Islamabad, Home of Dish Network Customer Support

I am all for companies saving money. If they want to outsource a job, there is not much we as little people can do to stop them. However, if they really wanted to save money, a better option may be to stop paying their CEO's so much money to delegate all of their work. The highest paid folks seem to do the least amount of work. At least, that is the view I get from the cheap seats.

What do I know. I am unemployed.

I recently moved from one apartment to another. In order for me to move my Dish Network service, I needed to have a technician come out to the new apartment to install it. An appointment was set for a Wednesday, which came and went without a technicians arrival. So I called 1-800-thick-accent to find out what occurred. The following discussion took place.

Dish Operator - Thank you for contacting DEESH NETWORK, home of best H-DEE and DVR service, my name is TOM, how can I help you.

Me- Your name is what?

D.O. - Tom. What is the problem I can help you with?

Me - Well, TOM....I was supposed to have someone come out today between 9AM and 12PM to install my dish and no one has arrived. I was wondering if something was wrong.

D.O. - I apologize for all inconvenience this may have cause. Let me look up your account things. May I please have the number of your phone?

Me - Looking at the phone, Tom, I think the number is 385. But it is a Motorola. I think I see a Z on the front of it.

D.O. - OK, sir, I am not finding a 385 in our system. You said your name was Motorola?

**At this point, it was too much fun not getting a tech out to my new place. So I just continued going on and seeing how far this would go**

Me - No, no....my first name is Z, like the Zebra. JUST...like....Zebra. Last name Motorola, middle name 385

D.O. - OK.... Sir, I am having a time finding your info. Please wait please.

**This is obviously a call overseas for more obvious reasons than the fact that the company in charge of handling Dish Network's service thinks Barbara Streisand music is any good**

Different Dish Network Operator - Hello, seer? My name is Mike. Can you please give me your account info again? I seem to not be able to find you.

Me - That's because Tom was working with me before. I am not sure what he did not understand. I gave him my phone number. It is . My name is .

Mike (Operator) - OK, here it is....one moment, please sir and apologize for the holding.

Tom - OK, seer. Thank you for the holding. Can you verify your address of your home please?

Me - Sure. It is .

Tom - OK, that is not the information that is in front of me.

Me - Hmmm...well that might explain why no one has come out to install my dish. Is it possible that someone can come out today? I am missing Jenna's Playhouse right now.

Tom - Sir, I apologize for all this problems. We can get someone out next week sometime. What is the address for the technician?

Me - I don't even know his name, so I couldn't tell you his address. I think he drives a truck though and carries a bag of tools.

Tom - OK, like I said again, I do apologize for all the problems. Uh....

Me - That's OK Tom. I accept your apology for the polar ice caps, but as far as the world economy, "sorry" just doesn't cut it.

Tom - OK, thank you. Can I get you with anything else today?

Me - Angelina Jolie, if possible.

Tom - OK, I will see if we can do that. Can you hold on for a moments?

Me - Sure

I was losing interest in playing "How Far To Push The Ishtar." It was too easy. Needless to say I promptly cancelled Dish soon after they missed their second appointment. I did give them all the info and argued profusely when I called later in the day on the incompetence in appointment scheduling and wondered why it was that an electronic key stroke is so hard to perform. I stressed to the next person I spoke with that Barbara Streisand was a HUGE turn off while on hold and several times I thought about repeatedly falling on a sharp instrument because of it.

I got several apologies. That was nice. Angelina, however, still has not gotten a hold of me.

The Difference Between and Douche and a Turd Sandwich

If you are a fan of South Park, the above title will ring more true to you than to those who aren't. It is a satirical reference to the election between George W. Bush and Al Gore. It is a choice between two things that, well, suck. This election, at least in my opinion, we face the same dilemma. I am torn between two people that I do not want in office. We DO need a change, not only because the Constitution says we do, but this country is going into the shitter real fast. But what kind of change can we tolerate? This election will be based on an electorate that has grown exponentially over the past 8 years. If nothing else, our country's problems have grown "acres" of voters. However, how educated are these voters? They are infants, frankly, eager to participate in a process that is unfamiliar to them. It is more than punching a ballot. It is educating yourself to find out where these politicians stand.

But where do they stand? A platform is only as strong as the candidate preaching it. G.W. has proven that you can say and do anything to get elected. Maybe now he and his Dad will have stuff to talk about at family gatherings. If you recall, his experience in government was as limited as Obama's, yet, he still got elected because he surrounded himself with great people. Where has that gotten us? Deeper in the hole, both globally and domestically. So are we prepared to allow a good speaker; an articulate inexperienced politician to take office based on the fact he is black, a first timer? I am not so sure. What has he really done?

Then you have McCain, who will most likely die in office. He has had more lesions removed from his face then any human on the face of the Earth, pun intended. He looks ailing. Plus, we will have a Stepford wife as a first lady. His V.P. will be seated next to Pelosi in the Senate. Talk about cat fight. This is a poor scenario. I believe in McCain's experience as a life long politician. I believe he has the experience to do the job, but my fear lies in his ability to finish what he starts. Does his heart have the beats remaining? Frankly, if it doesn't, I fear for the Nation. I like Tina Fe...err, Sarah Palin. I like the way she thinks, but is that her really thinking or is it some far off ghost writer? Maybe those people should be on the ticket; the people writing all of the fancy words these office seeker's speak.

So the choice is not as easy as it seems. I don't pay attention to the polls. I will tune into the debate tonight to listen to the banter back and forth but I doubt it will sway me much. I really don't know he to vote for come November. The douche....or the turd sandwich. Honestly, either one sounds awful.

My New Retirement Plan

Since the market has been performing swimmingly, I have been giving some serious thought to my financial future. Being 35-years old, it came to mind that this might be a good time to ponder the lifestyle I want when I retire. At the current pace, I am destined to have a shitload of inner tubes, cemented to a piece of plywood, ala Huck Finn, floating downstream on a major body of water.

My wife and I went to an exotic pet store in Kennewick yesterday and saw some baby tortoises. Not knowing about their cost, I was shocked that they were almost $200 a pop. For a four-hundred dollar investment, it is possible to breed these things and sell them to pet stores around the country. The thought occurred to me that the overhead required for such an investment would be rather small, at least initially. Figure the average brood for a mating pair is 30 eggs. Even if 50% perished, that left 15 baby turtles. Now, of course, the pet store would not pay retail, so figure a 50% reduction for a wholesale price, that was $100 a turtle. That's $1500 a brood. Tick, tock, tick, tock....

We also have an English Bulldog we want to breed. He is not a champion, and is pet quality (one of the best dogs I have ever owned), his semen would not be a "prize possession." However, it would be realistic to assume that we could get $300 per specimen shipped to an approved bitch.

Bitch....LOL....Bitch Bitch Bitch.....OK, all done.

That being said, the thought occurred to me AGAIN that I was missing on getting some money back from the market crashing by letting turtles hump in an aquarium and jerking my dog off. Of course, it is hard to explain how I made my money. I am sure I would have to come up with something other than I raise tortoises and give my dog a hand job every month. a 3000% return on investment is hard to come by. So, I think I will just refer to my idea as the BOHICA investment package, in the name of my bullie Gus.

Bend Over Here It Comes Again

I will have to research just how valid this opportunity is. I will keep you posted.

Dear the Person Who Wrote "City of Angels"

I hate you.

It isn't like I have not seen this movie numerous times. It is not like the movie's ending is a surprise. Guy is an angel, falls in love with a mortal human, becomes human to be with his love, love dies. Even on the outside looking in, it is as predictable as Tony Soprano's love for Italian food. I really only have one question.

Why?

