My Other Job hits Fox News

I'd get more submissions if I posted more pictures of cats. So . . . .

Quickie: Sarah Garlington, This is Your Wake Up Scrawl

Waking my daughter is a chore. Every morning I spend at least 20 minutes shaking her, calling her, playing bad music really loudly, and even singing made-up wake-up opera. Her reactions fall exclusively into the 'we are not amused' category. But this morning's mute reaction deserves special recognition. I pull the blanket off of her and find her fully clothed, wearing her shoes and all. Her arm flops out of the covers and catches my attention.

The award for most comical note presented in a dramatic fashion goes to: Sarah Garlington.

"Dad! Up till 4:30 or 5 [indecipherable] Am dressed. Let sleep."

BLATANT PLEA FOR TRAFFIC

(cue sappy music) Here at the Death By Children reserve estate, we've been working day in and day out to improve the quality of our posts. Like fine wine, each article is carefully hand crafted according to a centuries old formula passed down from one generation to the next.

Each article starts with only the very best words, hand picked by Mr. Garlington himself with the same attention to detail, syntax, dialect and straight-up truck stop cussin' his father taught him. As these words are painstakingly strained through clenched jaws, they form sentences which in turn group naturally into paragraphs, which are layered and arranged in an organically aggregating batch referred to as a first draft.

First drafts are passed through a succession of finely woven sieves, removing unwanted pulp and debris from the original batch of words. This process is similar on all family-owned blogs--you've seen these picturesque sieves in countless old dutch paintings--and primarily deletes curse words, umlauts, and the rotting seeds which can make the final product bitter.

This process produces the well documented revision from which all our fine products are created (headlines, pull quotes, grappa, and prosaic descriptive clauses). A revision can be turned into just about anything. However, here at Death By Children, we focus on the classics and remain dutiful custodians of our regional Methode WTF?! for which we are world renowned.

But this letter is not to champion the world class word smithing occurring here at the DBC forge. No, this letter is to alert you to a crisis. Death By Children is facing a global market utterly glutted with vanity blogs. Every cubicle and easy chair on earth is now the desultory fiefdom of a snappy curmudgeon blogging endlessly under headlines such as "Barbara over in accounts payable ought to wear less spandex" or the overwhelmingly provincial "Anybody out there?" These kinds of amateurish ventures sap the market of genuine attention and those of us with a long history of forging ineluctable truths and nostriloprojectilic fart jokes suffer for it.

Although here at Death By Children, we support writers of all stripes (our "Write something you microencephalatic nimrod!" high school literacy program for developing self esteem recently received the Cruise-Travolta "Jesus That's Even Dumber Than Our Thing" medal of honor) we urge our readers to choose to only promote writing of the highest caliber and of the finest vintage.

Which is why Death By Children has instituted its first annual (and by annual we're talking dog years so expect this about once a month) Email Everyone In Your Address Book About Deathbychildren OK? OK! (or, EEIYABADABADOO) promotional campaign.

For every person you bring into the Death By Children family of hand crafted letters, we'll write a letter to the Pope telling him he wears a funny hat but his dress sure is pretty.

Seriously. We had them printed.

So just do a mass mailing directing your friends, acquaintances, annoying cousins, former employees, stalkers, junk mail demons, ex-boyfriends, book editors from large publishing houses, and spam redirects to Death By Children.

Thank you;

The Death By Children Family of Fine Letters

Getting in Touch with Your Inner Homer (Doh!) Part I

I have a problem: I finally started letting my kids watch the Simpsons.

I work from the comfort of my private office every day, a room appointed with splendor and decorum, a wall lined with books, a large illuminated globe, and deep, rich Carduba leather wingback chairs and . . . ahh, who am I kidding? I work in the easy chair in front of the TV like every other blogger on earth. When the kids watch the Simpsons so do I and I'm starting to get a little pissed because apparently Homer is based on me.

Yeah, I know, those of you who know me are thinking of my George Clooney good looks and my naturally suave demeanor but I have to tell you it's all a ruse. In the privacy of my own home, when it's just me, I'm full-on Homer.

Like yesterday. I was cleaning the second floor. I mean top to bottom kind of cleaning where I move the vanity to yoga my fat ass in behind the toilet with a bottle of Windex and an old toothbrush. I was into it. So I'm standing there in the bathroom putting all the pieces of the water Pik back together and I turn it on and think it's like a miniature high pressure washer.

I love high pressure washers. I'm a man. We use them for everything. Mud on the tires? High pressure washer. Spot of ketchup on your tie? High pressure washer. Something in your eye? High pressure washer.

I'm standing there imagining this tiny high pressure washer when I notice a little grime around the faucet and automatically point the water pick at it and voila!, cleanliness.

