for disposing used feminine pads and tampons. I get it, OK. Fine. Have your tin box. I remember seeing them back in the day when, if it was not in the stall, a woman would have to walk out of the stall, into VIEW, hauling a bloody wad of toilet paper (also referred to as the "rumor blob") and throw it away in the trash can. However, in an asexual bathroom, one that is both suitable for/used by both men AND women....throw your period in the trash can that is IN that bathroom. Don't use the box. In fact, I might remove that box so that people will use common sense. Face it, men are not the smartest animals in the world. We want to know what everything is, and where it is stored. We see a box, we open the box, and when we see a bloody mess in the box, we are liable to vomit. Men don't like vomiting, unless we have had alcohol. Use the can, don't peak our curiosity.
If you, male or female, wipe your ass and get crap on your hand....and then go BACK to the roll and get crap on it, LEAVE IT for the next person to see or touch...please, go jump off a fucking bridge. Courtesy. I don't come shit on your chest while you sleep. So, don't leave me to find your feces on the next sheet of paper on the roll. It's rude.
Compact cars go in parking spaces labeled "COMPACT." Other vehicles go...well, somewhere else. Frankly, not next to two compact cars. When you get out of your GMC Gargantuan, and ding my car, I will kill you because you are a retard and should be dead anyway. The note that says, "Thanks for leaving all this space for me to get in my car. I love you. Oh, and LEAVE A FUCKING CAN OPENER NEXT TIME, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS," I left that. **kisses** Come find me, and I will gladly kill your remaining brain cells.
For the piece of shit asshole that is in my office, digging in the breakroom fridge, sifting through hundreds of Albertson's bags, finding MINE (which I strategically placed under Jimmy Hoffa's body for safety) and eating my food.....
That's it for now....but the afternoon is young.....
KIDS are EXPENSIVE! Even before they start TALKING!
From time to time, it occurs to me that having kids is expensive. You always hear people say that it is the doctor's appointments, clothing, and/or food that is expensive. I disagree. I find the nonessentials to be spendy. OK, actually, the essentials are spendy too. Here, let me give a few examples.
Diapers - I had to run and get diapers last night. My wife said, "Just get the cheap kind." Had the store not been closing, I would still be there looking for the "cheap" diapers. To me, cheap SHOULD be defined as I could walk out of the store without paying and people would only wave. In the baby aisle, painted in gold, everything is marked "you wish" where the price normally would be. I thought buying tampons was difficult. THESE ARE DIAPERS! They catch shit and piss. Why do I have to donate plasma so that I have a sturdy shit catcher??? I think the biggest corporate scandal that has gone unnoticed is the rape center known as PAMPERS!
Wipes - These are really not expensive, but the variety is insane. I guess it is like toilet paper to us adults. Scented, unscented, quilted, 2-ply, 8-ply, 30 grit....and the list could go on. Remember, before purchasing wipes, make sure you consider that it is going in an ass....and stop trying to determine which scent would be better. Babies DO have a nice smell. Babies who has just shit themselves will still smell like shit regardless of the Spring Fresh baby wipe you put in their ass crack.
Frozen food pacifier - I don't even know if that is what it is called, but we own one after a trip to Toys R Us this past weekend. It is a plastic handle with a mesh bag at the end of it. It reminded me more of a useless condom than a child accessory. $5 to have a tool in which a frozen banana can be sucked on by an infant to relieve teething pain. What the hell? Why set a precedent of purchasing useless garbage? Children don't know of any alleviation to the pain. As far as they know, it hurts until it doesn't. Anbesol my ass! Give them a shot of brandy and call it good. Oh yeah, we also got a set of replacement bags for another $5 just in case the first bag becomes "tattered." Isn't the whole premise of mesh to BE tattered, therefore maintaining its mesh-like features? Babies piss me off.
Nipples - The disposable nipples now have different flow rates. When they are little, they have slow flow. When they get older, the flow begins to increase, and by the time they are 17, they graduate to a forty-ounce bottle of Old English. When I was a kid, there was one nipple. I mean that in every possible sense, and the liquid came out at the same speed. I had to either suck harder or longer to get nourishment. It is my belief that we are starting way too early on these kids in making their lives easier. The faster the flow, the more you pay. $7.99 for two fast flow nipples. Little bastards.
Burp rags - This is the king of violators. Spend $13 to catch spit up on my shoulder? It is justified by the statement, "you don't want to get your shirt dirty, do you?" Oh yes, you are right. I never want to wash this shirt anyway. WHO CARES???? It is going to get washed, at some point in it's life, why do I need to have a decorative piece of fabric covering my deltoid to prevent spit up from touching my skin? I think people often forget the secretions absorbed during the conception of their children.
Shoes - HOLY COW...$30 for shoes that my infant can have a set of pictures taken in and will grow out of in 17 minutes?? Are you kidding me? Watching feet on my son grow is a lot like watching the sunrise in a time lapse format. They just inch out a little here and there like Pinnochio's nose. I think kids should wear onesies and moccasins until the end of their growth spurts. They might be embarrassed but who really gives a rip? We are paying for everything. My money. My rules. Go put on your burlap nightgown and hit the slab...err...sheets.
Formula - I don't mind spending money on food for my kids. I do mind however, that my 2-year old asks for things she doesn't eat. Do you want for dinner? YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, she will say, as if I just told her that Barney was moving in with us forever. The food gets put in front of her and she looks at it in disgust. On the thought of formula. $19.99 per week is about what we spend just on the formula. My son downs a bottle of formula like a small manatee. GULP...gone. Then the tapeworm takes over and gets pissed at no solid food, so I have to do it again in a couple of hours. You know how when people offer to help out with a newborn? Clothes, food, diapers, etc.? Advice...never offer to purchase formula for parents of a bottle-fed baby and expect them to deny your offer. They will take you up on it weekly.
Diapers - I had to run and get diapers last night. My wife said, "Just get the cheap kind." Had the store not been closing, I would still be there looking for the "cheap" diapers. To me, cheap SHOULD be defined as I could walk out of the store without paying and people would only wave. In the baby aisle, painted in gold, everything is marked "you wish" where the price normally would be. I thought buying tampons was difficult. THESE ARE DIAPERS! They catch shit and piss. Why do I have to donate plasma so that I have a sturdy shit catcher??? I think the biggest corporate scandal that has gone unnoticed is the rape center known as PAMPERS!
Wipes - These are really not expensive, but the variety is insane. I guess it is like toilet paper to us adults. Scented, unscented, quilted, 2-ply, 8-ply, 30 grit....and the list could go on. Remember, before purchasing wipes, make sure you consider that it is going in an ass....and stop trying to determine which scent would be better. Babies DO have a nice smell. Babies who has just shit themselves will still smell like shit regardless of the Spring Fresh baby wipe you put in their ass crack.
Frozen food pacifier - I don't even know if that is what it is called, but we own one after a trip to Toys R Us this past weekend. It is a plastic handle with a mesh bag at the end of it. It reminded me more of a useless condom than a child accessory. $5 to have a tool in which a frozen banana can be sucked on by an infant to relieve teething pain. What the hell? Why set a precedent of purchasing useless garbage? Children don't know of any alleviation to the pain. As far as they know, it hurts until it doesn't. Anbesol my ass! Give them a shot of brandy and call it good. Oh yeah, we also got a set of replacement bags for another $5 just in case the first bag becomes "tattered." Isn't the whole premise of mesh to BE tattered, therefore maintaining its mesh-like features? Babies piss me off.