There are so many other ways to end the movie. It is possible to even have a happy ending where they have little angel babies, or they both get to see angels walkng around. Instead, you proved yet one more time how women can not be satisfied. I mean really, what fruit salad needs Asian pears and nutmeg or All Spice? The salad seemed complete, especially since the end reult of eating the salad is the same regardless of its contents. It is still a very fibrous bowel movement, the smell of nutmeg being far removed early on in the digestion process.

I hate you.

Who the hell rides their bike on a mountain road with no hands, eyes closed, feeling the wind in their face? This does NOTHING except make logging truckers who kill those types of people guilty for the rest of their lives. All because someone thought it would be great to end the movie with a horrific car/bike accident. The only time I get to see the end of this movie is when my wife is gone because she always flips it about the time Nicolas Cage comes down from his Earthly shower to sit at an empty table, reminiscing about how men and women "fit together," and how fruit salad is super yummy WITHOUT ASIAN PEARS! Even then, when the candle goes out and he races down to hold his love, I am sure the question came up...WHY DID YOU THINK THE SALAD NEEDED ANYTHING ELSE???? WHY?!?!?!

So, just so we are clear....I hate you.

Signed,

Guy who paid retail to see this movie

Clay Aiken Is Gay?

I must say I was shocked to read that headline today. I was about as shocked to hear that Eddie Murphy was black, Colin Farrell was a man-whore, and Amy Winehouse has a drug "issue."

It seems ridiculous to me that this is even news worthy. He claims he "could not hide it anymore." I wish he was hiding Osama because it was painfully obvious he was as queer as a 3-dollar bill since he came on the scene. All the power to him for being sneaky and keeping it from everyone. Rest easy Ms. Aiken. We all knew but still are not going to buy your album.

Why buy a mobile home?

Homes are not meant to be mobile. They only make sense when you own the ground you put them on. They then become real property with tax benefits. Other than that, they are migraines. My wife owned one before we got married. YAY, you might say, you married one of those real estate tycoons. No, this particular model, a 1972 Fleetwood single-wide mobile home, was placed in a park on rented ground. Owning this P.O.S. was just the first mistake. It gets worse from here.

I should preface the next tirade with a disclaimer that anyone who owns a mobile home but not the land is a fucktard and has the common sense of an infant gumming on a Ginsu. I have zero sympathy for those who invest in a car and wonder why it falls apart faster that Amy Winehouse. My wife vacated this property when she married an alcoholic. No, it wasn't me, rather it was her first husband. She found 3 sets of renters, 2 of which the park would not allow inside. Kind of like the Pentagon. They don't let just anyone in there. They have to be top notch winners with loads of cash and good credit because, well, they are renting a mobile home in a park simply to save money. Right....but only a mobile home owner would believe that shit anyway.

The renters had to get a co-signor who would agree to vouch for these assholes in the event they did not pay lot rent. My wife had them fill out an application, and did not pull credit or do any employment verification, simply needing to have someone in the place so she could move out and fornicate with Mr. Whiskey-dick. I am not bitter she was married before. Honestly, I am not. It only lasted 6 weeks anyway. Sounds almost like Britney's high school fling in Vegas. She has the renters sign a purchase agreement stating they could buy this wonderful piece of tin for $12,500 in five years. Not sure if that is a parting gift or what.

"Today, for curing cancer you get this..... 1972 Fleetwood single-wide home-on-wheels, tongue and groove removed for your conveniece. A 14 by 60 gem of a home, it comes with window coverings and 45 square feet of linoleum. This price package worth... a big ol' bag of dog shit!"

Five years came and went 3 years ago. No demand feature, no consequence for missing trailer tax payments or loan payments. SImply a thank GOD someone is in there taking care of my castle. It's almost like a 22 year old woman wrote the contract. Err....well, ok that's true. Now, the renters have not paid lot rent for three months, at about $400 a pop. The park manager who makes Jessica Simpson seem like a Rhode Scholar, is suing my wife for the unpaid lot rent. Not the renters, who apparently were evicted on July 31st, yet they are still living there. Not the co-signor who, according to Miss Smart Woman cannot be located, but my wife. Oh, and also the lender who holds the note to this piece of garbage. Makes tons of sense since the agreement signed by the renters and the park indicate that the tenants are liable for the lot rent.

Now, I get to make a trip to Idaho, on my own dime, to contest this action on behalf of my wife. I get to sit across from Wonder Woman as she attempts to justify her actions. This is the benefit of owning a mobile home. A big fucking migraine headache and elevated blood pressure. Not to mention, I have 4.5 hours of driving one way. I am so incredibly excited you have no idea. I am filing a small claims lawsuit against the renters for $5000 while I am there. It is $3362 short of what they haven't paid in taxes and payments. They will file bankruptcy as soon as the judgment is rendered anyway and become squatters officially, per the courts.

Why buy a mobile home again? Oh right......TO MAKE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL!

Parents Can Make Mistakes

Most times, parents are perfect people. Usually, we, as a breed, are never wrong. Unless it is was today, and it's warm outside, and my daughter is wearing long pants at recess.

Honestly, it is cold outside in the moring when I take her to school. In my mind, by this time next week it will be officially fall. I made a compromise and put a short sleeve shirt on her. However, when I picked her up, Peyton had her arms folded, glaring at me as if I was late for dinner. She was standing by her teacher for moral support and blurted, "You put pants on me today!" The thought crossed my mind that my error was it was BUCK ASS NEKKID day at her school but as I glanced around the playground, I noticed other clothed children frolicking harmlessly around the play equipment. I wasn't sure what to say other than to apologize to her royal highness in hopes I would be spared the guillotine. Her teacher smiled at me and said she would see us tomorrow. Personally, from my daughters look, I wasn't sure I would survive the night.

As we drove down the driveway of the school I made another mistake, asking her how her day was. After a few silent moments I turned over my right shoulder to see if she was still conscious. She was staring out the window, arms still folded. "Honey," I said, "how was your day today?" She turned her head 480 degrees to look over at me with a look that could stop traffic. "I had pants on today," and then she promptly turned bck towards the window.

In my defense, society sort of makes clothing mandatory, at least where I live and more so, at the age of 5. I tried to plead with my daughter this very case. I told her that despite my many trips to D.C., clothing is required whether the school is public or private. I begged her to understand that, even though she was upset, that maybe tomorrow she could pick out something less inhibitive like, for example, saran wrap. I apologized profusely for having to follow rules and wished that I was more like her and less likely to take direction or listen to adults.

Despite my efforts, she continued to watch the scenery pass by her window. I wasn't sure what to do next other than to simply ask her. So I did. I asked her what needed to do to make her happy, adding being naked was out of the question. She said just one word. Not 'tattoo,' or 'piercing,' or 'cell.' She just said shorts.

Eh?

It was hot at recess and the other kids were in shorts or skirts. She was the only one in pants. I should know better because I am Dad and know everything. If I could please remember that tomorrow, that would make her happy. Ok, I said. I will also try to remember that there is a high pressure system over the Pacific Northwest with a clockwise rotation, bringing warm air up from Southern California, causing temperatures to rise to un-seasonal highs. I did tell her that there was a low pressure system in the Gulf of Alaska that will bring in a cold front over the next couple of days, causing temperatures to drop about 10 degrees over the next couple of days. I finished by telling her that I will remember to dress her according to the barometric pressure.

"OK," she said, and the she asked me to turn the radio up because her favorite song was on. How wonderful it would be to be 5 and perfect.

Customer Service

It is a word that defines itself by simply existing. If someone works in customer service, you can ask specifics I suppose, but their job really boils down to making the customer happy. Am I wrong? How complicated is that? Apparently, very hard if you work for Clearwire.