Amazing. I crank up the power and water Pik the faucet gasket, the soap dish, the crevices in the mirror frame, the air hole, the drain . . . and then I go Homer.

See, water Piking the sink is not that bad. I bet you've done it. The mirror frame? That's ingenious. It's hard to get into the molding there and boy did it sparkle. But I was in the zone by now. I needed to clean and just as I looked around the room, my inner Homer spied the open toilet.

At first, I just kind of winged it, just a glancing shot along the rim, cleared off some dust and a spot. But the ingenuity of the thing was like a Homeric avalanche of gotta do it. I couldn't stop myself. I switched tips to the one with the tiniest aperture for maximum distance and pressure. It was like a surgical instrument. Like some kind of home-made water laser. I could cut through soap with this thing.

I cleaned the entire toilet.

I stood on tip toes and shot a stream that churned water all the way around the bowl. I blew rust off the seat posts. I cleaned. . . residue . . . from the back of the bowl, It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I filled the water Pik with Windex and hit the exterior. When I was done, it sparkled like a new dime.

I want to be perfectly clear: THE WATER PICK WAS ALWAYS MORE THAN THREE FEET FROM THE SURFACE OF THE TOILET. I was by the sink. I�m telling you, I swear. I didn't put the Pik into the bowl. I may crazy but I'm not sick--my dog drinks out of the toilet! Ew.

When I was finished, I cleared out the Pik and gave it a good soak. I mean, I paid a lot of money for that thing and now that it's dual purpose, I'm not letting a little Windex residue scare me off.

The real scary thing is that I know, in some upcoming episode, Homer's going to do the same thing and people are going to laugh like it's some kind of Neolithic dorkism and I'm gonna be pissed because it's not. It's genius.

Mark my words. As soon as one of the R&D guys from Scrubbing Bubbles reads this . . . well, it'll the be the must have Father's day gift.

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D.I.Y. Installing a New Lock on your Garage Side Door

Death By Children is about more than the nefarious and deadly machinations of our spawn or their efforts to render us twitching and pale from their ongoing appropriation of internet porn slang. It's about a lifestyle, a way of going about your day with a ruthless Zen focus, a way of being ever more self sufficient and capable. To that end, we present our ongoing series of Do It Yourself projects.

DIY #004: The Garage Door.

Materials:

• A garage.


• A side door.


• A hardware store.


• A new garage door lock mechanism kit


• Your neighbor, Rick.


• Your gay dog, Ty.


• A screw driver


• A hacksaw


• A Phillips screwdriver


• A vice

Installation

1. Notice the side door on the garage is wide open.


2. Using your full body weight, push the wall of boxes full of old toys, golf supplies, gardening tools, and fertilizer back into the depths of the garage so you have a place to work.


3. Notice an old seed catalog wedged under a bag of charcoal. Read that article about heirloom peppers.


4. Using a discarded carpenter's pencil and the torn off flap from a box of broken lamp fixtures, start planning a hot sauce garden.


5. Oh yeah.


6. Tear another large slice of cardboard off that box. Fold it up and close the door on it so the door sticks shut tight.


7. Three weeks later, notice the door is open again. This time, use corrugated cardboard.


8. Three weeks later, your wife notices the garage door is open.


9. Go to the hardware store. Pick up a garage door lock kit.


10. Using a screwdriver, a battery powered key hole saw, and a blowtorch, open the theft-proof package containing your garage door lock kit.


11. Using a magnifying glass, Elmer's wood glue, and tweezers, reassemble the charred instructions for your garage door lock kit.


12. Begin removing the old lock mechanism from your garage side-door.


13. Stand by fence and patiently listen to your neighbor, Rick, as he explains, in detail, how you should replace the garage door lock mechanism. OPTIONAL: think about that pepper garden.


14. Notice Rick is in your garage examining your old garage door lock mechanism. NOTE: Rick brought his small, nervous dog.


15. Apologize for your gay dog, Ty, who rockets out of the house to lock his ungainly and wildly thrusting body onto Rick's dog's face. Explain that your dog is gay and ask him if he has a problem with that.


16. After Rick leaves with his exhausted nervy pooch under his arm, shaking his head, imploring you to understand that your garage door lock mechanism is working perfectly fine, rip the old garage door lock mechanism off your garage side-door using a crow bar and a couple of phrases you routinely explain to your children as "Swedish."


17. Lay the old garage door lock mechanism aside the new garage door lock mechanism on the top of a stack of Car & Drivers lying on top of your unfinished grill assembly. Turn back to the door for a minute. Turn back to the two garage door lock mechanisms. The new one is on the right.