Nipples - The disposable nipples now have different flow rates. When they are little, they have slow flow. When they get older, the flow begins to increase, and by the time they are 17, they graduate to a forty-ounce bottle of Old English. When I was a kid, there was one nipple. I mean that in every possible sense, and the liquid came out at the same speed. I had to either suck harder or longer to get nourishment. It is my belief that we are starting way too early on these kids in making their lives easier. The faster the flow, the more you pay. $7.99 for two fast flow nipples. Little bastards.
Burp rags - This is the king of violators. Spend $13 to catch spit up on my shoulder? It is justified by the statement, "you don't want to get your shirt dirty, do you?" Oh yes, you are right. I never want to wash this shirt anyway. WHO CARES???? It is going to get washed, at some point in it's life, why do I need to have a decorative piece of fabric covering my deltoid to prevent spit up from touching my skin? I think people often forget the secretions absorbed during the conception of their children.
Shoes - HOLY COW...$30 for shoes that my infant can have a set of pictures taken in and will grow out of in 17 minutes?? Are you kidding me? Watching feet on my son grow is a lot like watching the sunrise in a time lapse format. They just inch out a little here and there like Pinnochio's nose. I think kids should wear onesies and moccasins until the end of their growth spurts. They might be embarrassed but who really gives a rip? We are paying for everything. My money. My rules. Go put on your burlap nightgown and hit the slab...err...sheets.
Formula - I don't mind spending money on food for my kids. I do mind however, that my 2-year old asks for things she doesn't eat. Do you want
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU TO KNOW EVERYTHING...SO STOP THINKING YOU DO!
I deal with people every day. Yes, my candor on this site has a lot left to be desired, but if I do not vent some of my frustrations out in this place, then I am liable to kill someone. In my profession, a mortgage loan officer, I deal with people that think they are smart, but Grandma can take them in a Knowledge Bowl competition. Most, if not all, have purchased some sort of real estate investment program and have all of a sudden become braniacs. They ask all the right questions, in their own minds, but they are usually WAY off.
For example, people in the real estate field work heavily off referrals. It is truly a relationship business. This sucks, mostly because I am subject to kissing realtor ass. Today, it came to a point where I told a realtor, not in so many words, to fuck off. It is bad enough customers think they know what I do, but then throw a realtor in there, that makes more money than God (offer on Heaven pending), thinking that they are looking out for their clients best interest. Some of the things I hear on a regular basis are as follows:
"I can get this deal any where, but I figured I would give you guys a chance to earn my business." - a classic threat, this buyer typically hasn't been anywhere else other than right here in front of me. I have said as much on some occasions, depending on the type of attitude represented by the buyer. If you can get the deal, asswipe, go get it somewhere else. I am busy. I think the honor in working with my company lies strictly with you....that is, if you are worthy.
"I already have a loan with you guys and I don't want to pay any more fees to refinance it somewhere else." - so you want the shit for free? Here, why not lube me up and fuck me in the ass? I don't work for free, and neither does anyone else you will go visit. Instead of finding it an inconvenience that we service your loan, why not thank us for being considerate in fielding all of your stupid fucked up questions in our service department? This loan will cost a lot....sign here.
"I am currently unemployed and looking to refinance my home. Can you help?"- This one is easy. No. They always ask why, but it comes down to the ability to repay the loan we LENT to you. I sometimes have to convince people that the mortgage truly is BORROWED funds, requiring repayment, and since you have not the mentality nor the capacity to REPAY the loan...hit the road.
"Do you guys lend money for manufactured homes?" - ahhh yes...meth labs. No, we don't, and since we are on the topic of buying the only piece of real estate that does NOT appreciate, BUY A STICK BUILT HOUSE! For the love of God, if your home was parked on your lot, it is not worth keeping! I am afraid if I lent the money, then you might tow my security away!This one is the last...and my favorite!
"My credit is pretty good...I don't have any debt." - Yeah, that is because you filed a Chapter 7 bankruptcy 6 months ago, dumb ass. The trustee told your creditors they ain't gettin' shit, just like I am about ready to tell you. Go back to 8 Mile and live with Momma, boy.
Yes, buyers are liars and people are stupid. Sometimes, I wish I could open a lemonade stand and sell Mike's Hard lemonade in it!
For example, people in the real estate field work heavily off referrals. It is truly a relationship business. This sucks, mostly because I am subject to kissing realtor ass. Today, it came to a point where I told a realtor, not in so many words, to fuck off. It is bad enough customers think they know what I do, but then throw a realtor in there, that makes more money than God (offer on Heaven pending), thinking that they are looking out for their clients best interest. Some of the things I hear on a regular basis are as follows:
"I can get this deal any where, but I figured I would give you guys a chance to earn my business." - a classic threat, this buyer typically hasn't been anywhere else other than right here in front of me. I have said as much on some occasions, depending on the type of attitude represented by the buyer. If you can get the deal, asswipe, go get it somewhere else. I am busy. I think the honor in working with my company lies strictly with you....that is, if you are worthy.
"I already have a loan with you guys and I don't want to pay any more fees to refinance it somewhere else." - so you want the shit for free? Here
"I am currently unemployed and looking to refinance my home. Can you help?"- This one is easy. No. They always ask why, but it comes down to the ability to repay the loan we LENT to you. I sometimes have to convince people that the mortgage truly is BORROWED funds, requiring repayment, and since you have not the mentality nor the capacity to REPAY the loan...hit the road.
"Do you guys lend money for manufactured homes?" - ahhh yes...meth labs. No, we don't, and since we are on the topic of buying the only piece of real estate that does NOT appreciate, BUY A STICK BUILT HOUSE! For the love of God, if your home was parked on your lot, it is not worth keeping! I am afraid if I lent the money, then you might tow my security away!This one is the last...and my favorite!
"My credit is pretty good...I don't have any debt." - Yeah, that is because you filed a Chapter 7 bankruptcy 6 months ago, dumb ass. The trustee told your creditors they ain't gettin' shit, just like I am about ready to tell you. Go back to 8 Mile and live with Momma, boy.
Yes, buyers are liars and people are stupid. Sometimes, I wish I could open a lemonade stand and sell Mike's Hard lemonade in it!
Neighbors Suck
I have said before, I think anyway, that if I had the choice, I would want to live out in the country somewhere so that I did not have to put up with neighbors. I hate neighbors. They always want to talk about anything and everything. Even if my body language indicates I have no desire to speak to you....there you are, smiling like a Downs syndrome kid, waiting for my attention.My neighbors came home from their two week vacation yesterday afternoon, just about the time my wife, mother in law and two children pulled up to the garage door. Oh how outstanding. Not only are the hands full with Wendy's, wipes and , there are now geriatric zombies roaming toward the car, inquiring about such important things as, "Whatcha doin?" HEY FUCKTARD....my hands are full and I have to feed my children!!! "Oh, well, let me tell you all about my vacation." Listen pops, that is as important to me as me telling YOU all about my bowel movement full of corn....piss off! Thank God I was still at work, lest I would be in jail for murder.
Everyone apparently made it inside, but absence does not make the zombies go away. The doorbell rings, just about the time the dog gets let out of his kennel. So now he is barking, Peyton is whining, Jacob is WAKING, and Sandy (mother-in-law) is wondering who is at the door. It is Elwood, wanting his key back. By himself, Elwood knows when he is not wanted. I have proven that by shutting my garage door in his face, like an upper lip closing during an ELWOOD windstorm. He gets his key, and leaves. My wife thinks this is about done.