I called them the other day to let them now I was dissatisfied with my wireless reception. My demeanor, in my opinion was fine. I started off rather friendly and professional, even asking the MALE on the other end of the line how the weather was in New Delhi, just as a joke. Turns out, he was in Denver, and thought I was making fun of him. By the sounds of it, he was as white as Britney Spears' wedding dress. OK, maybe a little more caucasian than that. With all of the outsourcing going on these days, I figured it would be a "break the ice" type of comment. I was mistaken. A friend of his was laid off because his job was sent overseas. I asked what his friend did. He said, "he was a customer service agent, just like me!" Feeling like a dick for not knowing this before hand (believe it or not, the number listed on the website did not indicate that some people were laid off. BIG shock, I know), I apologized...and then did something I should regret, but don't.

I snickered.

As if I had just lit a pack of 10,000 firecrackers under his wheeling chair, I got laid into about how the economy sucks, and that he could lose his job any minute to some Ishtar in Pakistan and to have some sympathy. The guy had kids.

Right. OK, I said, and I asked his name. "GREG!" he replied. Cool. Greg, listen to what I am going to tell you because....well, I love you like the sister I never had. I have kids, Greg. I was laid off. Yet, I am not screaming. As you can see I am rather patient and calm. So either, (A) you need to cut back on the caffeine intake. Or (B) take a bottle of Goldenseal before lunch, eat a dozen poppyseed muffins, eat some cocoa powder so that you have every excuse to tell your employers you cannot go piss in a cup for at least a week and then DETOX! Your job will be outsourced because dicks like you that act pissy on the phone for making an hourly wage that may be unacceptable to you are a dime a dozen over in Islamabad. Let me ask you something, GREG, did someone put a gun to your head when you signed your offer letter?

No, he said.

Then stop acting like a child and give me some assistance with my problem

OK, he said. How may I help YOU?

I want to talk to your supervisor.

Really? Why, he asked.

Well, mostly because I want to get you fired for calling me a flogging donkey dick and how I needed to come over to your place of employment and lick your balls before you help me. I might even throw in that you are my gay lover and I was just calling to tell you to get tested. I haven't decided. May I talk to your supervisor now?

Sure enough, he got friendly after that. He wanted to know what my problem was and he wanted to know right......NOW! Needless to say, after our conversation, he transferred me to a tech who promptly did something that has tripled my internet speed. No time outs, no disconnections. Yup, Clearwire gives great service. They just need to be pushed a little.

Now I need to get a hold of Dish Network....

It is about time

I figured it was time. I have not written in this blog since October of LAST year. That's too long. So many things have happened since then. I am just no sure where to start.

I could discuss the wonders of communal living and how my apartment complex is as worthless as a bag of dicks at a frat house. I have an English Bulldog that is as fascinated with apartment living as I am. But I am responsible and clean up after him because, well, it is the responsible thing to do. Love, honor, cherish, and pick up your bulldog's dung. I do that, yet I received a notice on my door that indicated otherwise. Continued violations of the pet policy will be met with strict punishment.

Really?

What would that be exactly? Flogging in the courtyard? Drawn and quartered? I wish I had a copy of the manual this letter was pulled from. I was innocent but was given the guilty notice. I felt like Barry Bonds. I have a pretty good idea who told the office manager since I make friends around this complex like Marilyn Manson does at summer camp. The older I get, the less I have in common with those that want to drink all night and discuss sexual prowess at a high decibel level, and then piss in the parking lot below my window. I may be immature, but I am old now. Too old to tolerate the behavior of some people. This is my blog, my story and I am entitled to be holier than thou, OK?

My dogs craps mini-coopers. His crap cannot be mistaken by that of lesser creatures. He doesn't even crap by my apartment. It takes him a few minutes to wake up. Like clockwork, I am taking an Albertson's bag with me for the main event. He does his doo, I do my doo-picky, and then up for breakfast. It just so happens that the manager's girlfriend owns a yorkie I would love to drop kick to next week. She overheard me telling someone how much I hate yip yip dogs who have little purpose in this world other than making my ears bleed. So her idea of payback is hanging a notice on my door statng I have violated Fluffy's psyche and please stop before there is an inervention for Fluffy's crank habit. I am thinking the next doo bag I have to dispose of just may be going through her open car window. Maybe.....I don't know. I haven't decided how to fit a mini-cooper into a Toyota Corrolla.

Any ideas?

Someone Get Me a Fucking Drink....NOW!

It has been 3 weeks since I moved here to Washington State. I have been a Mr. Mom, essentially, for 2 of those 3 weeks. Let me tell you how that works. I am a full time parent. I am a full time parent when I am working too. This is different, however, as I am doing everything a stay-at-home Mom does. Well, let me rephrase that….THIS LICKS NUTS!
I am grateful to my brother for allowing me, my wife, my two children and my 55-pound English Bulldog to move in with him. I really am. What I say from this point on is simply venting and should not be misconstrued as ungrateful.

Brief synopsis of my brother’s relationship situation. Divorced, has a live in girlfriend who moved here from Portland, OR. She has a son. I would call her a single mother but that would require mothering, so we will just leave the title alone. The son, however, has a title. I call him twat monster.

Yes I just made that up. If you knew what was going on here, you would call him the same thing.

The Second Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words. This kid has a vocabulary of about 9 words, all of them associated with daily faux-gun play in the front yard with the rest of the PWC (panty waste clan). I named their group and am going to order them pink flamingo patches to go on their camouflage shorts. I am getting sidetracked. Here is a list of things he has done to all/some of the members of my family:

1. Burst into the spare bedroom where my kids were watching a movie, and using a scary voice, threatened to kill them while pointing a toy gun at them. Yes, they cried.
2. Emptied a new can of shaving cream into the bathtub while he showered (within the 1st 24 hours of our arrival)
3. Cleaned the toilet with one of our toothbrush heads on our SonicAir toothbrush
4. Spray painted 3 stripes on my English Bulldog
5. Beat my razor against the wall, bending the razor blades. I found this out by shaving my face, wondering why the hell it felt like sandpaper.

These are the things that I can remember or are worth telling. I do not have the time, or the carpal tunnel life to discuss the other things that this kid does. AMAZING! Mom is even worse. Wait, the VH (vaginal host) is even worse. My kids get one warning. If the requested action does not take place, then there is a consequence. After 3 kids, you kind of figure it out. My youngest doesn’t even get a warning anymore, which is probably why he sucks his thumb more than the other two. Fear will do that. Twat monster gets 7 warnings and after the 7th warning, nothing happens. She and my brother go into their bedroom and close the door, leaving me and my wife to tend to our kids, the dog, and IT. How would you handle this scenario?

