Don't Try This At Home: The Disclaimer Page

verything on this blog is entirely true, though some parts are exaggerated in the telling in order to appear far more dramatic and hilarious than they actually were. I do this because I am a fantastic and highly gifted genius writer and it cracks me up. I could look at all the crazy, silly, bizarre events in my life and decide to lock myself in a closet, soaked in sweat, in fear of imminent mutilation. Or, I could experience these moments of extreme parenting, these sublime insights into the Jungian father-mind, and keep it all to myself. I could join a support group, I could talk to Jesus, I could meditate on crystals, I could chant. Instead, I choose the path of the smartass. Even the scariest, craziest, most forqued-up things that happen to people, even to my own kids, in retrospect (which usually starts less than six minutes after the blood dries) is frikkin hilarious and sends me into spasms. However, not everyone is born with a sense of humor. For those of you afflicted with a fear of glee: The Disclaimers.

1. Dude! You talk about your daughter’s boobs way too much!

I don’t talk about my daughter’s boobs enough. You obviously don’t have a daughter whose mother flies halfway around the world to buy her camo miniskirts and fur-lined sleeveless leather vests from the leftover Hamburg porn bins. Also, you’re probably so sexually repressed you eat a banana sideways. Put yourself in my shoes. My daughter was born well into the fruition of women’s liberation and the sexual revolution. She is acutely aware of her own sexuality and the incredible freedom she will enjoy as an adult. She’s not at all shy and the minute we give the OK to date she’s going to HUNT some boy down and make him kiss her. I am the primary caregiver in this family (re: mom) and when she needs a kotex she exercises no restraint in screaming “PAD!” expecting me to get it post haste. She is in training for a career in Hollywood and I am her intern. She’s mooned me. She walks out of her room in a shirt that would embarrass Madonna and asks me if I think it’s OK for her to wear it to school (no!)--Her boobs are the least of my problems and ought to be, by far, the least of yours.

2. Dude! You wrote about scratching your Huevos!

You obviously don’t understand. They yearn for it, they cry out “SCRAAAAATCH US!” Besides, if . . hang on . . . [scritch] excuse me while I [scritch] . . . oh yeah . . aaaaah. . .oh . . .yeah. . . [scritch scritch scritch]

3. "You clearly have a vested interest in your children getting maimed."

I bet you’re fun at parties. If you’ll read closely, a lot of the really crazy stuff is about me when I was a kid. These are taken from my award winning lecture series, “Subarticulate class behavior in subset male pre-adolescents as indicia of subnormal cognitive skill set distribution” also known as “The Adventures of Stupid Boy!” My kids have hardly scratched the surface of dangerous and weird. My stories are meant to serve them as beacons of warning, an abjuration to SWERVE lest they suffer mutilation. I’m not encouraging them. Of course, on a slow week, when I’m having a hard time coming up with an article, who knows. I might nudge the kid over a cliff.

4. Actual email: “You understand that if you decide to get rid of your dog that no one else is going to take him, right? If he goes to a shelter with that kind of behavior background odds are that they are going to put him down, no question. His behavior with children will be considered unacceptable and he will be euthanized. Please think long and hard before you do that.” ‘Posted by Anonymous’

I have. You’re right. Thank you for your sage advice. I’ve taken your plea to heart and have decided not to send him to the pound. How cruel to blithely list the hideous sins of my dog, least among them his ceaseless boy humping, then eject the poor creature into the cold Chicago snow, vilified as a pervhound. No, you’ve made me a new man, “Anonymous’. I’m going to give him to an all boys orphanage. Then everyone is happy. By the way, that was sarcasm. No, wait this is sarcasm. No WAIT—no it’s not. (Yes it is).

5. You cuss too much.

What the hell are you talking about? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I have a potty mouth. And I know some parents claim that my kids will model this behavior and, gasp, work blue. Well, that’s only half true. My son will not curse. He bleeps with abandon, however. My daughter is already exhibiting a skillful disregard for convention and her cursing is so subtle and appropriate that I forget I’m talking to a teenager and it’s only hours later that I wake up and think “Wait a minute, did she call Bill O’Reilly a ^$#%@%?! And then I smile, go back to sleep, and remember that it doesn’t matter a bleeping bit.

6. Laying out your children’s misfortunes and capricious behavior for the world to witness might cause them undue stress and psychological damage.

Have you even read this blog? These kids are not normal. They’re skilled. They’re devious and cunning. They plot and connive and lie in wait until the last possible second then WHAM! I’m calling poison control, fetching underwear, or peeling the dog off their back. I’m not causing them damage—I’m fighting back.

7. Yes, My children do read this blog.

I kid you not: they are my biggest fans. They think it’s better than sponge bob and they tell all their friends

8. Did you just say retard?

I did. And I don't care. Sue me. If I were in the presence of a kid who suffered from down's syndrome or mongoloidism or any of the other isms that keep them out of the debate club I'd probably curb my lip. But if they're reading my blog, they're sense of humor is far too advanced for them to be retarded. Unless their an idiot savant, or republican, in which case, it doesn't matter.

9. Did you just say your dog was gay?

I did. And I don't care. Sue me. If I were in the presence of a [gay dog] who suffered from [gay dog] syndrome or [gay dog] or any of the other isms that keep them out of the [gay dog] club I'd probably curb my lip. But if they're reading my blog, their sense of humor is far too advanced for them to be [gay dog]. Unless they're an [gay dog], or [gay dog], in which case, it doesn't [gay dog].