Five minutes later, the Mrs. comes over to talk. Apparently, the people she lives with have tuned her out. All the occupants of MY house want at this point is to feed whiny kids and get the dog under control. Nah, fuck that idea.**DING DONG DING DONG**There is Kerol, a humanoid blabber monster. Good God. If anyone needed assisted suicide, it's her. I'll be happy to assist. For five minutes, I guess, she talked about all the boring shit they can do for 3 weeks in a different state. They are California transplants. I usually could care less if they "invade Idaho," as others have put it, but frankly, I want them to go back, BADLY. They went here, they went there, all the while, the dog wants to smell 120 year old cooch like there is no tomorrow, Peyton is crying, Jake is now fully awake and the food that was once warm, is now cooling off. I have said many times that the people that come over to our house that we care about just come in. So, if someone is using the door, I don't care about them.
If it is Ed Macmahon, then I am going to kick his ass in my front lawn and stick the oversized check up his ass. If you ever move next door to me, I apologize in advance for pissing the word "ASSFACE" on your lawn.
Everyone apparently made it inside, but absence does not make the zombies go away. The doorbell rings, just about the time the dog gets let out of his kennel. So now he is barking, Peyton is whining, Jacob is WAKING, and Sandy (mother-in-law) is wondering who is at the door. It is Elwood, wanting his key back. By himself, Elwood knows when he is not wanted. I have proven that by shutting my garage door in his face, like an upper lip closing during an ELWOOD windstorm. He gets his key, and leaves. My wife thinks this is about done.
Five minutes later, the Mrs. comes over to talk. Apparently, the people she lives with have tuned her out. All the occupants of MY house want at this point is to feed whiny kids and get the dog under control. Nah, fuck that idea.**DING DONG DING DONG**There is Kerol, a humanoid blabber monster. Good God. If anyone needed assisted suicide, it's her. I'll be happy to assist. For five minutes, I guess, she talked about all the boring shit they can do for 3 weeks in a different state. They are California transplants. I usually could care less if they "invade Idaho," as others have put it, but frankly, I want them to go back, BADLY. They went here, they went there, all the while, the dog wants to smell 120 year old cooch like there is no tomorrow, Peyton is crying, Jake is now fully awake and the food that was once warm, is now cooling off. I have said many times that the people that come over to our house that we care about just come in. So, if someone is using the door, I don't care about them.
If it is Ed Macmahon, then I am going to kick his ass in my front lawn and stick the oversized check up his ass. If you ever move next door to me, I apologize in advance for pissing the word "ASSFACE" on your lawn.
Tax Dollars Well Spent...
Before I go on, I actually Googled the phrase, "what can $333 million dollars buy," and came up with this link....http://www.newstimeslive.com/cgi-bin/forum...&sb=5&o=7&part=
I would hate to think someone thought I was PLAGERIZING someone's ideas.
This is the amount of money spent to smash a NASA probe into a comet. This was done, according to researchers, to determine how the universe was formed some 4.5 billion years ago. This data would prove relevant to the modern world because....why exactly? This is worse than hearing the Olympics were in London. Who cares? In a billion years or so, the sun will explode anyway. There are some bigger problems to deal with than finding out that the Big Bang theory is simply a title to a Ron Jeremy flick. Been down south lately? I was in South Carolina and Georgia about 10 years ago. I think $333 million could be better spent building some homes for the people sleeping in boxes. If it was invested in the US Postal Service, I could use my $.37 stamp to mail two letters. Gas would be cheaper because the $200 billion spent in Iraq has only made crude oil rise. Better schools? Maybe then I can feel comfortable putting my kids on a bus knowing that they just might come home smarter.
$333 million? That is like spending money on a study to find out how people become obese. Here....F.D.A.....send me the money and, pay attention, this is why people are obese. THEY EAT TOO FUCKING MUCH! There....when can I expect my grant check? It is almost as bad as the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) spending countless man hours to come to this whopper of a conclusion. "NTSB study finds plane flying too low just before crash." Ya think? Most planes that crash usually are flying too low, dumbshits. Or "NTSB claims plane inadvertently flew into mountain." Wow...let's see....$85,000 a year times 345 employees needed to do study equals MY TAX DOLLARS BURNED IN OVEN! I seriously doubt the pilot was playing chicken thinking the mountain would give first.
Pilot - C'mon chicken....move....
Co-Pilot - Ummm...Bob, that is a mountain. You are going to hit the mountain if you don't move.
Pilot - I saw this in Nam once. It will move....gotta have faith. C’mon you dirty bastard.....move.
Every two weeks, 38% of my check is gone....BOOM...just like that. Then come April 15, the government wants me to check and see if I have paid enough taxes. PAID??? To quote Chris Rock....I don't pay taxes, they TAKE taxes. That is a JACK! Thank God I do pay taxes and I get to see the wealth of information coming from what I help pay for......
I would hate to think someone thought I was PLAGERIZING someone's ideas.
This is the amount of money spent to smash a NASA probe into a comet. This was done, according to researchers, to determine how the universe was formed some 4.5 billion years ago. This data would prove relevant to the modern world because....why exactly? This is worse than hearing the Olympics were in London. Who cares? In a billion years or so, the sun will explode anyway. There are some bigger problems to deal with than finding out that the Big Bang theory is simply a title to a Ron Jeremy flick. Been down south lately? I was in South Carolina and Georgia about 10 years ago. I think $333 million could be better spent building some homes for the people sleeping in boxes. If it was invested in the US Postal Service, I could use my $.37 stamp to mail two letters. Gas would be cheaper because the $200 billion spent in Iraq has only made crude oil rise. Better schools? Maybe then I can feel comfortable putting my kids on a bus knowing that they just might come home smarter.
$333 million? That is like spending money on a study to find out how people become obese. Here....F.D.A.....send me the money and, pay attention, this is why people are obese. THEY EAT TOO FUCKING MUCH! There....when can I expect my grant check? It is almost as bad as the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) spending countless man hours to come to this whopper of a conclusion. "NTSB study finds plane flying too low just before crash." Ya think? Most planes that crash usually are flying too low, dumbshits. Or "NTSB claims plane inadvertently flew into mountain." Wow...let's see....$85,000 a year times 345 employees needed to do study equals MY TAX DOLLARS BURNED IN OVEN! I seriously doubt the pilot was playing chicken thinking the mountain would give first.
Pilot - C'mon chicken....move....
Co-Pilot - Ummm...Bob, that is a mountain. You are going to hit the mountain if you don't move.
Pilot - I saw this in Nam once. It will move....gotta have faith. C’mon you dirty bastard.....move.
Every two weeks, 38% of my check is gone....BOOM...just like that. Then come April 15, the government wants me to check and see if I have paid enough taxes. PAID??? To quote Chris Rock....I don't pay taxes, they TAKE taxes. That is a JACK! Thank God I do pay taxes and I get to see the wealth of information coming from what I help pay for......
Carnies
I love carnies. I think they should have their own kingdom. I witnessed a wagon train of carnies the other day that I thought would be worth mentioning. I remember as a kid I was terrified of this creature because they always looked so mean. Back when I was seven, toothless, greasy, and smoking meant mean.
For those of you that have been under a rock your whole lives, a carny is a nomad, a gypsy, that travels place to place, erecting large death traps, and making sure little Johnny is THAT tall so he can ride the skull crusher. I mean that in a literal sense as spinning around in a circle at 664 miles per hour has a tendency to crush bone. In other words, a carny is the person that stands by the ride, and makes sure he has smoked enough cigarettes to displace the Queen Anne, foregoing your child's safety, at any of the local carnivals that come into town once a week. Carnies take your tickets. You don't hand them your ticket, and say thank you. They take it from you, pissed off that their dental plan cannot keep up with the rate and/or degree of tooth loss. There is no thank you. It goes beyond the mono-syllabic vocabulary of a carny. How do you become a carny? Well, there are specific things king carnies look for in an underling, least of which is a bar of soap. Heartbeats are vital to becoming a carny. However, in the same stank breath, you must smoke 6 cartons of filter less cigarettes a day. To a carny, filters create a challenge for the cancer cells to raid their bodies. If carnies are nothing, they are accommodating.