· Dinner time. I have stayed home all day with the kids. I cook a meal for 4 adults, 3 kids and feed the dog. I take the dog out after eating to do #1, and hopefully #2 before coming in to get dinner on the table. Everyone sits. My kids, eat so-so. Twat monster doesn’t like anything from the ground, green, leafy or well done. This leaves starches and sugars. Twat monster complains about X. My brother tells him to shut up and eat his food. Vaginal host is silent. My kids observe…very focused on twat monster. Twat monster sees this and complains again. Wife cringes. Kids look at me, and smile. They complain. I tell twat monster to shut up and eat. My brother agrees. So do my kids as they have now learned the order of things. Twat monster laughs. Vaginal host still silent. I, at this point, am wondering when THE ONE PERSON WHO HAS THE GENETIC RIGHT TO DISCIPLINE THIS KID WILL ACTUALLY DO IT!??! My brother sucks his food down, begins to then inquire if anyone else is done, when a simple scan of the table will show that all other 6 occupants have just now put their napkins on their lap…except twat monster who is twisting it up to put in his right nostril. My wife tells twat monster to stop, the kids begin putting their napkins in their noses, to which I respond STOP, and then tell Twat monster to stop, causing the vaginal host to pipe in asking what he had done. Don’t look at me, look at Rocky over there clotting his fake hemoglobin. She says stop or he is going to his room. He stops, after laughing, scanning the table for an audience, my kids anxiously waiting for Act II, losing focus on the job at hand, which is eating. My wife’s hair is turning gray just watching vaginal host do nothing to stop her kid from manipulating my kids. My brother is pacing in the kitchen waiting for someone to finish to he can quickly help clean up after dinner and then retire to his room and close the twat monster shield, IE door. I look at my wife, whose appetite is coupled with mine in the toilet, wanting desperately for this scene to end. My kids are now trying to figure out which nostril actually requires plugging, to which my wife and I both tell them NEITHER and instruct them to eat or they will get down from the table. Twat monster acts up again, wanting to see actual discipline, my kids respond on cue causing my wife to take their plates away, much to their dismay, and remove them from the table. Twat monster grins. Vaginal host instructs him again that one more time will mean punishment. He grins, looks at his plate and starts playing with his food, calling it every name in the book in a robot voice. Vaginal host finishes her plate and then starts to do the dishes. Meanwhile our kids are crying because they have no idea what just happened. The dog is pacing around wondering where the axe came from that impaled my kids, trying to lick their tears away. My wife yells at the dog to get out of the way, scaring the kids, causing them to cry more. I walk over to help and step on a goat head that was brought in the house by twat monster since he cannot follow rule #1 (remove your shoes before entering the house). This cause me to suddenly grab for the wall to brace myself, which causes the dog to jump thinking he is going to get a beat down. He steps on my wifes foot, who then yells in pain due to the toe nail scratch, which causes my kids to cry more since Mommy yelled…..all because little twat monster was born.

So, yeah. It’s been three weeks. That was just tonight. Get it? I need a job or someone is going to jail.

I Hate to Say It....::sigh::

He didn't hit them out with a syringe. Say what you will about Barry Bonds and his chemically enhanced assault on the home run record, but keep in mind the cream and the clear and whatever other performance-enhancing drugs he might have used were not some kind of magic potions. He's not at 756 home runs, and counting, just because he found the right pharmacy.
In the endless discussion of all things Bonds -- his personality, his moral code, his legal affairs, his hat size -- the one inarguable fact about the man seems to have become an afterthought: Bonds is an incredible hitter, an absolute virtuoso in the batter's box. If there is to be an asterisk next to his name in the record books, perhaps it should be for that.

* He was a hell of a ballplayer, steroids or not.

Would Bonds have surpassed Hank Aaron as the most prolific power hitter in history without the aid of his friendly neighborhood BALCO lab? Probably not. But even so, good old-fashioned talent and hard work were more responsible for his greatness than anything concocted by renegade chemists. You don't have to give Bonds your adulation, but at least give him his due.
This isn't to say the booing that follows him around the country isn't well-earned. Bonds has brought most of that on himself, with as surly a public persona as any athlete in memory, to go along with the seemingly irrefutable evidence of his steroid guilt. But forget about Bonds the man for a moment and focus on Bonds with a bat in his hands. Those moments he spends in the batter's box should be appreciated, not lost in a shower of animosity.

Consider his remarkable sense of the strike zone, so rare for a power hitter, and the discipline that allows him to resist a fastball that's a millimeter off the plate. Watch the surprisingly compact swing he unleashes when he does get a pitch to his liking and how, even at the age of 43, he always seems to hit it on the sweet spot. The eye, the swing, the timing, the knowledge of the pitchers, all helped him to get to 756 just as much as any drug.

On some level, baseball fans realize this, even if some of them don't want to admit it. If you're not a Giants fan -- and perhaps even if you are -- you have probably booed him from the stands, or shaken your head disapprovingly when you've watched him on TV. But when he strides to the plate from the on-deck circle, you never turn away, do you? When he digs into the batter's box and starts wagging that short bat in preparation for the pitch, you stop what you're doing and give him your full attention, do you not?

When the Giants are on the road, boos invariably thunder down on Bonds when his name is mentioned or when he catches a fly ball, but listen to how silent it gets when he's at the plate and the pitcher goes into his windup. Notice how so many of the boos turn to cheers when he sends one into the stratosphere, even in the stadiums where he's considered the devil incarnate.
That's because fans can't help but admire when the game is played so well, when a hitter executes so flawlessly. And that is as it should be. For those milliseconds when Bonds uncoils that simple-yet-awesome swing, everything else should fall away -- the suspicions, the accusations, the investigations, all of it -- and we should marvel at the purity of his art. Watching Barry Bonds hit is one of sports' most beautiful sights. You don't have to love him, or even respect him, but don't cheat yourself.

Appreciate him.

Bulldogs

If you visit http://www.akc.com/ (or whatever the American Kennel Club is located on the world wide web), there is a section on every type of pedigree canine known to man. I have owned many animals in my life, a few of them being dogs. When I was a kid, I had a black Labrador. He was the most gentle of dogs I have ever been around to this point. I later owned a golden lab because I wanted the same type of animal I had when I was a kid. She was great. Of course, that is the last dog I owned in which the objective in purchasing the animal had any sense whatsoever.

I bought a Weimaraner a couple of years ago. Talk about wiry. This dog required marathons....DAILY. Of course, I read up on the breed and knew that, but in my mind I felt I that having that dog around would induce some exercise in my own life. This dog couldn't sit still. It was like having Tom Arnold living in my house, strung out on a cocaine binge. To be fair to the animal, I placed an advertisement in the classifieds, hopefully to spark an interest from someone who owned a race track on 100 acres. Luckily, I found someone who had 10 acres and was looking for something just like my dog. To date, he is happily running all over the countryside.

I took the information I learned from owning my Weim, and found a dog perfect for my personality and lifestyle. I found an English Bulldog. Owning an English bulldog is like owning a brick with legs. I feed him and water him. I let him outside to go to the bathroom. Its almost like owning a Chia pet, minus the excrement. Yes, they are expensive, mostly because of the cost of birthing one of these puppies. The mother essentially has to pass a globe through a marble sized birth canal. That tends to be expensive, or so I have learned. But it is worth the investment, in my mind, because of the low-maintenance care required after the fact. Of course, that was what I thought until I began to read about common problems associated with this breed. Eye problems, breathing problems, hip issues...the same problems that occur often at the Happy Valley Convalescent Home. The difference is these problems occur at an early age of a bulldog's life.

At 6 months of age, my little Gus weighs approximately 45 pounds. At one year, I project he will weigh close to 375 pounds and will most likely have college scouts salivating over him. I should have named him "tank," or sent out profile pages to local law enforcement offering his bulldozing services to local drug agencies. If it is in his way, he just keeps on moving through it. He only stands about 11 inches at the shoulder but nothing seems to phase his progression forward. Oddly enough, he is very gentle with my kids, just not my couch. He is more compact than tamped earth. He has more leaks in his mouth than the CIA. Drinking water for him is a lot like Starr Jones at the local buffet. Whatever goes in his mouth is often left dripping all over the floor.

With all over his flaws, both now and down the road, my bulldog Gus has all the personality that my other dogs had combined, and then some. I couldn't imagine owning another animal in my life that was not a bulldog. Unless of course it is one of those miniature donkeys. That, however is another story all together.

You Know You Are Washed Up When....

Remember the movie "Splash," where Daryl Hannah was a mermaid and Tom Hanks was a guy? Then Tom Hanks proved his acting ability and got other movie offers and met important people like Steven Spielberg and Daryl Hannah....well, when Daryl acted in that B movie called something like a fruit? I don't remember that either, but there are tell tale signs that your career is in the toilet. For Daryl Hannah, that time is now. When the only camera time you get is on CNN, talking on a cell phone about beaver pelts, clubbing baby seals and plowing the rain forests for pelt storage space, that is the time when you hang 'em up and call it a career.