18. Wait.


19. Holding each garage door lock mechanism in turn, rotate the lock engagement handle. If the lock engagement handle turns freely while the garage door lock mechanism is held in your hand, you garage door lock mechanism is functioning.


20. Glance up across the street at your neighbor, Rick, who is leaning against the back of his 1966 Camaro grinning around a fat cigar and watching your every move.


21. Reinstall the old lock mechanism.


22. Return the new garage door lock mechanism to your hardware store.


23. Insist the package was charred prior to purchase.


24. Using your 2003 Camry, discard your new garage door lock mechanism off a bridge while traveling at high speed.


25. Upon returning and exiting your vehicle, catch Rick's eye. Upon Rick's curt nod, look over the roof of your car to your recently repaired garage side-door which is currently ajar.


26. Answer Rick's query, 'Is that Swedish?' in the affirmative.

Life in the Fast Lane

I went downtown to see my daughter's Biology research teacher. My daughter goes to Superhero High School and
I often have to converse with the Superhero Mad Scientist Macroencephalacs that run her life and today was one of those days.

You ever see that original Star Trek episode with the big brainy aliens that communicated with ESP and has the big veins that moved when they were ESPeeing? Well, after they worked on Star Trek, they went into education and now they work at SHHS teaching my daughter how to boil frogs and eviscerate lemur spleens.

It started last night when I emailed her teacher to let her know that my daughter was finding her class hard to keep up with. She emailed me back we set up a time and I forgot to go. I remembered later today when I got an email from her saying she'd looked for me in the office and I emailed her back begging her to let me see her at 7th period. I had emailed her twice confirming the 4th period appointment already so I'm an idiot. AND when I missed the appoint I had so diligently reminder her of, I called her voice mail and told her I'd try to meet her later at 4TH PERIOD. I hung up and stabbed myself in the eye with a Number 2 pencil.

So I race down the Dan Ryan (which rhymes with Damn, Crying) at virtually 3 miles an hour, get to the school with a surprising 28 minutes to spare, make my way through the security phalanx of ex-cops and metal detectors to the office where I finally convince the woman running the steam powered tubular communications device to shout up for another person to shout through an entirely seperate tube to peer into the gallery of teachers to see if the one I wanted was there. She was not. She'd gone home for the Holidays. Yay.

So I'm stuck in Lincoln Park. Lincoln Park has a Paul Frank store for babies. They have two Starbucks within site of each other. Lincoln Park has private purse galleries. Lincoln Park has a photography studio that only does hip black and white shots that look like they belong some kind of high-end adoption catalogue. I was out of my milieu. Actually, the fact that I was in a milieu, period, should've been enough to prove to me that I was bound for a tidal wave of snoot. I decided to adapt, merge, to blend in with the natives.

I went to Argo Tea and got a vanilla tinged Earl Grey. I went to a Chinese tailor and got the button on my leather jacket--popped two years ago--fixed for 5 bucks. The lady that charged me had an abacus on her counter. I went into the Olde Towne School of Folk Music and told the guy behind the counter that I needed a Hurdy Gurdy--stat! And then I went into The Paper Source and spent a hundred bucks on wrapping paper. Wraaaaaping Paaaaper.

I give the worst gifts to My Attorney. Other people I can nail it and they never forget what I get them but for My Attorney, well, I just fail every time. Last year for christmas I got her huge scrapbooks and cool scrapbook stuff and a bunch of killer identical file boxes with little metal lable trays on them and found every roll of film in the house we hadn't processed since 1993 and had them processed. Then I filled those boxes. And I got her a labeller for it all. A laaaaabeler.

I'm an idiot. So today I'm there in this place that is so finely girl I want to goose the displays and I go crazy and for her birthday, I buy my wife four rolls of wrapping paper, seven big flats of specialty paper, and some cool, hip, cards for gifts. Then I had them wrap the wrapping paper. In wrapping paper.

I am an idiot.

Know that my wife loves wrapping presents. She also doesn't read my blog so I can post everything here.

Saved by Sanjaya

I've been reading some blogs lately and I am afraid that Sanjaya Malakar from American Idol might turn into some kind of Web Saint. A lot of people really, really like this guy who can't sing and makes Simon what's his name want to stab himself in the eye with a pencil. But no one is talking about Sanjaya's miracles. I think the church needs to look into this. I mean, after our cat died, Sanjaya healed us. Please, Mother T wouldn't even give me the time of day.

Post Scout Meeting Comfort Food

After scouts, I always have six or seven of these.

2 jiggers of grey goose vodka
.5 jigger vermouth (good stuff--don't be chintzy)
1 jigger of olive juice
chilled martini glass.

Fill a shaker with ice, vodka, vermouth, and olive juice. Shake it until it freezes to your hands. Pour it into a chilled glass. Drink. Repeat.