You must own clothes that are tattered beyond recognition. If a prospective carny's clothes are too new, I would suggest running them over with a John Deere a few times. This includes the jeans. You must also bathe in motor oil and allow the oil to air dry. Yes, it may take several weeks for the oil to evaporate, but I can assure you, the lasting effect will guarantee you a job at the carnival. A carny must own only one pair of footwear. This can be any size, shape and color, but they must be the same shoes you grew up in. This always means that the toes of the shoes are gone, and their feet have grown beyond the end of the shoe, exposing what most would hope are either NO socks, or tattered socks. Please read above on how one can tatter their clothing.
No toiletries are allowed while being a carny, so if you are being groomed to be a carny (IE an ex-felon that cannot get a job, owe back taxes and want to be paid under the table, or any other varying felonious activities have prevented you from holding a real job), then stop showering, brushing your teeth, using toilet paper, and remain diligent on your strict diet of methamphetamine, coffee, and Camels. In six months, once the molars have deteriorated, you can rest assured that your new carny career will skyrocket like the X10.
If being a carny is for you, please visit the carny headhunting site at www.ilostmyvirginitytomyauntatagesix.com for an application package. Please allow 7-22 years for processing. Our Cro-Magnon staff is working hard to make sure that all applications are processed in a speedy manner
For those of you that have been under a rock your whole lives, a carny is a nomad, a gypsy, that travels place to place, erecting large death traps, and making sure little Johnny is THAT tall so he can ride the skull crusher. I mean that in a literal sense as spinning around in a circle at 664 miles per hour has a tendency to crush bone. In other words, a carny is the person that stands by the ride, and makes sure he has smoked enough cigarettes to displace the Queen Anne, foregoing your child's safety, at any of the local carnivals that come into town once a week. Carnies take your tickets. You don't hand them your ticket, and say thank you. They take it from you, pissed off that their dental plan cannot keep up with the rate and/or degree of tooth loss. There is no thank you. It goes beyond the mono-syllabic vocabulary of a carny. How do you become a carny? Well, there are specific things king carnies look for in an underling, least of which is a bar of soap. Heartbeats are vital to becoming a carny. However, in the same stank breath, you must smoke 6 cartons of filter less cigarettes a day. To a carny, filters create a challenge for the cancer cells to raid their bodies. If carnies are nothing, they are accommodating.
You must own clothes that are tattered beyond recognition. If a prospective carny's clothes are too new, I would suggest running them over with a John Deere a few times. This includes the jeans. You must also bathe in motor oil and allow the oil to air dry. Yes, it may take several weeks for the oil to evaporate, but I can assure you, the lasting effect will guarantee you a job at the carnival. A carny must own only one pair of footwear. This can be any size, shape and color, but they must be the same shoes you grew up in. This always means that the toes of the shoes are gone, and their feet have grown beyond the end of the shoe, exposing what most would hope are either NO socks, or tattered socks. Please read above on how one can tatter their clothing.
No toiletries are allowed while being a carny, so if you are being groomed to be a carny (IE an ex-felon that cannot get a job, owe back taxes and want to be paid under the table, or any other varying felonious activities have prevented you from holding a real job), then stop showering, brushing your teeth, using toilet paper, and remain diligent on your strict diet of methamphetamine, coffee, and Camels. In six months, once the molars have deteriorated, you can rest assured that your new carny career will skyrocket like the X10.
If being a carny is for you, please visit the carny headhunting site at www.ilostmyvirginitytomyauntatagesix.com for an application package. Please allow 7-22 years for processing. Our Cro-Magnon staff is working hard to make sure that all applications are processed in a speedy manner
A Complaint that was read on a local radio station
Listener email segment...gotta love the chance to hear your words on the radio....
I have a complaint. I know, it may fall on a lot of deaf ears, but I think it is worth venting about. It is difficult to keep this clean as I am sure neither Mike NOR Kate can edit in this in mid-read so I will do my best.
FYI....gas is over $2.00 a gallon. It is bad enough you go from light to light at mach 2, but try and remember your 1997 F350 only gets 4 miles to the gallon. I am sure I am going to get someone telling me, "Ya'll are dumb, my truck gets TIN miles to the gallon!" Great, but last I checked, "tin" surrounded your "on the way home" beverage.
Stop passing me on the shoulder so you can be the first to the stop sign.
Stop peaking around the long line of traffic to see if there really IS a line waiting for the light to turn green. I am organized, but not organized enough to talk to 70 strangers on the way to work to pull a trick on you.
Put your makeup on BEFORE you leave the house and preferably not when you are on your cell phone asking your friend who you went home with last night.
CONVENIENCE STORE CLERKS : STOP ASKING ME IF I HAVE GAS WHEN I COME UP TO THE COUNTER WITH A BOTTLE OF COKE. It is none of your business. I may ask you a personal question pretty soon and I can assure you it will be more embarrassing than your inquiry about my flatulence.
If you see someone in front of me, let alone SEVERAL cars in front of me going slow, that does not mean it is OK to tailgate me. It won't make me go any faster. In fact, I just might forget to push on the gas pedal and idol along my way.
That's all for now. I think I have a Boy Scout at my door selling me bookmarks! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.....=)
I have a complaint. I know, it may fall on a lot of deaf ears, but I think it is worth venting about. It is difficult to keep this clean as I am sure neither Mike NOR Kate can edit in this in mid-read so I will do my best.
FYI....gas is over $2.00 a gallon. It is bad enough you go from light to light at mach 2, but try and remember your 1997 F350 only gets 4 miles to the gallon. I am sure I am going to get someone telling me, "Ya'll are dumb, my truck gets TIN miles to the gallon!" Great, but last I checked, "tin" surrounded your "on the way home" beverage.
Stop passing me on the shoulder so you can be the first to the stop sign.
Stop peaking around the long line of traffic to see if there really IS a line waiting for the light to turn green. I am organized, but not organized enough to talk to 70 strangers on the way to work to pull a trick on you.
Put your makeup on BEFORE you leave the house and preferably not when you are on your cell phone asking your friend who you went home with last night.
CONVENIENCE STORE CLERKS : STOP ASKING ME IF I HAVE GAS WHEN I COME UP TO THE COUNTER WITH A BOTTLE OF COKE. It is none of your business. I may ask you a personal question pretty soon and I can assure you it will be more embarrassing than your inquiry about my flatulence.
If you see someone in front of me, let alone SEVERAL cars in front of me going slow, that does not mean it is OK to tailgate me. It won't make me go any faster. In fact, I just might forget to push on the gas pedal and idol along my way.
That's all for now. I think I have a Boy Scout at my door selling me bookmarks! GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.....=)
BABY FOOD
The most striking thing about baby food is the extreme duality of quality. There's no such thing as an okay jar of baby food. The beef and carrot medley is vomitous. The applesauce is masterful. Why doesn't grownup applesauce taste like this? Why are they saving the good applesauce for the only people on the planet who won't remember how it tastes? No matter what it is, it is either the shittiest thing you have ever had, or you want to go out and purchase vats of the stuff.