I don't think playing a mermaid was a big enough stretch to prove acting ability, just like I don't think climbing a big Walnut tree was a push towards greatness. Her resume is shrinking faster then Costanza's wang after a dip in the ocean. If you do not get that reference, then you are probably a fan of Splash. The whole argument for sitting in the tree is skewed from the beginning. I am all for people farming. YAY farmers, OK? But in this vast planet we call Earth, I am sure there are other plots of land that are not worth $16 million to the owner. I believe, AS the owner, this guy can do pretty much anything he wants to. In fact, other tree sitters have had the opportunity to preserve this land if they raised enough money. However, they came up over $10 million short in keeping it. Rules are rules, and for the record, do not depend on fund raising from people that find tree sitting socially gratifying. NEWSFLASH, THEY DO NOT HAVE EXTRA MONEY. They most likely have families to feed. They do this by GOING TO WORK at their DAILY jobs, and contribute to such things as TAXES, 401K and COLLEGE FUNDS. They create their own job security for FUTURE earnings by establishing EXPERIENCE in a given field that will have a NEED for a long period of TIME. Call me crazy, but it has been that way for a long time. As the population grows, it is necessary to build homes, places for people to work, and park as they do, and for people to shop and practice worship, and those people need places to park. Hospitals are built for the sick, not to mention the large plats of land that are used to bury dead people. Haven't these people ever played SIM CITY???

But back to Daryl Hannah. I have some advice for her. I won't tell you you manage money like Pee Wee Herman manages his spare time because that would insult your intelligence. Seems to me you choose causes to stick up for like Colin Farrel does his women. Since your film career is in the toilet, and your resume licks nuts, I can only tell you to get out of the tree and go to the closest fast food joint and mix in a meal. If they give you the super size option....TAKE IT! I know it may be hard to scrape up some spare change, but PLEASEEEEEEEEEE get out of the tree and eat before a gale force wind blows your skinny ass up north and you see what they are doing in the wildlife preserve in Alaska.

Hungry? Grab a Diaper!

If you have dogs, than you know how expensive they can be. Let's forget about the 50 pound bag of food for $50, OK? Lets just talk about the chew toys that keep the dogs attention for just a hair longer than a toddler at Home Depot. What does a Kong go for these days? I think I just paid $10 for a PSEUDO Kong...not even the real deal. This was for a dog that has the jaw strength of T-Rex. Very smart of me, I know. He got bored with that pretty quick. It wasn't so much the boredom, I guess, as it was the fact he turned it into confetti in a matter of 10 minutes. What to do, what to do....

Now, being up higher on the food chain, humans have the ability to make choices. Notice there was no GOOD or BAD choices. I know some people who have the intelligence of a single-cell organism and the only thing missing is the filia to get around. But it has never occurred to me that, if I was bored, or hungry, that a diaper filled with shit and piss would be a yummy snack. I find pieces of it trailing from the trash can and am bewildered by the bad choice. It is kind of like putting cat nip in front of a cat, and then telling the cat "NO" when he goes for it. I have never put a diaper in front of my dog and teased him with it like it was a treat. Yet, like clockwork, once a week or so, I find chewed up diaper. It is beginning to occur to me why my dog coughs like he has a hair ball in the back of his throat. I suppose my body would reject week old fecal matter and nitrogen infested urine crystals too.

So the next time you want to go spend a fortune on items to keep your pet entertained, chuck a diaper at 'em. If you don't have kids, borrow some from the people you work with. Go hang out at WalMart on a weekend and wait by the cart return rack. There is always a used diaper or two in an empty cart. If that doesn't work, buy some Depends Undergarments. Trust me. It is cheaper then going bankrupt buying a Kong a week until arthritis kicks in.

A Conversation with a 17-year old...

I used to think people lost brain cells by huffing paint, or making too many model airplanes. I guess drinking is bad for brain cell natality, but when it comes right down to it, some people are dumb just because. Take, for example, a girl.

Thank you....

No wait, more to the story. So this girl is Latino, Mexican, Guatemalan, whatever. Point is, she is foreign. She was bragging the other day, OUTLOUD, that she tans easily, so much so that she stays tan all year. Pardon? Say that again. "I am tan all year." OK. "Isn't that just the shit?" Right. Just like Ben Wallace, Carlos Mencia, Ricky fucking Ricardo and any other fucking human being with dark skin, right????!?!?!?! Am I not getting something? GOD MADE YOU THAT WAY DUMBASS. It is a permanent pigment, no sun required. Fucktard. She says, "whatever, you just wish you could stay tan all year." I know, because the people at work care, as do the creditors I pay, the clerk at the gas station, the lady at my day care and the UPS guy.

(insert DEAD PAN LOOK)

Yeah I know. All of the above flew over your prepubescent head. Point is, the only one who ultimately cares about anything YOU do, is you...or people like you, namely other 17-year old retards still living under Mommy and Daddy's roof. You wouldn't know that though because you are stuck on the fascination that the skin color you were given when you were conceived in the back alley of the local watering hole remains the same color forever. Now you know where all the beaner references come from, or why people stack tamales in front of your locker and walk away laughing. Hint : it isn't because you are tanned by the sun. It is also why you are flying through Spanish class without studying. Oh yeah, and texting will never be an Olympic sport, OK?

(still dead pan)

Do you know how much text messaging costs?

(shakes head, tears welling)

Ask your parents. Speaking of your parents, when is the last time you saw them. Have you had your weekly, "I am alive" phone call? I would want to make sure that you were OK, remained pretty enough to get married so I could pass of your mooching ass to some other wank. So when they call, stop ignoring them. Unlike you, they care about other things other than themselves. That happens when you are parents. You have moments of bliss, then unprotected sex, blow a partial nut in a warm vagina, and ohhhhh shit, so much for ME ME ME...now it is all about the baby. Pretty soon, babies grow up to be, well you, a hormonal fellatio machine, stuck on the fact that you want to save your hymen for the man you love, yet you will swallow enough spunk to displace the Queen Anne, yet, you have no idea why people call you a slut. Wipe off your chin, or is that a permanent sperm burn?

(sniff...sniff)

Don't be sad. Save it for when you have to pay taxes, or serious stuff like....having to pay for your own gas, or when oil starts leaking from your car, and you need money to fix it. You will call your parents and they won't answer the call, and you ask yourself what could they possibly be doing that is so important as to NOT answer your phone call. Hard to believe, but the further you get from this age, your notoriety and title as "queen" gets less and less profound and you become a citizen. I know, I know, it is a lot to take in all at once. Sort of like the load you took from John Thomas. But since you took that spunk rocket like a champ, so shall you take this next bit of advice. Go home. In 5 years, no one will care that your south-of-the-border tanning secrets keep you looking bronze all year, no one will envy you and your hyper-texting fingers, people will forget about your chronic cold sores and cold, clammy hands, and they will move on. Practice moving on, talk about shit that matters to other people because, frankly, with every passing day, your parents are looking forward to the day you say "adios," and go off to school and they can finally go back to being themselves. What was that? How will you pay for school? Simple. Stafford loans. Yes, you will have to pay them back, which means you will have to get a job, and be an adult. But don't cry. You still have today, but you cannot stay here for dinner. You have to go eat at home, and sit around that 4-legged thing called the table, and wow someone else with your tales of bravery and bullshit, otherwise knows as adolescence because frankly, I don't give a damn.

Oh, and don't forget to gargle

Cribs are for BABIES!

I know that I often complain about the mundane. People have said I should pick and choose my battles. But there comes a time when the law must be laid down. Now is one of those times. I love my family. They all have hearts the size of Vermont. They mean well. But, when my kids go to bed, I put them in bed and walk away. Let me rephrase that. I lay them down in the bed, cover them with one blanket, and I walk away. I do that with both my 1-year old son and his crib, and I do that with my 3-year old daughter and her toddler bed. Plain and simple, or so it seems, until someone else puts them to bed with the complete set of Ken Burn's new documentary on Cricket in the U.K., a satellite dish, a can opener, some packing peanuts, a 70R14 spare tire and a can of tomato juice. Allow me to explain.