Honestly, babies eat better than most 3rd world countries. I had no idea that puréed beef and vegetables could be the culinary equivalent of mixed cement. Zwieback toast? This is to help babies cut teeth, right? In my opinion, it helps babies cut GUMS, not teeth. If the Titanic was laced with Zwieback toast, the ship would be in harbor somewhere accepting tourists and Irish peasants as stewards. Formula? This is infant Slim Fast, with 0% of the flavor. Parents wonder why infants cry as they begin to suckle on the nipple containing bile. As new parents are enthralled with testing everything baby eats to see what HE tastes, I can assure you of a few things:
Breast milk is for the baby, not you. As erotic as it might seem to suck on a engorged, lactating breast, don't. If post-partum has not set in yet, the scene of you running to vomit in the bathroom after affectionately making out with your wife's breast will surely send her into a tail spin.
Formula is a substitute of the above, and also has the same distaste. Even if you think it looks like a warm vanilla milkshake, it isn't. It is more like luke-warm Elmer's glue. Some of you may have found this to be an elementary delicacy (pun intended), however, like a child learning to love vegetable as they get older, the opposite is true of formula. It tasted like ass as an infant, and now you recognize the ass taste. Save yourself the trouble. Drink beer.
Don't think that infant poop is relative to the size of the baby. It comes out in volumes, and I don't mean ounces, I mean barrels. If baby crap could be packaged and sold as an alternative to gasoline, Earth Watch hippies would be irrelevant, greenhorns could climb out of the Redwoods, and the Democratic Party would be obsolete. Oh yeah, and it stinks.....BAD! You think OTHER people's babies stink? Think what they say about your offspring's feces. The odor magnifies, too, when it comes in contact with a 3rd party's hand, IE, YOUR hand, and it takes a skunk to make the smell go away.
Sleeping like a baby is a bullshit term. Babies don't sleep, ever. They only nap for about the first 18 years. A real 8 hour night of sleep comes for parents when they go on vacation. Odd how grown ups spend thousands of dollars to go to the Caribbean, only packing sleepwear. Those who say, "Ohhhhhh gonna have some love makin this week," obviously don't have kids. Magellan, these boxers are to sleep in, that nighty is for HER to sleep in, and we will come back refreshed.
Nothing like going to the dentist for a root canal, just to get laughing gas......
Honestly, babies eat better than most 3rd world countries. I had no idea that puréed beef and vegetables could be the culinary equivalent of mixed cement. Zwieback toast? This is to help babies cut teeth, right? In my opinion, it helps babies cut GUMS, not teeth. If the Titanic was laced with Zwieback toast, the ship would be in harbor somewhere accepting tourists and Irish peasants as stewards. Formula? This is infant Slim Fast, with 0% of the flavor. Parents wonder why infants cry as they begin to suckle on the nipple containing bile. As new parents are enthralled with testing everything baby eats to see what HE tastes, I can assure you of a few things:
Breast milk is for the baby, not you. As erotic as it might seem to suck on a engorged, lactating breast, don't. If post-partum has not set in yet, the scene of you running to vomit in the bathroom after affectionately making out with your wife's breast will surely send her into a tail spin.
Formula is a substitute of the above, and also has the same distaste. Even if you think it looks like a warm vanilla milkshake, it isn't. It is more like luke-warm Elmer's glue. Some of you may have found this to be an elementary delicacy (pun intended), however, like a child learning to love vegetable as they get older, the opposite is true of formula. It tasted like ass as an infant, and now you recognize the ass taste. Save yourself the trouble. Drink beer.
Don't think that infant poop is relative to the size of the baby. It comes out in volumes, and I don't mean ounces, I mean barrels. If baby crap could be packaged and sold as an alternative to gasoline, Earth Watch hippies would be irrelevant, greenhorns could climb out of the Redwoods, and the Democratic Party would be obsolete. Oh yeah, and it stinks.....BAD! You think OTHER people's babies stink? Think what they say about your offspring's feces. The odor magnifies, too, when it comes in contact with a 3rd party's hand, IE, YOUR hand, and it takes a skunk to make the smell go away.
Sleeping like a baby is a bullshit term. Babies don't sleep, ever. They only nap for about the first 18 years. A real 8 hour night of sleep comes for parents when they go on vacation. Odd how grown ups spend thousands of dollars to go to the Caribbean, only packing sleepwear. Those who say, "Ohhhhhh gonna have some love makin this week," obviously don't have kids. Magellan, these boxers are to sleep in, that nighty is for HER to sleep in, and we will come back refreshed.
Nothing like going to the dentist for a root canal, just to get laughing gas......
A post before my son was born...
This one is sort of old, but I had to post it in my blog for, more or less, humor purposes....
Most of you, somewhere around the 98% range, do not have kids. The majority of that percentage should consider maintaining that pattern. Me, on the other hand have two, and another one due sometime in the spring. I have an 8 year old from marriage #1, and an 18 month old from marriage 2, and the 3rd, before you fuckers say, "#3," is from the mother of the 2nd one. Yes she is my wife, thank you. All daughters...yeah I know....fuck off.
About a month ago, we went to the pediatrician, who noticed that she is in the 5th percentile in weight, 50th percentile in height, and 88th percentile in head circumference. Read that again, close your eyes, and see if you also picture a toothpick with an orange on top. I did, and I laughed. She is completely normal looking, but still, that analogy fit the description perfectly. The doc said not to worry and since about 6 teeth were coming in on top, and her molars on the bottom, they suggested to offer food, milk and soft foods, she would come around eventually. Soon, finicky turned into voracious.
**MY POINT** You know how you eat corn and miraculously, it looks whole coming out in your shit and about the only thing missing is the cob? Try chili with and 18 month old. Not 5-alarm chili or spicy chili. Mostly she ate kidney, pinto, northern and black beans, plus some beef. She drank four kid cups of milk. To you braniacs, that equates to about 16 ounces. Mind you, most of her meals in the last two weeks have been rather time consuming. I will just say she is eating like she should, and losing weight should no longer be an issue. However, the following afternoon, she passed the chili. Not graciously OR lady-like. One big push, and I-90 was soon to be re-paved. I wasn't prepared for the stench, nor the girth of this shit, literally. I expected to have her wake up from her nap, smiling as usual, waving and saying, "HIIIIIIII," from the top of her lungs. However, I opened her door, and a back draft of flatulence about knocked me on the floor. She looked at me, pinched her nose and said, "stinky," notably the world's largest understatement to date.
I picked her up, cradling the back of her legs as I always do, yet my arm underneath felt a tad.....damp? Then the smell came again. I placed her on her changing table, knowing that I was about to witness a diaper blowout. I took of her pants, her again telling me it was "stinky," as if the peeling paint wasn't enough of a reminder. I peeled the diaper back to witness that the chili came out the same way it went in.....WHOLE! Kidney beans, black beans, pintos and northerns all there as if they were never chewed, an act I witnessed as I fed her. For the first time in my life, I saw a party in someone else's pants, and I did not want to be invited. My 18-month old shit bigger than a 50-year old on Metamucil.No I did not take pictures....
MORAL - Chew your food? Fuck that idea. Save time and swallow whole. It will all come out in the end....literally.
Most of you, somewhere around the 98% range, do not have kids. The majority of that percentage should consider maintaining that pattern. Me, on the other hand have two, and another one due sometime in the spring. I have an 8 year old from marriage #1, and an 18 month old from marriage 2, and the 3rd, before you fuckers say, "#3," is from the mother of the 2nd one. Yes she is my wife, thank you. All daughters...yeah I know....fuck off.
About a month ago, we went to the pediatrician, who noticed that she is in the 5th percentile in weight, 50th percentile in height, and 88th percentile in head circumference. Read that again, close your eyes, and see if you also picture a toothpick with an orange on top. I did, and I laughed. She is completely normal looking, but still, that analogy fit the description perfectly. The doc said not to worry and since about 6 teeth were coming in on top, and her molars on the bottom, they suggested to offer food, milk and soft foods, she would come around eventually. Soon, finicky turned into voracious.