I heard my son crying very early this morning. Normally, he rises with the sun, and in this case, he was somewhat on cue, and normally I just go back in and comfort him, letting him know the sun is not going to explode, all is well, and please lay back down because Daddy cannot seem to open his eyes. This trip was different. I went to lay him back down and the source of his aggravation made sense as I saw what was in his sleeping space. 4 blankets, 6 books, a pacifier (which he has never ever used to this point), some packing tape, a change jar, an unopened can of SPAM, a 1168 color box of Crayons, coloring books, a half eaten Subway Club, some shoes and a 5-gallon bucket of base coat from Sherwin Williams. Ok, some of that was made up, like the books.....but, the crib is for sleeping time. It is not a storage space for pack rats. It is not comforting to sleep with a cord of unchopped wood next to you, so for the love of God, why would you want to put a set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica in with a child? We are not in the Polar North, 8 Below...so what is with the 17 layers of blankets? The poor kid was swimming with rayon fibers and Dr. Seuss, times 27. So instead of him saying, "DAD I AM AWAKE AND HUNGRY," his message was different. "DAD....I FOUND ALL OF YOUR SINGLE SOCK PARTNERS, SOME MOON ROCKS AND THE YO-YO YOU LOST WHEN YOU WERE 4..." I scooped up the extraneous items and threw them on the floor, leaving him with one blanket and his body, covered him up and his eyes closed almost instantly, as if to say, "thank you for removing the modeling glue, the fumes were giving me a headache," and off to sleep he went.

But now I have another problem.....the 70R14 spare tire made a hole in the floor when I tossed it out of the crib. Thank God I have extra blankets to cover it....

Don't Expect Bliss after THIS!

I heard a story this weekend from a friend of mine. I had to laugh mostly from the visual of phlegm flying in all the wrong places, but mostly because I pictured her reaction when it happened. Imagine yourselves, if you will, standing in an empty Costco warehouse, with the lights off, and you are blindfolded. 50 feet away, 700 pounds of lead pip is dropped 30 feet onto the concrete floor. What would you do? I would imagine, after sidestepping a puddle of piss, and ignoring the fecal smell coming from your shorts, that you would hop, skip and jump far away from the sound. So, remember that feeling as I proceed.

Instead of pipe in a warehouse, imagine you are a woman having her pussy licked and are in the height of pleasure, only to be interrupted by the first reported case of tuberculosis in 25 years? If you smoke, then you will know that sometimes the alveoli in the lungs require less tar and more pockets to hold oxygen. Smoking not only kills you, and makes your breath smell like a moldy brick of Gouda cheese, but it also causes hitches or catches in your breathing. The harder you breathe, the more likely it is you will catch something in your lungs that will cause the dreaded smoker cough and the utmost inconvenient time. Be the woman. close your eyes an realize that what was once a nice, moist clitoris has been replaced with a locked hood covered in lung spew. Hot, huh?

Now how about sex? What if the only emission of passion released from a man is that ashen aura known as Marlboro breath as the intensity heats up, and just before kissing, there is a mad coughing fit. Talk about a mood killer. Pubic hair in your mouth is bad enough, but expelled lung phlegm is a definite no-no. I can only imagine the look on her face.

"OH BABY OH BABY.....ooooooooooooo Sorry

"what the fuck?" Good Lord.....Robitussin DM douche bag! Use it!

The above is not usually labeled as romance by the opposite sex. The example above is not made to make men feel inferior because, well in all reality, we already are. So don't make it worse by inhaling dogshit prior to sex. No need t smoke before AND after. Save it and relish the moment that is in front of. Not long from now, chances are some nonsmoker might snatch up the ass you are tapping because the air flow is clear....

How To Eat Like a College Student

I heard of a great recipe that I just had to share. It is fairly inexpensive, depending on the volume prepared and can last in room temperature for days since it contains 92% preservatives and additives. Ready? This is exciting. It is almost like sharing the winning Lotto numbers. Here goes.

12 cups water

12 chicken bullion cubes

12 hot dogs (not cut up, but whole)

12 chicken breasts (dicing is optional)

12 pounds of pepper to taste

Throw all this shit in a pot and boil it up. Eat.


Now I need to add that there are some food groups missing from this recipe. That's OK. The dysentery alone will make absorption of this meal impossible. The oil glistening on the top of the broth can also serve as an industrial solvent to get out those "hard to reach stain" areas of the space shuttle. Expect flatulence. Not the kind you like to smell yourself, but the kind that require crime scene tape to be put around your home. Most farts expelled after eating this meal will require OSHA approval prior to release. Please consult your local OSHA office for further instructions. The meal serves a dual purpose. All family members can partake in this culinary treat. Hot-dogs for the kids, and a heart chicken soup for the adults. Sort of like frosted mini-wheats. A sweet side for the kid in you, and the whole wheat goodness for the adult in you. This is replaced with LIPS AND ASSHOLES FOR ALL YOU LITTLE BASTARDS, AND I WILL JUST SIT ON THE JOHN FOR A WEEK! It is a time saver for most men as frequent trips to the bathroom give you solace, while your exploding colon keeps you company. I saw a FAQ (frequently asked question) forum board below this recipe and I will post some of the important ones below. Oh, and incidentally on a scale of 1-5, most readers have simply died prior to rating.

Question : I talked to my doctor about keeping this "soup" out overnight and he said that I will get salmonella and die. Is this true? - Betty, 87, Corona, CA

Dear Betty - First of all, at 87, you are going to die anyway, so go out with a bang...literally. Secondly, salmonella is tame compared to the bowel obstruction you are going to get, followed by foul emission from your pores. Best of luck though!

Question : Can I add vegetables to this soup? I don't see any vegetables in the soup. I really like to add a variety of things to my soups. - Rick, 24, San Fran

Dear Rick - yeah.....you like soups so much and you are 24...in San Francisco....this tells me that you are gay. Sure, add vegetables, but I am going to guess you get plenty of fruit in your diet already....homo.

Question : I like to go to the store every day and buy meaningless shit to cook for my family, both with little nutritional value and taste. It seems to me this soup is just right. But my wife, who was born when I was 19, is really an awesome woman who doesn't seem to appreciate my lack of creativity. Any suggestions? - Confused in OR

Dear Confused - this is easy. Die. Eat the soup. Eat nothing else. Be boring....it will all work out the way it is supposed to. This is not creative. This is boring. Ugandans would turn this stuff down. Moron....


(Noodles optional)

Valentine's Day Sucks

I love Valentine's Day. I also love to get hit in the face with a brick, running over my foot with a lawn mower, juggling chainsaws blindfolded and drinking battery acid. I actually hate the holiday. It is supposed to be a time where you remind a loved one how much you mean to them, and you do that by purchasing shit that makes them feel fat and flowers that die. "But it is the thought that counts." If that were true, then I thought about buying those things, but I filled the gas tank in the car.......TWICE!

For men, this holiday is unacceptable. This is an excuse for wives or girlfriends to bring up "what we used to be like." Yes, we got complacent after marriage. Shall I mention what YOU stopped doing after you said, "I do?" I didn't think so, so shut it. I used to do a lot before it became expected. It is hard to be spontaneous when you are reminded of the "I remember when you used to" bullshit that comes once a year. I have a feeling my wife is going to buy me flowers. What the hell? Why? I don't like flowers. THEY DIE! In my eyes, they are simply very pretty weeds that smell like refrigerant. "OooOoOOooOOo...but you can dry them!" Then what? Either way, they go in the trash. Do you know how many cards get thrown away in my house? All of them. So, let's see.....22 holidays/birthdays/anniversaries, times $3.99 equals Benjamin on fire!

I don't buy cards, I hand-write poetry or a letter. Why do I do that? Because it means more. THOSE things get kept. Those are from the heart, not some Hallmark freelance writer twink on crack, 4 days into a bender, coming up with random shit that makes necrophiliacs cry. It is more original. Besides, I don't like to support Hallmark. They are more cliche' than Paris Hilton saying, "that's HOT." Do you know how much flowers are right now? $50 a dozen. Do you know how much they are tomorrow? Back down to what they were originally....$20. Remember when Exxon made a $9 BILLION dollar profit last year? A common business formula is supply and demand. SHORT SUPPLY, HIGH DEMAND equals consumer rape. Who sets the demand? A female voice....nagging about how you never buy flowers for her anymore. Well, you don't swallow anymore because you think it's dirty. So, piss off.

Roses - $50
Chocolate - $6
Dinner - $44
Total - $100

What can $100 buy you?

Gasoline
Food for the family
pay off a bill or two
25 movie rentals
a SHIT load of popcorn

But what does dinner, chocolate and roses get you? Expectations....demands....and it sets a precedent for next year, when the cost of living has gone up and shipping roses from Omaha gets even more expensive. So you know what, St. Valentine? Go to hell.

Passenger of Size

I heard this term about a year ago. I was flying somewhere on a Southwest flight and was approached by the flight attendant who informed me that "there was a passenger of size coming on board." I initially thought, thanks for the tip. Who cares? The thought also crossed my mind that, I was already on board, why warn ME? However, after peeking over my seat and seeing all of the heads that were occupying seats in the front of the plane, it quickly occurred to me that the only empty seats were the two next to me. Oh hell. So much for comfort.

Have you ever ridden in a van or bus and felt the bus sway as people got on? Well, after the attendant told me I would soon have a "passenger of size" joining me, I started to read the in-flight magazine which, as you may already know, is free for passengers to take with them as they leave the airplane, just in case the bathrooms in the terminal are not properly stocked with toilet paper. A moment later, the plane listed to port. I looked out the window to see what fissure was swallowing the plane whole, when I noticed a large man walking down the aisle of the plane. Let me rephrase that. He was side-stepping down the aisle, introducing his ass to one side and his crotch to the other. He reminded me of Paul Bunyan times two. Better yet, I think he ate his ox Blue. To say he was a passenger of size was an understatement. He had his own zip code and wore a mailbox for a hat. I can't be sure but he was either wearing a feather in his hat or had outgoing mail. He was wearing a flannel shirt about the size of Vermont and cut off jean shorts that dwarf Rhode Island. His shoe size was Cadillac and wore Big Ben on his wrist. It looked like he had not shaved in...I don't know....a few seconds. The toilet paper Band-Aid had not fallen off yet (otherwise known as a twin bed mattress) but there was stubble all over his face. I would guess his adrenal gland produced enough testosterone to fill a sun spot. He stood about 6'7" and easily weighed four and half bills. As soon as he sat down next to me, I felt myself pee in my pants a little from his gravitational pull. He asked the flight attendant for 2 seat belt extenders and used the MALE end of the middle seat belt, plus the extenders, and the FEMALE end of his own belt. Even though he was a quarter mile away from me, I felt cramped. His knees pushed up against the seats in front of him, almost to the point where the person sitting in that seat could check the person in front of THEM for hair lice. I think I felt myself shiver.

As we were taxiing out of the terminal, I caught him leering at me out of the corner of his eye and I turned to look at him. "How you doin'?" I told him I was fine, but just scared that we would not have enough ground speed to lift off. Only thinking the latter and not saying it outloud, I turned and looked out my window, praying to God that the moons orbiting his mailbox would stop hitting my shoulder. If he was a deer, and a Southwest 737 were the hunter, he could have easily been tied down on top of the plane with a few hundred yards of bungee. About 15 minutes into the flight, I feigned sleep simply to avoid having to talk to someone whom I might as well been in bed with. A few minutes later, I heard the wing start to crack. I turned to look and saw that Slim was sound asleep, snoring up a storm and drooling Lake Erie. Only and hour or so to go.....its all down hill from here.

If a flight attendant approaches you and says there will be a "passenger of size" joining you, remember the above, and go on standby for another flight. Trust me. You stay dryer that way.

LBA

I can assure you the above mentioned subject is not a new professional sports league although, at first glance, one might call me a liar. I will tell you that it is a group of people that get together to discuss issues, a lot like congress. From what I ascertain, the gatherings are about as productive as legislative sessions are. LBA is in fact an acronym. It stands for.....wait, let me say something first.

I have this girl I know. She is about, I dunno...3 years old. She owns more chapstick that cowboys do chaps. That says a lot. Chaps are a staple for the cowboy wardrobe. She doesn't know why she has it, or really what it is for, but she knows where it goes. Chapstick, for adults, goes on the lips. Chapstick for a 3-year old goes in the lip area, and I confirmed with her this evening that the lip area is right around here . I tried to help her narrow it down to a smaller area, to no avail.

I had gone upstairs for about 3 minutes to change my son and bring him down for lunch. When I arrived, I saw a shiny, happy face with little hands that held a tube of chapsick rolled out about two and a half inches. I had to take another look as I thought I was being robbed by MINI ME in a plastic mask. Her bangs were curled under ala Clark Kent in the original Superman. "HI DADDY," she said. My initial thought was, where is my child, and who replaced her with this shiny-faced oompa loompa? But there she was, toting this tube, along with a furry purple purse filled with other vials of crack....err...tubes of CHapstick. I had her dump it out on the floor and it resembled Ally Sheedy's purse in The Breakfast Club. If you haven't seen that movie, imagine a 20 gallon trash bag filled with....meaningless trinkets, papers and pens falling onto the floor. Now, shrink that down a tad to fit the 3-year old frame and there you have it. If Chapstick tubes were water, then Niagra Falls came out of her purse. All kinds of flavors and colors. SOme had caps, some didn't. Some begged to be euthanized in the sun. You know how lobsters or crabs scream when they go in hot water? Or how Nemo didn't like that dentists niece? These tubes did not want to be part of the purse party. I heard the grape one say, "kill me." I am sure of it.
LBA stands for Lip Balm's Anonymous. This group is for people addicted to Chapstick. Some parents fear that drugs, alcohol or sex will take over their child's life. My child is a walking tube of chapstick. If she doesn't have it, she wants it. If there is none on the way home from day-care, then she spends the next 18 minutes shivering in her car seat until we get home. Methadone clinics beware. You have competition. Chapstick zombies. They start early. In fact, they are filming an episode of INTERVENTION at my daughter's day-care tomorrow.

I'll let you know when it is aired.

Teething, I would assume, SUCKS BALLS!

It is hard to imagine the pain an infant goes through while teething. My son, who surpassed the 9-month tier a couple of days ago has 4 teeth pushing through his gum line. To say he is pissed would be an understatement. Imagine he is a swarm of bees, and you just dropped kicked his house. That MIGHT describe his attitude. For as young as he is, he has no problem expressing himself. They are the same words, but the tone is different. So much so, the dogs in the neighborhood bark are annoyed at the pitch level. Yes, my son is a human dog whistle.

I bet if I were to pierce 4 different parts of my face, I could fathom his suffering. Wounded Knee is nothing compared to my son's angst. He just sits on the floor, attempting to play, drool coming out of his mouth like a Pfister faucet, whining about the pain, and there is really nothing you can do. Anbesol? Yeah, right. That stuff works for about 9 seconds until the saliva washes it away. About the same as Chloraseptic throat spray. What a bullshit product. Last night, he was sitting upright on the floor making noises. You know, those pissed off noises that we all make. Adults use words like, "Fuck this place," or "that son of a bitch cut me off." Babies grunt. The only accentuating quality to this type of communication is the change in volume mid-grunt. It starts out loud and ends up cracking the ceiling. Anyway, he did this and I called his name. He looked up at me looking like a man that had been out sea for 6 months catching king crab. Eye lids heavy, snarling smirk, slow head turn; six beers into a case. I think I heard him say, "Eh" when he made eye contact.