**MY POINT** You know how you eat corn and miraculously, it looks whole coming out in your shit and about the only thing missing is the cob? Try chili with and 18 month old. Not 5-alarm chili or spicy chili. Mostly she ate kidney, pinto, northern and black beans, plus some beef. She drank four kid cups of milk. To you braniacs, that equates to about 16 ounces. Mind you, most of her meals in the last two weeks have been rather time consuming. I will just say she is eating like she should, and losing weight should no longer be an issue. However, the following afternoon, she passed the chili. Not graciously OR lady-like. One big push, and I-90 was soon to be re-paved. I wasn't prepared for the stench, nor the girth of this shit, literally. I expected to have her wake up from her nap, smiling as usual, waving and saying, "HIIIIIIII," from the top of her lungs. However, I opened her door, and a back draft of flatulence about knocked me on the floor. She looked at me, pinched her nose and said, "stinky," notably the world's largest understatement to date.
I picked her up, cradling the back of her legs as I always do, yet my arm underneath felt a tad.....damp? Then the smell came again. I placed her on her changing table, knowing that I was about to witness a diaper blowout. I took of her pants, her again telling me it was "stinky," as if the peeling paint wasn't enough of a reminder. I peeled the diaper back to witness that the chili came out the same way it went in.....WHOLE! Kidney beans, black beans, pintos and northerns all there as if they were never chewed, an act I witnessed as I fed her. For the first time in my life, I saw a party in someone else's pants, and I did not want to be invited. My 18-month old shit bigger than a 50-year old on Metamucil.No I did not take pictures....
MORAL - Chew your food? Fuck that idea. Save time and swallow whole. It will all come out in the end....literally.
Two things this morning aggravated me driving to work.
First, I was driving behind some asshole in a mini-van taking his kids to school I would imagine, and he flicked his spent cigarette out his window. Why? If I were to ask, I am going to say that he doesn't want to mess up his ashtray. Why the fuck not? Your car smells like ass from the smoke so why worry about some smudges on an instrument designed to take the brunt of extinguishing the material? Are you worried your kids might reek of your bad habit when they go to school? I really wanted to follow the guy home so I knew where he lived. Then, travel from bar to bar filling up trash bags with cigarette butts and dumping them all in his lawn. He would wake up, "fgt" in mouth and see the lawn covered with crap. He would then, no doubt would have the audacity to say, "WHY WOULD SOMEONE PUT THESE THINGS IN MY YARD?" I have followed you for a week, prick, and you left these on the road. Thought you needed them back. Stupid bastard.
A local radio station has this phone number you can call to "Confess" whatever you need to confess. First problem, dumbasses call it. Second problem, they play the shit on the air. Two callers in particular irked me. The first was a man who fucked his girlfriends sister while she was out of town. He had hoped her sister hadn't said anything because, "he didn't want to have her hear it from her sister." Hello dweeb-boy, you're on the air. Right now, you're girlfriend has just spilled hot coffee on a McDonald's patron after hearing you just banged her 16 year old sister you sick asshole. Not only is she humiliated, but her employer is now facing a multi-million dollar lawsuit all because your dipstick went into another oil pan. Similar to the adage, don't dip the pen in company ink....STOP FUCKING YOUR GIRLFRIEND'S FAMILY! The next caller was a woman, dating the same guy for 6 years. Both her and the previous caller started out by saying, "baby....you know I love you sooooooooooooo much." She, like Freud above, screwed some guy when her boyfriend was out of town. She CLAIMS to have never done something like this...and that she was drunk when it happened. Being drunk and fucking around does not make it any better. You know what you did, you just woke up not only regretting it, but most likely with a splitting headache. Worse part is, the baby in her belly is not her boyfriends. So, kick him in the nuts three times in one phone call. I fucked around, but I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU and oh, the excitement you had when I told you I was pregnant...yeah, this isn't your DNA.... Dumb bitch.
First, I was driving behind some asshole in a mini-van taking his kids to school I would imagine, and he flicked his spent cigarette out his window. Why? If I were to ask, I am going to say that he doesn't want to mess up his ashtray. Why the fuck not? Your car smells like ass from the smoke so why worry about some smudges on an instrument designed to take the brunt of extinguishing the material? Are you worried your kids might reek of your bad habit when they go to school? I really wanted to follow the guy home so I knew where he lived. Then, travel from bar to bar filling up trash bags with cigarette butts and dumping them all in his lawn. He would wake up, "fgt" in mouth and see the lawn covered with crap. He would then, no doubt would have the audacity to say, "WHY WOULD SOMEONE PUT THESE THINGS IN MY YARD?" I have followed you for a week, prick, and you left these on the road. Thought you needed them back. Stupid bastard.
A local radio station has this phone number you can call to "Confess" whatever you need to confess. First problem, dumbasses call it. Second problem, they play the shit on the air. Two callers in particular irked me. The first was a man who fucked his girlfriends sister while she was out of town. He had hoped her sister hadn't said anything because, "he didn't want to have her hear it from her sister." Hello dweeb-boy, you're on the air. Right now, you're girlfriend has just spilled hot coffee on a McDonald's patron after hearing you just banged her 16 year old sister you sick asshole. Not only is she humiliated, but her employer is now facing a multi-million dollar lawsuit all because your dipstick went into another oil pan. Similar to the adage, don't dip the pen in company ink....STOP FUCKING YOUR GIRLFRIEND'S FAMILY! The next caller was a woman, dating the same guy for 6 years. Both her and the previous caller started out by saying, "baby....you know I love you sooooooooooooo much." She, like Freud above, screwed some guy when her boyfriend was out of town. She CLAIMS to have never done something like this...and that she was drunk when it happened. Being drunk and fucking around does not make it any better. You know what you did, you just woke up not only regretting it, but most likely with a splitting headache. Worse part is, the baby in her belly is not her boyfriends. So, kick him in the nuts three times in one phone call. I fucked around
Not the Time to be Anal
I am currently working with a couple that are building a house. Nice folks, but anal as hell. We started the process in November and have locked the loan with 4 different lenders. Now to the general public, you might say, "ALL HAIL THE ANAL BASTARDS!" To the general public I say, F*** YOU!
When you lock your keys in your car, you can not UNLOCK the door to get to them. You have to jump through a lot of hoops. People may look at you like you are stupid for locking the keys in there, but they don't have any means in which to help you. So, when you LOCK A LOAN, its locked and can not be changed. However, these people seem to think that we can UNDO the already DONE. Nope, go to hell.
We, as brokers, might have access to 100 lenders, but that doesn't mean we USE all of them. Mrs. Customer is a realtor. Mrs. Customer uses many different lenders to get her buyers into homes. She tells me this as if that is some motivating threat to make me do the impossible. Great, I say. F***ING BRAVO! Pat yourself on the ass and move on Junior! Why do I care?
She says to me: "because THEYYYYYYY can get me a lower rate."
Ok, Barney. Go get it then. Go find a lender that (A) we haven't already locked with, and (B) that gives a shit about you and your hubby's professional resume', because I don't care anymore. I won't caudle under your pseudo-pressure. It doesn't work for the IRS, and it ain't gonna work on me.
Fine.
Right fine....go, where shall I send your shit lady?
Well, I just think it's ridiculous that...
That what? You are asking me for a 5th time to change your lender?!?!?! Let me ask you this. Ever heard of get rich quick schemes? Why not you and I go buy a bag of Coleman charcoal and I will start shoving them in your ass and hanging around while your tight-wad beliefs start producing diamonds. How about that?
Well I never...
Never what? Make up your mind? There is an epiphany for you.