Now my wife asks him, "What's the matter?" What's the matter? His mouth is a pin cushion. If he could answer, I can assure you, it would not be pretty. Even at this age, mind you, he can convey cynicism. I just rolled my eyes. "Honey, he has a fever." I bet. There is enamel attempting to overthrow the epidermal government in his jaw. The body fights the infectious invaders by increasing body temperature. Then, the emissaries from both armies meet at the epiglottis to discuss the fact that, although painful, the enamel is a necessity. This war/negotiation lasts about 3 months. We started a couple of weeks ago, but the teeth are sending in reinforcements faster than the body can acclimate to the pain. So there he sits, in his puddle of drool, staring and speaking in incoherent patterns, a lot like Chris Farley's final hours.

So this was last night. His blood-to-Motrin ratio is quickly approaching the 1:1 mark. I imagine today will be the same. For the next 3 months, all I can is hope and pray that the negotiations at the epiglottis go well. God speed....

One Thing You Shouldn't Say to the Bachelor

If you are a fan of reality television, then the debut of The Bachelor in Paris last night caught your attention. If you aren't familiar with the show, then I hope that your vacation to Mars for the last few years was a good one, and welcome back to Earth.

Brief synopsis...25 girls, 1 guy. Over the next couple of months, guy will have to pick one to "marry" and then become the following months front cover of People magazine which will read "BACHELOR AND HIS BACHLORETTE SPLIT!" The first night, he has to let 14 of them go. Boohoo....but lots and lots of eyeballing, bitching and backstabbing. I like that better than I like watching the macho counterpart, "The Bachlorette," which usually asks back the runner up from the Bachelor back for more make out sessions in hot tubs. Hell, why not. Lucky bastards.

I have to admit, from a heterosexual stand point, the Bachelor this year is a 33-year old physician who is a good looking human being. Tall, handsome and a doctor. Funny, all the women said, "he is just my type," type indicating income level. There were a couple doctors in the crowd of 25 that said they were shoe-ins based on their medical tie-ins. I disagreed right away. Why would you want to go home and talk about work?

Honey, how was your day?

Great...I held a man's heart in my hands as he died. How about you?

Lost two kids to a carcinoma, and had to chase one Mom up to the roof to keep her from jumping.

Sounds like a great time doesn't it? Yeah, I didn't think so either. But there was one oncologist who was just bitter. Her motivation for coming to the Bachelor? In her words, "it is time to begin the reproductive phase of my life." Pardon? Hello, nice to meet you. My ovaries are fast approaching the leathery-faced look of Keith Richards. I need to reproduce and you will do. Oh, and my name is Karen by the way. Come on....and she was shocked when she got let go. The reason people get married, in her words, is to "reproduce and populate the Earth." OK, Eve. Was this a message handed down from a booming voice from above? Pardon the guy if he doesn't want to play Adam. He has only been in school for a better part of a decade and will begin his 24-hour schedule soon. Forget about the dating part. Skip to the late night feedings and colic. What a jerk....I know.

NEWSFLASH!

Lindsay Lohan was bulimic. I know, I know...collect yourselves because when I heard the news, the first thing that came to my mind was, "NO SHIT!"

If you actually believed that she went from 130 pounds to 95 pounds by eating healthy, then I want the crack YOU snort because mine only gives me scabies. I remember People magazine showing before and after pictures of Ms. Lohan. At first glance I was like, "before what? The famine?" Or maybe it was AFTER her time at Treblinka. Regardless, I am sure the money and fame just overcame her and she decided to....well, you know....become a stereotype. Now before anyone says, "YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT IS LIKE FOR....." let me say, SHUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT UP. Good Lord. What is SO hard about having enough money to purchase, wreck, then PURCHASE another brand new Mercedes? Why is it so difficult for YOU, Lindsay, to have people look up to you? People looked up to you at 130 pounds. If someone told you that you needed to lose weight or you would not be working, two things pop into my head. One, you SUCK at money management, IE saving from previous movies, albums, bribes, etc. Two, why did you NOT tell that person to fuck off? At the very least, you could have said....thanks for your opinion, but please refrain from using the word 'work.' It isn't a cry for help, it is a cry for attention. Remember, this is the CHILD star of Parent Trap, OK. 17 hour days on the set of is NOT work as you are spoon fed EVERYTHING. The only thing TRYING is keeping your eyes open after a coke binge the night before.

Another role model down the drain. First, Kate Moss. Then Courtney Love.....now Lindsay. How glad...err...sad people must be. Turn the page....I have read this chapter more than I care to.

Emergency Room?

My 2-year old went to the emergency room on Saturday. If I told you why it would spoil the surprise. The best thing I can do is just tell you the symptoms, the reaction of her mother and the story will unfold in a comedic fashion.

Peyton's tummy hurt. Of course she made this announcement 3/4 of the way through lunch which usually indicates that she is no longer wanting to eat so strange ailments appear. Today it was a tummy ache. Now, in her defense, she was not acting like her normal whiny self. My wife attributed it to constipation. I would agree with that as my daughters fiber content in her diet is about as abundant as rain is in the Mohave. My wife put her on the toilet, and she cried. She took her off the toilet, and she cried some more. She said she was tired, so my wife laid her down. Coming downstairs, my wife said, "she doesn't feel good." NooOoOoOoOooOooo, really? Lee Harvey acted alone? NooOOOooOOo....I didn't really buy it. I mean really, how odd is it that she cries at bedtime? It occurs on cue, just like Old Faithful.

A few minutes later, Peyton still crying, my wife went upstairs to check on her. I, of course, stayed in the kitchen, rolling my eyes at this circus act. This is common. This happens all the time. My wife goes up and gets twisted in every direction by a 2-year old. She forgets very easily who the parent is. Me, on the other hand, bring the fear of God with me. I release 3 plagues in her room with a request that her first born will die if she doesn't shut up with the whiny bullshit. Silence. What a sound. So, with Peyton in tow, my wife brings her downstairs and sits on the couch with her. "She feels hot." I walk over and feel her forehead. OUCH! 99.1 degrees. Elevated mostly from the blood in her face. "She's fine," I said. "But she was upstairs laying in bed in the fetal position, crying." As if this statement holds ANY meaning whatsoever. Picture this as you recall everything I have ever said about my daughter. A little girl, crying, laying in bed in the fetal position. Sounds normal to me. "So?" "I am taking her to the doctor." Doctor, on Saturday, New Year's Eve. Hmmmm...only thing open would be a HOSPITAL! Shit...fine....go. Here are your keys, nice knowing both of you. Sorry you got the plague.

A couple of hours later, I get a phone call. It's my wife. No tears, so the diagnosis was going to be OK. "What was wrong with her," I ask. "We have to go to the pharmacy and get some medicine." "OK, but what was the problem." "Oh she got to see the doctor, and the nurses were so nice. One of them saw tha." I had to interrupt. "Did they find the shovel that was buried in her cranium?" "It was just a bad diaper rash." What the fuck? DIAPER RASH???? This warranted a trip to the Emergency Room? To make a longer story shorter, the both came home with wrist bands, and print out of the emergency room diagnosis. Big and bold it stated, "DIAPER RASH" I told my wife to keep all of it, the bands, the paper and the bill (when it comes) so as to remember that my daughter, although cute, is full of shit.

OOPS

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.

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 . =)

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.

1. Hand pudding to child - child says, "I DON'T LIKE IT!" You eat it all the time, frickin liar. EAT IT!
2. 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!
3. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.