Well I am just going to have to take my business elsewhere.
You promise? Don't tease me now. Are you realllly going to go and make someone's life a living hell like you have mine. Free loan, low interest rate...oh yeah, and for a parting gift, here is the f***ing MOON!
So after this conversation I get a phone call from the husband, regurgitating the same shit his wife just said. I just sit and roll my eyes. blah blah...taking business elsewhere...yada yada...threat, threat. So I interrupt him.
Mr. Customer, are you about done?
Yes.
Good because I have heard this already and frankly, the first version was just as bad. That one gave me a headache and your verbal repetition of everything your wife and I already talked about is going to give me an aneurysm.
Ok.
So my thought is, be happy that I haven't called Jimmy "the Bull" to come whack your whiny asses.
Ok.
Stop calling me every day wondering when we are going to close your loan, and then 48 hours prior asking for a new loan and lobbing empty threats of you taking your business elsewhere
You there?
Yeah.
Ok, and last but not least, have your wife ingest enough cotton to shut her up, look under the sink for a mason jar that contains your balls, check your gym bag for your backbone, and for once in your life SAY THANK YOU!
Ok.
And if you can't find your balls, I'll let you use mine while you administer the cotton therapy.
Ok, sorry and thank you so much for your efforts, they are very apprec...
Buyers are liars and people are stupid!
When you lock your keys in your car, you can not UNLOCK the door to get to them. You have to jump through a lot of hoops. People may look at you like you are stupid for locking the keys in there, but they don't have any means in which to help you. So, when you LOCK A LOAN, its locked and can not be changed. However, these people seem to think that we can UNDO the already DONE. Nope, go to hell.
We, as brokers, might have access to 100 lenders, but that doesn't mean we USE all of them. Mrs. Customer is a realtor. Mrs. Customer uses many different lenders to get her buyers into homes. She tells me this as if that is some motivating threat to make me do the impossible. Great, I say. F***ING BRAVO! Pat yourself on the ass and move on Junior! Why do I care?
She says to me: "because THEYYYYYYY can get me a lower rate."
Ok, Barney. Go get it then. Go find a lender that (A) we haven't already locked with, and (B) that gives a shit about you and your hubby's professional resume', because I don't care anymore. I won't caudle under your pseudo-pressure. It doesn't work for the IRS, and it ain't gonna work on me.
Fine.
Right fine....go, where shall I send your shit lady?
Well, I just think it's ridiculous that...
That what? You are asking me for a 5th time to change your lender?!?!?! Let me ask you this. Ever heard of get rich quick schemes? Why not you and I go buy a bag of Coleman charcoal and I will start shoving them in your ass and hanging around while your tight-wad beliefs start producing diamonds. How about that?
Well I never...
Never what? Make up your mind? There is an epiphany for you.
Well I am just going to have to take my business elsewhere.
You promise? Don't tease me now. Are you realllly going to go and make someone's life a living hell like you have mine. Free loan, low interest rate...oh yeah, and for a parting gift, here is the f***ing MOON!
So after this conversation I get a phone call from the husband, regurgitating the same shit his wife just said. I just sit and roll my eyes. blah blah...taking business elsewhere...yada yada...threat, threat. So I interrupt him.
Mr. Customer, are you about done?
Yes.
Good because I have heard this already and frankly, the first version was just as bad. That one gave me a headache and your verbal repetition of everything your wife and I already talked about is going to give me an aneurysm.
Ok.
So my thought is, be happy that I haven't called Jimmy "the Bull" to come whack your whiny asses.
Ok.
Stop calling me every day wondering when we are going to close your loan, and then 48 hours prior asking for a new loan and lobbing empty threats of you taking your business elsewhere
You there?
Yeah.
Ok, and last but not least, have your wife ingest enough cotton to shut her up, look under the sink for a mason jar that contains your balls, check your gym bag for your backbone, and for once in your life SAY THANK YOU!
Ok.
And if you can't find your balls, I'll let you use mine while you administer the cotton therapy.
Ok, sorry and thank you so much for your efforts, they are very apprec...
Buyers are liars and people are stupid!
Pick a Different State to Live In
I saw an article on cnn.com a while back regarding some storms that ripped through the Midwest. The picture, under the headline that read "STORMS TEAR THROUGH MIDWEST," was of a manufactured home. I deal with home buyers on a daily basis. Some want a trailer to live in (not sure why), and well, this story sort of got me going.
The absolute farthest thing from my mind is to own a manufactured home. What is FURTHER from my mind is to move to tornado alley. What, then, would be an absolute travesty is to bring these two things together, owning a mobile home in tornado alley. PSSSSSTTTTTTT...residents of the ENTIRE STATE of Oklahoma. Double wide trailers fly as far as the skimpy single wides when winds approach 300 MPH. DO NOT USE your insurance money from the "last tornado" and GET ANOTHER TRAILER! My advice...take that money and MOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE! I do not find it sad when, after a tornado rips through ONLY A TRAILER PARK and people are crying and looking for their screen door, stumbling around incoherent and they look into the camera and start a sentence like, "I remember when this happened the last time...." What the hell? Are you stupid Forrest Gump?
The vortex of a tornado is magnetically attracted to the metal skirting around mobile homes. That has been proven time and time again. The last 2 trillion tornadoes that have hit, well, ANYWHERE have destroyed a mobile home park. It is usually all over the news."Today in Hickville, Okleehoma, a tornado ripped through a trailer park..." blah blah blah...now, insert stumbling old ladies in nightgowns and faces smeared with mud, saying something like, "WHERE IS MY KITTY???? HERE KITTY KITTY KITTY..."I can guarantee since the roof of your house blew by at around 6000 miles an hour, your 4-pound ball of fur is somewhere around Kentucky by now.
The absolute farthest thing from my mind is to own a manufactured home. What is FURTHER from my mind is to move to tornado alley. What, then, would be an absolute travesty is to bring these two things together, owning a mobile home in tornado alley. PSSSSSTTTTTTT...residents of the ENTIRE STATE of Oklahoma. Double wide trailers fly as far as the skimpy single wides when winds approach 300 MPH. DO NOT USE your insurance money from the "last tornado" and GET ANOTHER TRAILER! My advice...take that money and MOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE! I do not find it sad when, after a tornado rips through ONLY A TRAILER PARK and people are crying and looking for their screen door, stumbling around incoherent and they look into the camera and start a sentence like, "I remember when this happened the last time...." What the hell? Are you stupid Forrest Gump?
The vortex of a tornado is magnetically attracted to the metal skirting around mobile homes. That has been proven time and time again. The last 2 trillion tornadoes that have hit, well, ANYWHERE have destroyed a mobile home park. It is usually all over the news."Today in Hickville, Okleehoma, a tornado ripped through a trailer park..." blah blah blah...now, insert stumbling old ladies in nightgowns and faces smeared with mud, saying something like, "WHERE IS MY KITTY???? HERE KITTY KITTY KITTY..."I can guarantee since the roof of your house blew by at around 6000 miles an hour, your 4-pound ball of fur is somewhere around Kentucky by now.
PMS
My daughter has PMS. I am sure of it. It has been an affliction that rears its ugly head every morning, every night, and most times in between. She is cranky, impatient, argumentative, whiny, indecisive, combative, resistant, overwhelmed, and lethargic. Now, this is not necessarily an issue as, from time to time, we have all suffered from these ailments, but just not all at once. In the span of five minutes, my daughter will go through this plethora of emotions, in no particular order mind you, leaving both her mother and me baffled as to how to help her. We weren't quite ready for this to happen, as I am sure most parents of little girls aren't. Oh, did I forget to mention the best part? She is not quite three years old.
I came to this PMS conclusion last night when we picked her up from her grandmother's house. Mom and me were both a little tired after a long day. She had not taken a nap at day-care. She kicked some boy in the shin for wanting to sing her a song. She stole another kid's cheese sandwich right of his plate and fed it to the day-care's mascot, a Schnauzer named 'Lucky.' She sat on her nap mat and cried, not able to explain where the nail was that was causing her so much pain. "What is the matter, Peyton?" Rubbing the tears out of her eyes, she stated, mid-cry, "I don't know." I remember hearing that in high school. The only thing missing in Peyton's PMS symptoms is the bloating. She has the irritability down pat. I wonder if they make Midol in a chewable tablet?
When we got home, around 7:30PM, my son had already eaten just before we picked them up. He wanted nothing but bed, so we gave it to him. Peyton wanted juice, but wouldn't drink it when we gave it to her. She wanted to watch a movie, but just not that one we cued up. She was tired but didn't want to sleep. She needed comfort but did not want a hug, kiss or to be held. I searched our junk drawers (yes, plural...we have more than one) to see if the chloroform fairy had answered my prayers. To my dismay, there was none. Memo to the chloroform fairy, I am going to kick your ass. I looked at my wife, with a look that she knew right away was conveying a serious message. If this insanity did not stop, there was going to be someone sleeping in the closet. This look was accompanied by me twirling a roll of duct tape on my fingers. "Bed time," my wife says. Ah hell, might as well have just hit my daughter in the face with a brick. Crying, whaling and tears came willingly, more so than normal. Does a two and half year old ever get the title of queen in any capacity, or is it simply princess? She is quite the drama-something. Peyton fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes,kicking her legs saying, "no bed, no bed, no bedddddddddddd!" My wife picked her up, trying to hold her in her arms as she walked up stairs, Peyton resisting like a hostage in a bed sheet, about ready to be thrown in the trunk of a car. She laid Peyton down, still screaming, and closed her bedroom door. My wife came down after changing her clothes and let out a big sigh and looked at me like her behavior was out of the norm. I said to her, "what?" She replied, "that was weird." What part? All of it was just like yesterday, and the day before.
I can't wait until her hormones kick in and she gets an attitude.
I came to this PMS conclusion last night when we picked her up from her grandmother's house. Mom and me were both a little tired after a long day. She had not taken a nap at day-care. She kicked some boy in the shin for wanting to sing her a song. She stole another kid's cheese sandwich right of his plate and fed it to the day-care's mascot, a Schnauzer named 'Lucky.' She sat on her nap mat and cried, not able to explain where the nail was that was causing her so much pain. "What is the matter, Peyton?" Rubbing the tears out of her eyes, she stated, mid-cry, "I don't know." I remember hearing that in high school. The only thing missing in Peyton's PMS symptoms is the bloating. She has the irritability down pat. I wonder if they make Midol in a chewable tablet?
When we got home, around 7:30PM, my son had already eaten just before we picked them up. He wanted nothing but bed, so we gave it to him. Peyton wanted juice, but wouldn't drink it when we gave it to her. She wanted to watch a movie, but just not that one we cued up. She was tired but didn't want to sleep. She needed comfort but did not want a hug, kiss or to be held. I searched our junk drawers (yes, plural...we have more than one) to see if the chloroform fairy had answered my prayers. To my dismay, there was none. Memo to the chloroform fairy, I am going to kick your ass. I looked at my wife, with a look that she knew right away was conveying a serious message. If this insanity did not stop, there was going to be someone sleeping in the closet. This look was accompanied by me twirling a roll of duct tape on my fingers. "Bed time," my wife says. Ah hell, might as well have just hit my daughter in the face with a brick. Crying, whaling and tears came willingly, more so than normal. Does a two and half year old ever get the title of queen in any capacity, or is it simply princess? She is quite the drama-something. Peyton fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes,kicking her legs saying, "no bed, no bed, no bedddddddddddd!" My wife picked her up, trying to hold her in her arms as she walked up stairs, Peyton resisting like a hostage in a bed sheet, about ready to be thrown in the trunk of a car. She laid Peyton down, still screaming, and closed her bedroom door. My wife came down after changing her clothes and let out a big sigh and looked at me like her behavior was out of the norm. I said to her, "what?" She replied, "that was weird." What part? All of it was just like yesterday, and the day before.
I can't wait until her hormones kick in and she gets an attitude.
Rebel Without a Pause
I heard this phrase last week, referring to puppy training. I thought it was rather fitting for a two and a half year old girl who is quickly forming retorts faster than Tara Reid can slam a Tequila Sunrise. If this was what I have now, I am thinking a 13-year vacation, all expenses paid, to an exclusive Sandals resort, is looking pretty good right about now.
My daughter, with etiquette easily compared to that of most bar patrons, let out a belch this weekend that measured on the Richter scale. Ground zero, according to the local news channel, was our address. Neighbors, whom I love like a cold sore, came to inquire about their foundation shifting. After the fumes had dissipated, I asked her, very nonchalantly and filled with rhetoric, "Did you burp?" Expecting a cowering acknowledgement, followed by the parenting phrase, "what do you say," I got a response from her that, even now, gives me chills. "Yeah, I did," she said, as blatantly as the oral flatulence that was expelled moments earlier. It is almost as if there were no consequences to any defiance in my house. I think, in her quest for independence, she was thinking she could get away with such royal behavior. Testing the waters with a belch is something I should be able to handle. I wasn't aware of how wrong I was.
The mind of a two-year old is rather amazing, if I may say. What motivates independence at such a young age? To me, she has had it pretty easy and has lived her life to this point with a personal valet, a chef, an personal clothing shopper, in-home pediatric care, and a virtual Toys R Us in her closet. She has had an all expenses paid vacation, continuous mind you, for over thirty months. She is unhappy now, thinking it is time for her to make her own decisions. After some serious thought on the validity of this request, my wife had to remind me of her age. Too bad, I thought, as purchasing dinner, consisting of fruit snacks and root beer, would create a serious increase in our operating income. Brackenbury Inc. was looking to free up some capital. However, considering the malnourishment of my child was not an option, so we retained the rights to the in-home chef service....for now.
My daughter, with etiquette easily compared to that of most bar patrons, let out a belch this weekend that measured on the Richter scale. Ground zero, according to the local news channel, was our address. Neighbors, whom I love like a cold sore, came to inquire about their foundation shifting. After the fumes had dissipated, I asked her, very nonchalantly and filled with rhetoric, "Did you burp?" Expecting a cowering acknowledgement, followed by the parenting phrase, "what do you say," I got a response from her that, even now, gives me chills. "Yeah, I did," she said, as blatantly as the oral flatulence that was expelled moments earlier. It is almost as if there were no consequences to any defiance in my house. I think, in her quest for independence, she was thinking she could get away with such royal behavior. Testing the waters with a belch is something I should be able to handle. I wasn't aware of how wrong I was.
The mind of a two-year old is rather amazing, if I may say. What motivates independence at such a young age? To me, she has had it pretty easy and has lived her life to this point with a personal valet, a chef, an personal clothing shopper, in-home pediatric care, and a virtual Toys R Us in her closet. She has had an all expenses paid vacation, continuous mind you, for over thirty months. She is unhappy now, thinking it is time for her to make her own decisions. After some serious thought on the validity of this request, my wife had to remind me of her age. Too bad, I thought, as purchasing dinner, consisting of fruit snacks and root beer, would create a serious increase in our operating income. Brackenbury Inc. was looking to free up some capital. However, considering the malnourishment of my child was not an option, so we retained the rights to the in-home chef service....for now.
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